Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You moved to the city about four months ago. Life had become stagnant and suffocating, especially after finishing college. You needed to get away; from overbearing parents, from your snobbish peers, from everyone. The only good connection you made in college was able to get you an archivist job in the heart of the city, and you snapped it right up. You applied for whatever apartments were in the area that you could afford, and went for the first one that became available.

That might’ve been your first mistake, really. For one thing, it was in a grittier part of town. It was also small, barely the size of two dorm rooms put together, and the neighbors below you were always yelling at each other or loudly fucking each other. But the building was clean, the rent was cheap, and the neighbor across the hall was friendly enough. A bit crass and blunt, but friendly.

His name was Bartolomeo. He was a mean-looking motherfucker by all accounts: wild green hair, septum piercing, tattoos — he was exactly the kind of person people from your hometown would have hated on appearance alone. He had an odd sort of overbite that showed his long canines like a vampire, except that all his teeth were equally sharp, and at first you’d been intimidated by both that and his impressive height. (After a few trips on the train to and from work, you noticed much stranger and much taller folks, and figured it must have just been a quirk of diverse city life).

Despite all appearances, however, Bartolomeo was nice. He held the elevator if he saw you running up, even if it was nearly shut. Some days you’d see him in the hall and he’d stop to chat for a while. One day you realized you two had been talking for almost thirty minutes, and only stopped because he’d gotten a call from his coworker asking him where the hell he was. Even running late, he still moved and talked with an aloof sort of air about him, like nothing could get to him. 

Early on, maybe a few weeks after moving in, you admitted to him that you’d never lived fully alone before, and wondered if maybe you made the right choice to live in such a rough part of town. Bartolomeo had laughed, like finding the neighborhood rough was something he’d never considered. You still remembered what he’d told you:

“People around here aren’t too big on hospitality, but they mind their own business. Don’t mess with them, they won’t mess with you.” He then smiled wide, showing off the rest of his uniquely sharp teeth. “Tell you what — since you’re so nervous about it, if anyone does mess with you, let me know. I’ll take care of ‘em for ya.”

Just the memory of how he had smiled that day brought a faint blush to your cheeks. Fine, you’d admit it: aside from being nice, Bartolomeo was also frustratingly attractive. His devil-may-care charm was hard not to be lured in by, and you couldn’t help but feel some of it rubbing off on you the more you got to chatting. He was loud and so were his friends, and the landlord rarely stuck around long if he stepped into the hallway. You definitely felt a little safer knowing he was around.

Two months ago, the troubles began.

It had been a day like any other. Average shift, average commute, about the only exciting part of the work day had been your coworker, Robin, inviting you for drinks on Friday. You came home and went to your bedroom to change into comfier clothes, but something was off. You couldn’t tell at first, but when you reached for the top drawer of your dresser to pull out some pajama pants — 

It was already open. 

Just slightly, with the edge of your pajama pants stuck in the drawer’s track. 

Now, you weren’t necessarily a meticulous person, but in general you kept your dresser pretty tidy, so it seemed odd to find it this way. Puzzled, you pulled out the pants and a loose t-shirt, frowning as you put them on. Had you been in a hurry that morning? It was possible, since you were struggling to remember what you had for breakfast. Hustling through your routine and being a bit careless with the drawer as a result wasn’t totally out of the question. You pushed down the knot in your stomach and moved on with your evening, the incident forgotten.

Or at least, it would have been forgotten, had there not been further incidents.

Another day, you had been unexpectedly called off. There had been a power outage on the block your workplace was on, and they hadn’t been able to get the emergency lights working. You spent the morning getting your laundry done and putting fresh bed sheets on the bed, and left to run extra errands. When you came back, exhausted but satisfied with your personal productivity, you went to jump into your bed for a quick nap before dinner.

You stopped just short literally jumping in when you found the comforter was already disheveled somehow. As if someone had been laying on top of it.

The frequency of problems seemed to only increase from there. You came home to find your door was unlocked, when you were nigh-obsessive on double-checking it before leaving. Your favorite t-shirt to sleep in had gone missing, and you had just put it in the hamper the night before. You had a journal in your nightstand that you didn’t write in terribly often, but with the strange things happening you felt it’d be nice to get it all documented — you opened it and found creases in a couple of the pages, like it had been clumsily closed and tossed back into the drawer.

You had convinced yourself that everything was fine. Maybe you lost your t-shirt at the laundromat. Maybe you thought you double-checked the door but you hadn’t. Maybe you were nodding off the last time you handled your journal. Maybe, maybe, maybe. At this point, the only thing you were sure of was that you were in denial that any of this was fine.

In hindsight, you really should have brought it up to Bartolomeo sooner than you did.

Drinks with Robin and a few other coworkers became a biweekly affair, lining up with payday. The weather was finally warming up after a particularly cold April, so you put on one of your frillier blouses that you were saving for such an occasion and a pair of jeans. Then you spent way too long looking for your favorite perfume. 

“Motherfucker!”

You slammed your palm against the wall in frustration. Of course. Why the fuck not? With all the other weird happenings, why wouldn’t that fall victim to the bullshit, too? Shaking the sting out of your hand, you got up from the bathroom floor and stormed off, snatching up your purse. You’d just have to hope no one noticed the blouse was a little stuffy-smelling from being put away for so long. Frustrated, you slammed the apartment door on your way out, triple-checking the lock and muttering curses the whole way.

“You good?”

Bartolomeo’s voice behind you made you jump and fumble your keys. With a deep sigh you crouched down and scooped them up, running a hand through your hair. “I’ll be fine. Just running late for payday drinks.”

“Oh yeah,” he said, and you saw him lean to one side in your peripherals. “That’s tonight. When are you guys gonna come out to my bar, huh?”

“When I’m more confident that they won’t mind the heavy metal music,” you said and stood upright, smiling and adding, “Which might be sooner than you think.”

As usual, Bartolomeo was the picture of nonchalance, leaning against his doorframe in a Cannibal Corpse t-shirt that had seen better days. He gave you a sort of half-smirk then nodded to your door. “You sure you’re okay? Sounded like you might’ve hurt yourself in there.”

“Yeah, just...” you sighed and shook your head, “kinda frustrated. I can’t find my good perfume.” You paused, remembering your conversation with him when you first moved in. “Hey, uh, Barto?”

He stood up slightly straighter at the nickname. “Yeah?”

“Can you, uh...” you paused again, twisting the strap on your purse. His suddenly intense stare made you blush and avert your eyes. “Would you mind keeping an eye on my apartment when I’m gone? Like, if you’re around, let me know if you hear or see anything?”

“Yeah, sure!” he answered with surprising eagerness, before he cleared his throat and quickly reverted to the casual tone. “I mean — can I ask why?”

You would have laughed at the outburst, had you not been trying to find the words to explain you thought someone was breaking into your apartment. “It’s just... I don’t know. Some of my stuff’s gone missing. Random things. And sometimes I come home and there’ll be something out of place, or a little off. Like... someone else has been there.”

“Oh, shit.” Bartolomeo pushed off the doorframe, the chain hanging from his belt clinking as he took a step closer. “How long’s this been goin’ on for?”

You continued avoiding his gaze. “Two months, maybe?”

“What?”

“I figured I was just forgetting things,” you said quickly. “It happens, I can be a little spacey. But... not like this. It feels different.” You finally looked at him again with a sheepish smile, your heart melting a bit at the worried look he had. “I probably should have mentioned something sooner. I’m sorry to freak you out like this.”

He shrugged, now suddenly avoiding your gaze. “At least you said somethin’ before it got any worse.”

A chill went down your spine. You didn’t want to think about what “worse” entailed.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. I told ya you could come to me if anyone was messin’ with you.” He smiled, his fully-bared teeth all the more imposing as he punched one fist into the opposite palm. “I’ll keep an eye out for ya. If I catch anyone hangin’ around where they don’t belong, they’ll be shittin’ sideways for the rest of their life.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. All things considered, you felt lucky that you had such a cool neighbor.

Relief gave way to panic when your phone pinged; a reminder that you had somewhere to be. You cussed under your breath and started rushing toward the elevator, but not before turning and waving to Bartolomeo, shouting as you ran, “Thank you! I owe you one!”

“Don’t mention it!” he called and waved back, watching you turn the corner for the elevator. He leaned against the wall next to his door, shoving his hands in his pockets and listening for the soft ding of the elevator’s arrival. Once he was sure you were out of earshot, he stepped back into his apartment and shut the door, taking a deep breath.

“FUCK!”

Bartolomeo put both his hands over his face, yelling every curse word he knew. How could he have gotten so careless?! He knew he’d gotten way too comfortable with sneaking into your apartment, but two months? You’d been onto him for two months?! He groaned and dragged his hands down, wincing when one of his fingers tugged on his nose ring. No, that wasn’t right; you weren’t onto him, specifically. You only noticed the missing stuff, and whatever it was you meant by “something out of place”.

(He knew exactly what you meant by that, considering his favorite thing to do in your apartment was lie down on your bed and cuddle your pillows.)

Admittedly, part of him was relieved. You asked him for help! Sure, from the time you noticed to the time you said something had him a little concerned, and sure, it was his doing to begin with — but you weren’t aware of the second part! And, if you hadn’t said something, it would only have been a matter of time before he got caught in the act. He had time to correct that now. With you asking for help, it meant he’d be seeing you more, so he wouldn’t have to break into your apartment anymore, and he could act like it never happened!

(He was aware, on some level, that it wouldn’t be that simple. It wouldn’t be enough just to see you more. He had to be with you.)

Bartolomeo groaned again and sat down on the couch, head still in his hands. His heart had finally calmed down, having been racing just from talking to you. You were so cute, from how you fidgeted when you were nervous, to how your laugh sounded, to how you looked in that outfit (well, he thought you always looked nice in any outfit, but that was beside the point). And your eyes — what he wouldn’t give to be able to look into your eyes for more than a handful of seconds. He’d started a habit of looking at your nose when you two chatted, just to keep from turning his head away when your eyes were too much, but it only led to him fighting the insatiable urge to kiss it. He wanted to kiss your whole face, really, but if he started thinking about that, his heart rate was bound to pick up again.

All this to say, Bartolomeo had it bad for you. Real bad.

It started out innocently enough when you moved in across the hall. He thought you were cute from the start, and wanted to be nicer than usual; holding the door if he saw you coming, taking time to chat with you. But then the more he saw you, the more you two talked, the more he found himself looking forward to it. Before he knew it, he was listening for the elevator every time he could, just so he had a chance to talk to you again.

Even though it wasn’t hard to tell you lived alone, you admitting out loud that it was the first time about sent him into shock. Seriously? And in the shittiest neighborhoods you could have possibly ended up in? Something in his brain cranked up to eleven, and he was determined you needed someone looking out for you. Someone close by, who knew the area well, and had more than enough street smarts under his belt. Of course, that someone would be him. Why wouldn’t it be? And so, he came up with something to ease your worries (it was mostly true, in that at the very least the people in the building and running businesses around the neighborhood minded their own), and offered help. The relief on your face was well worth it.

Bartolomeo hadn’t intended for things to get this... intense, though.

The first time he’d broken in had been on impulse. See, the apartment building had older fire escapes, where the ladder wasn’t as compact as it really should be and about half of it hung down below the bottom landing. Most people still couldn’t reach it without significant effort, either by dragging over something to climb on or risking their neck by trying to parkour that shit.

Bartolomeo, however, was not most people. Standing at seven-foot-three, he just had to reach up and haul his own weight for a few rungs. He only did it to prove to himself that he could, in case you were ever in trouble and he needed to get in quickly without fighting with the front door.

Then, he wondered if it would take very long to get to the fourth floor, where both of you lived. He knew he wouldn’t have to worry about the tenants on the way up making a fuss; the unit on the second floor was used by the landlord for storage, and the people directly below you were always too busy arguing or fucking to notice anything.

And then it just. Happened. You weren’t home, and the window was so easy to open, and he had to know everything. How you lived, what you showered with, what sort of stuff did you keep. He had a general idea from talking to you, but he wanted, needed more.

The first time, Bartolomeo just sat on the windowsill, looking around and taking in the bedroom. You kept the floor clear, so if he felt brave enough to venture further in the room he wouldn’t have to worry about tripping and breaking something. You had a desk with a bookshelf built around it that was full of books and video games and figurines, and one of those desktop computers with the rainbow lights on the tower. Your bed was neatly made, adorned with overstuffed pillows, with a storage bench at the foot that was currently being commandeered by a collection of plushies dressed like pirates. The bed itself looked wide enough for two, though he might have to get a little creative to make it work with his taller height.

Not that. He was thinking about laying next to you. Or holding you close. Or watching you fall asleep.

(He absolutely was thinking those things. But in his bed, not yours. What could he say? He needed his California King. It wasn’t perfect, but he couldn’t afford one of the fancy custom beds that other city dwellers somehow got their hands on.)

Bartolomeo resolved that breaking in was fine, so long as he always took off his boots (couldn’t rightfully wear shoes into your apartment now, could he?) and didn’t touch anything. That way you’d never know. He stuck to that for the first handful of trips. Then one time he couldn’t resist picking up and fawning over your monkey plushie at the foot of the bed, so he decided it was okay to touch things, but he had to put them back exactly as he found them. Before he knew it, one day he was poking around the jewelry trays on your dresser, and...

He only had the top drawer open for a minute. Two, tops. Any longer and he would have gotten dizzy from how much blood was rushing downwards. He slammed it shut and made a beeline for the fire escape, nearly forgetting his boots in the process. He told himself he wouldn’t be looking in there without your permission, otherwise the temptation would be too great and he'd steal something he really shouldn’t.

(Which is why he eventually stole your shirt instead.)

Okay. So Bartolomeo let his little guilty pleasure get out of control. He just hadn’t realized how easily that happened. Now that you said something to him, he was going to ease off. He pushed up off the couch and sauntered to his room, putting his hands back in his pockets, flinching when one hand touched something he forgot he’d still had on his person. Frowning, he pulled the perfume bottle out, a slight twist in his stomach at the thought he’d frustrated you with his antics. He really hadn’t intended to keep it — honest. He only swiped it because the shirt under his pillow was starting to smell like the rest of his stuff. Not necessarily a bad thing, as it wasn’t like he was unclean (he was unkempt and dirty minded, even peed in the shower sometimes, but not unclean), but. The whole reason he took the shirt was because it smelled like you.

He turned the bottle over in his hands and sat on the edge of his bed. The label on it just said “Elegia” — why couldn’t the names of these things be simple? Fucking vanilla, or flowers, or whatever, so that he could put it back and get something similar. He supposed at least this way he could try to find another bottle online, so he could get it exact, but still... what a pain. Point being, if it had been easier to remember the name, he wouldn’t have had to take it.

...Okay, fine, Bartolomeo stole it thinking you wouldn’t notice. You had a few others, he figured it’d be fine.

With a sigh he reached under his pillows for your shirt, unable to keep from smiling when he saw it. It was light purple, with the words “Bite Me” on it in a black, drippy font. He saw you wear it on laundry day once; it took an immeasurable amount of self control not to take it as an invitation. He then uncapped the perfume and sighed again, his eyes rolling back just a bit. At least he guessed right; this was definitely the one you wore the most often. It smelled like vanilla and strawberries.

Like you.

Shaking out of his reverie, he sprayed the shirt and folded it back up under his pillows. It had been in his possession for too long for him to give it up without arousing suspicion, so he’d settle for returning the perfume.

While you were gone, of course.

Chapter Text

Two weeks passed without incident. In fact, your perfume even turned back up. It wasn’t where you normally kept it in the bathroom, but sitting on top of your dresser right in plain sight. Go figure. Bartolomeo hadn’t said anything about any suspicious activity around, either, so maybe you were just being a little extra spacey. After all, you were more accustomed to having a roommate or your parents around to help fill in the gaps, so maybe you just needed to be a bit more mindful while you adjusted to living alone.

(Nevermind that you had looked atop the dresser for that perfume, and it wasn’t there before.)

In that span of two weeks you were able to convince some of your coworkers to try a different bar. More specifically, The Sound Barrier, where Bartolomeo worked. Robin was intrigued by the prospect of somewhere new, and agreed. A fellow archives technician, Nami, also agreed, stating she was eager to con some free drinks out of a different sort of crowd than the usual haunts. You were unsuccessful in convincing Vivi, one of the conservators, but she talked another conservator, Drake, into going. Rebecca, an archives specialist, also declined, apologetic as she already had plans to see her aunt.

Of the usual pay-day drinks crew, three out of five (including yourself) wasn't bad, and the addition of Drake meant there would be an extra bit of robust support, given the unfamiliar territory. Plus, Bartolomeo would be there working, so you'd have more than enough people looking out for you that night.

Still, you couldn’t shake the ominous feeling looming over your head. With both you and Bartolomeo out, that left your apartment unprotected from another break-in, a thought that chilled you down to the bone. You considered asking the neighbors that lived below you if they could keep an eye out, but you weren’t entirely trusting that they wouldn’t already be occupied with their usual bickering. And given you were pretty sure the neighbor below Bartolomeo was a near-sighted old woman, that took her out from the running as well. You could ask the landlord, but he should have already been on the lookout for suspicious activity, so he wasn’t likely to have your best interest at heart, either.

You had to rely on blind luck that your apartment would be safe. 

You shook your head, trying not to dwell on the thought for too long. It was supposed to be a fun night, you couldn’t let some hypothetical creep ruin it. With one more look in the mirror, you headed for the door, scooping up your purse on the way and double-checking for your wallet, phone, and keys. Just as you were triple-checking the door was locked, your phone pinged — Robin was outside with Drake and Nami already in the car. You cast one final look at your door, the ominous chill threatening to creep back up your spine, before you shoved the feeling back down and hustled to the elevator.

Everything would be fine. Damn it all, you had to believe that if you wanted to have any fun tonight.

The car that waited outside wasn’t Robin’s, but instead an unfamiliar silver SUV. The backseat window rolled down to reveal her sitting behind the driver, whose silhouette you eventually recognized to be Drake as you approached. Robin smiled and opened the door for you, ushering you in.

“Told you so,” Nami said from the front seat, grinning at Drake smugly.

“I’ll be damned,” he said as you buckled in. “I thought Nami was messing with me when she said you lived here. Didn’t expect it to be —”

“On the shitty side of town?” you interjected. 

Drake nodded, pulling away from the curb.

“What’s the name of this place again?” Nami asked.

“The Sound Barrier,” you answered, fidgeting in your seat. “Thanks for taking me up on this one, by the way. I thought maybe we should try something new.”

Robin smiled knowingly. “You’re sure it doesn’t have anything to do with this mysterious neighbor of yours?”

“Uh... well,” you hesitated, scratching the back of your neck. “Maybe a little.”

“He better not say anything if he catches me getting free drinks from one of his regulars,” Nami said, pulling up the map on her phone.

“If he doesn’t, I will.” Drake said.

“What are you, a cop?”

You giggled despite yourself, feeling a little more relaxed. You didn’t know Drake particularly well, so it was a relief to know he was on the sterner side. Even with that reassurance, you must have still looked a bit uneasy, given that Robin leaned a bit closer to you and asked, “Everything all right?”

Her observation skills were both appreciated and unnerving at times, with very little getting past her. She seemed content enough to make it known she was aware something was up, but you didn’t want to worry anyone else with the break-ins, especially with the current lull in occurrences. However, you knew Robin would be suspicious all night if you didn’t say something.

You smiled, trying not to let the twist in your stomach show. “I’ll be fine. Just nervous — I’ve never seen Bartolomeo outside of the apartment building.”

She tilted her head. “You think he might be different in public?”

“It’s more... He’s never seen me outside the apartment, either. So it feels like this is a chance to know more about each other in a different way than we could from just the brief meetings.”

She laughed, putting a hand up in front of her mouth, though her smile was still clearly visible behind it. “Like seeing something in its natural habitat.”

You laughed, too, adding, “I guess I’m also hoping that I’ll live up to whatever expectations he might have in his head.”

“I think you will,” she said, dropping her hand to reveal her still smiling. “If it helps ease your nerves any, it’s likely he could be thinking the same thing of you.”

That did reassure you some, the tension in your shoulders dissipating. You nodded, and switched subjects, chatting with Robin and Nami, with the occasional input from Drake. The worries you’d had in your mind drifted far behind you as you finally felt like you’d be able to enjoy the night ahead.

Act like you always do, Bartolomeo told himself over and over again. Just gotta act natural.

“You gonna wipe down the same spot all night?” a voice called to him over the live band and bar chatter. He looked up to see his coworker and best friend, Gambia, leaning against the register and giving him a gap-toothed grin.

Bartolomeo rolled his eyes and pushed off the bar counter, draping the sanitation rag over his shoulder. “Wouldn’t have to if you did your job right.”

“Whatever you say, man,” Gambia said, pushing off from the register. “Definitely doesn’t have anything to do with that girl you keep talkin’ about, right?”

The lights were dim enough in the bar that Bartolomeo didn’t have to worry about his ears turning pink. “It might. Not like it’s any of your business.”

“It is if it’s bothering you. She break your heart or somethin’?”

“No!” he snapped a little too quickly, then reeled it back in. “She’s coming by tonight. I don’t wanna make a bad impression.”

Gambia snorted, “You? Bein’ worried about what someone thinks? Doesn’t sound like the Barto I know.”

Bartolomeo folded his arms and leaned against the back bar, averting his eyes. “Just what this one thinks.” 

“All right, fair enough,” Gambia said and put his hands up defensively. “Just wish you’d said somethin’ sooner — maybe Gramma would’ve let us get out the good stuff.”

Bartolomeo cast a sideways glance to his friend and smirked. “Don’t go tellin’ everyone about it, yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah, you know me. Don’t let it distract you from doin’ what we’re paid to do.” Gambia nodded toward the door. “Speakin’ of which...”

Bartolomeo turned, feeling his heart skip. There you were, sticking out like a sore thumb in a place like this. You were joined by a dark-haired woman and a redhead, who were both equally gorgeous. Beautiful, even. Any other day he’d gladly let either one step on him. But you were perfect, and the only one he had eyes for. He then noticed that bringing up the rear of your group was a tall man with narrow glasses and a scar on his chin, and Bartolomeo felt something in the back of his mind begin to panic. What the hell was wrong with him? Was it that you hadn’t mentioned one of the drinking friends was a guy? It wasn’t like you couldn’t have guy friends, that’d be ridiculous. You were a grown adult, you could have whatever friends you wanted.

Still, he couldn’t shake the sudden flare up of jealousy that swelled in his chest. He refocused his attention to you. You were conversing with the dark-haired woman, who was slowly surveying the area. Her eyes found Bartolomeo, and an odd, almost shrewd smile graced her features before she leaned a bit closer to you, and immediately you whipped your head toward the bar with a wide grin. You waved as your group ushered you along toward a curved booth, and he waved back, unable to keep from mirroring the grin on your face.

“So that’s him, huh?” Nami said to you as Robin and Drake sat down. “You weren’t kidding when you said he’s kind of scary-looking.”

“I thought he’d be scarier,” Robin giggled. “He looks more like a big cat to me. Or a rooster.”

“More like an Oni,” Drake commented, adjusting his glasses. “Vivi and I finished work with a set of masks a few months ago. He reminds me of one of them.”

You turned pink, fidgeting. “He’s not so bad when you know him.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Nami said with a smirk. “And that judgment will be based on whether or not we get the first round free.”

While your group was settling in and figuring out drink orders, Bartolomeo was resisting the urge to jump over the counter to greet you. Any hope he had of appearing casual amidst his internal struggle was crushed when Gambia nudged him.

“That her?” he asked, as if he couldn’t already tell, a shit-eating grin on his face.

The limited lighting did nothing for the bright red that crept up Bartolomeo’s neck. “The one on the left, yeah.”

“Aw, she’s real cute,” Gambia said and nudged him again. “And you still haven’t asked her out yet?”

Bartolomeo turned even more red. 

The blonde sucked his teeth, “Oooh, better do it quick. She looks the type to get snatched out from under ya.”

That statement made Bartolomeo’s stomach churn. He knew Gambia was just talking shit, but something deep inside him fumed at the thought of you with anyone else. He shook his head, pushing down the dark voice in the back of his mind once more. It’d be fine. Sooner or later, either he’d ask you out or you’d beat him to the punch — just not yet. It didn’t feel right yet.

You rushed over ahead of Nami, weaving between other patrons with laser-like focus as you found your way to an empty barstool and hopped up. As Bartolomeo side-stepped to stand opposite you, you grinned and stuck out your tongue. “Told you I’d get them here.”

He grinned back, making your heart skip a beat. “About friggin’ time. I was wondering when they’d give in.”

“You make it sound like I forced them,” you said, putting a hand over your chest in mock-offense. “I’ll have you know, I’m naturally persuasive.”

His grin turned lopsided. “So you’re telling me you didn’t bat those big pretty eyes and beg them to come?”

Your heart skipped another beat. He thinks my eyes are pretty?

Nami approached then, her arms wrapping around your shoulders as she leaned over you with a cheeky grin on her face. “Are you all done catching up? I’m dying for a screwdriver already.”

Bartolomeo’s gaze drifted to the redhead behind you, and you tried not to read too much into it, fully aware that Nami caught the eyes of everyone. Still, you couldn’t stop your chest from tightening. With a sheepish smile, you gestured to her and said, “Nami, Bartolomeo. Do not let her convince you to forget the tab.”

“Oh, you killjoy,” she whined, pouting. “Between you and Drake, how am I supposed to have any fun?”

“I can start you off with that screwdriver,” Bartolomeo said with a smirk, putting both hands on the bar and leaning forward, his arms holding him up like an A-Frame. “Anything else I can get for you pretty ladies?”

Again, your chest tightened. Right, he worked at a bar, it only made sense that he’d probably be turning up the charm as part of his job. His “pretty eyes” comment earlier probably didn't mean much in the grand scheme of things.

Then his gaze met yours, and everything fell away. The dim lighting cast dark shadows over his features that made him look all the more intimidating, his amber eyes practically glowing. Between the broad shoulders, the eyes, and his fangs, for a moment you thought he might lunge forward and bite you, sinking sharp teeth into soft flesh with intent to consume you whole.

And then you thought about how maybe you wouldn't mind that.

It occurred to you that Nami had ordered the other two drinks, and Bartolomeo was waiting on yours. Snapping back into reality, you stuttered, “Whatever hard cider you have on tap.”

He smiled, further evoking the image of a hungry predator, and nodded. “You got it.”

Damn his smile. You probably should not have found that as hot as you did.

As the night progressed, you did your best to balance your attention between your coworkers and Bartolomeo. You felt a touch guilty that the scales weighed so heavily in the latter’s favor, as you really did enjoy chatting away with Robin and Nami as well as learning more about the normally reserved Drake. But you couldn’t help yourself from looking over at the bar to try and catch Bartolomeo’s eye, blushing every time he smiled at you. Eventually, Nami decided it was time to start charming some of the other patrons for free drinks, disappearing into a crowd gathered around the small stage at the back of the establishment.

“You think she’s going for the band?” you asked Robin, catching brief glimpses of red hair weaving and bobbing effortlessly amongst the horde of metal heads and punks.

“That’s likely her end goal,” Robin said, sipping at her Manhattan. “She’s probably scoping them out first.”

“And she does this every night you go out?” Drake asked.

You shook your head. “Not every time. Just when she knows she can get away with it.” Hopefully Bartolomeo doesn’t notice. On reflex, you found yourself once again looking over at the bar, smiling at him. This time he was busy with another customer, but you didn’t miss the way his mouth twitched into a wider smile when his eyes flicked over to yours.

“You can go sit at the bar if you really want to.”

Robin’s voice made you start, and you fidgeted with the napkin under your drink. “But — I’m out with you guys, not him. I don’t want to be rude...”

“You’re not being rude,” she said, nudging you lightly. “You wanted to see him tonight, you can go see him. I’m sure Drake and I can manage.”

Drake nodded. “Just don’t let him give you any trouble. We’re right here if he does.”

Your heart fluttered and you stood up, thanking them both and making your way back to the bar.

Bartolomeo nearly tripped on his way to your seat, shooting a glare at Gambia when he noticed and laughed. If you noticed, too, you didn’t show it, giving him that goddamn gorgeous smile of yours that made his heart race. After ordering another hard cider, he leaned atop the counter, his forearms supporting his weight as he bent at the waist. “So uh, you havin’ fun?”

Smooth. Real smooth.

You nodded as you took a drink, pointing to the band. “Nami’s out there doing her thing. Drake — the guy over there —” you gestured over your shoulder “— he’s never come out with us before. Robin got him talking about reptiles though and they didn’t stop for like twenty minutes.” You propped your chin up in your hands. “So I’m over here to bug you while they talk about fossils. I’m all yours.”

It took a not-inconsiderable amount of effort not to blurt out do you really mean that? However there was no hiding the waver in his voice when he said, “You can come bug me anytime, sweetheart. Dunno that I’ll have anything as interestin’ to talk about, though.”

Shit. Did he just call you “sweetheart” out loud? It just popped out, he couldn’t stop it. But he then saw your cheeks turn a very pretty shade of pink, and he latched onto the nickname, immediately forgetting his panic over using it. He wanted to see that blush more.

You tucked a stray hair behind your ear, switching to resting your cheek in one palm. “Honestly, even if I don’t understand at all what someone’s talking about, just listening to them gush about what they love is fun. Anything can be interesting if it’s talked about with a lot of passion like that.”

Bartolomeo grinned. “So, you’re telling me, if I talked your ear off about baseball, you’d just let me do it? No filter?”

“Pretty much,” you giggled, tracing a finger around the rim of your glass. “I’m surprised baseball’s your topic of choice though. You don’t strike me as the sporty type.” You paused, then giggled again. “Pun not intended.”

“Nah, not particularly. It’s just the first thing that came to mind,” he laughed, standing upright and reaching to his back pocket for his wallet. “I do have this really cool card though that someone left behind one night a few years back. Autographed and everything.” 

He showed you the card, depicting a green-haired batter holding three bats — one in each hand, and one between his teeth. You had to admit, it looked cool as hell. “What if someone comes back looking for it?”

“Screw them, finders keepers. And like I said, it’s been a few years. I doubt they’ll come back for it at this point.”

You stifled a snort and took another drink. “So if not sports, what is something you’re really passionate about?”

As he was about to answer, his attention was drawn to the front door, a pair of customers coming in and taking seats at the opposite end of the bar. “Just a sec, sweetheart, I’ll be right back.”

He couldn’t resist dropping the nickname again. The flush in your cheeks was worth it.

Drake kept an eye on you from the booth, still chatting with Robin about this and that. Vivi had convinced him to go on this outing in her stead with the premise of giving him an opportunity to know his coworkers better, but he knew part of it was a concern for the venue. He’d been to plenty of bars in his life, including a fair share of metal and punk ones, and they’d all been about the same as far as rowdiness. Though, in his experience, the grittier places tended to have the better behaved clientele oddly enough, so while he felt Vivi’s concern was a bit misplaced, he didn’t want to offend her, knowing she cared a lot about the safety of her friends.

Admittedly, he’d been a little shocked to find that this neighbor of yours that Nami and Robin had been gossiping about was so rough-looking, considering in comparison you were on the smaller and softer side. But Drake was never one to judge anyone for their tastes, even if he subconsciously found himself a bit more wary than usual. No doubt the girls would both be reporting to Vivi that the rumors of Bartolomeo’s intimidating visage were true, and if they didn’t he certainly would.

It was at that moment, however, when you were left alone, that someone on the other end of the bar sidled up to the empty barstool on your right, a beer glass in hand. Greasy black hair, a thin, wiry mustache that made him look like a catfish, wearing a fedora and cheap dress pants. Drake caught the action in his periphery, watching carefully as the man tried to push for your attention. It was eventually given, and based on the way you cringed away from him, it was definitely not a comfortable exchange.

“Robin,” Drake said, his voice low as he nodded toward your seat. “We need to help her.”

Robin’s eyes narrowed, and with a sigh she stood. “How underhanded. He came up to her while Rooster was distracted.” She gave Drake an almost mischievous smile, putting a finger up to her lips. “I need to run to the ladies room anyway. I’ll go get her so we don’t cause a scene.”

He nodded, trying not to stare at the sway of Robin’s hips as she gracefully moved to the bar to collect you. You looked beyond relieved for the excuse to get away, throwing a quick wave over to Bartolomeo (who was still somewhat occupied with the new customers) as you slid off your barstool, the creep left alone to stew.

And then Drake’s stomach dropped, his nerves on high alert. You left your drink unattended.

Something that Bartolomeo didn’t miss, either. He was watching from his peripherals as well, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end when the creep had approached and started to harass you. He clenched and unclenched his hands, trying to pay attention to the drink orders while keeping an eye on the unsavory intruder. He had relaxed slightly when the dark haired woman came to collect you and you both went off to the restrooms, only to be put on edge again when he saw an all-too-familiar movement.

Something was slipped into your drink.

Oh. Hell no. Bartolomeo finished writing down the new drink orders and moved to the tap, giving the unaware sleazebag a death stare that would have made the grim reaper look away. Thankfully, he was distracted by another patron, and his seat was on the way to the tap.

Drake saw the slip as well, and stood to confront the miscreant. He only made it about two steps however, before he saw Bartolomeo pass, and slyly swap the glasses. 

The two men made eye contact, with the sharp-toothed bartender giving Drake a knowing smirk before moving on.

The creep was none the wiser, turning back to “his” drink and taking a long pull.

As you returned to the bar with Robin, you stared at your glass, and your stomach churned. With a curled lip, you pushed it away, looking at Robin over your shoulder. “Let’s get out of here.” 

Robin leaned over the counter and flagged down the other bartender. “Can we get the tab?”

After the bar had closed, a very, very inebriated man in a fedora and cheap dress pants was stumbling down the back alley. “Stupid stuck-up bitch and her stupid stuck-up friend,” he slurred, one of the few coherent things he had managed to say all night. “Stupid fuckin’. Bartenders and their. Fuckin’ rules.”

He tripped over his own feet and landed on the concrete with a pained shout, nearly biting his tongue. He just wanted to have fun tonight. He hadn’t had fun in a long time. He couldn’t even get a prostitute these days. Probably because all the ones in town knew him by name and knew he always stiffed them on the payment. 

With a groan he rolled onto his back, trying to blink away the spots in his eyes. Why were the buildings all warped? Why did he feel like he was going to vomit up his whole stomach? What the hell was that shape looming over him with orange eyes?

“Man,” the shape above him said in a gravelly voice that sounded both too close and a thousand miles away, “you look fuckin’ pathetic.”

The creep writhed on the ground, further proving Bartolomeo’s point, and slurred back, “Nnno, yer prophetic...”

Bartolomeo cocked his head, sneering. All he could think of was how this pig, this scum of the earth, was allowed to keep living for so long. How many other bars had he hit up trying to pull what he nearly did to you? What would have happened if you’d encountered him elsewhere? Your friends looked out for you, sure, but what if you’d been alone?

Bartolomeo would have swapped the drinks even if it hadn’t had been you that was targeted. No one tries to drug someone in his bar and gets away with it. What he couldn’t do was convince himself that if it happened to anyone else, he’d be going as far as he currently was to make sure it never happened again. The creep tried to sit up, and Bartolomeo put one foot on his chest, tilting his head the other way. After another beat he lifted his foot, then slammed it down on one hand with a sickening crack. 

This guy picked the wrong place, and he really picked the wrong time.

The creep let out an agonized yell, eyes wide and suddenly alert as he scrabbled at Bartolomeo’s boot. Bartolomeo crouched down, putting more weight on his foot and brandishing a switchblade, pointing it right between the man’s eyes.

“Now that I got your attention,” he drawled, “I’ll speak nice and slow for ya, so maybe it’ll stick in that roofied brain of yours.” He lazily held the blade between his thumb and middle finger, swaying it back and forth. “I ever catch you around here again, you’re gonna lose this hand.”

He put pressure on it for emphasis, drawing forth another pained yell amidst a symphony of crunching bones.

“I ever hear about you trying to dope up anyone else, I’ll take the other one.”

The creep was practically foaming at the mouth, unable to form coherent words between the blinding pain and the drugs in his system. Bartolomeo let the knife slide down, the tip landing right on the bridge of the man’s nose and making him go stock-still.

“If you ever. Ever. Mess with that girl again? With what’s mine?” He bared his fangs in a snarl, “The only drinks you’ll ever get are gonna be through an IV. Get me?”

The man nodded, whimpering feebly.

“Perfect. But, just to make sure you don’t forget...”

Bartolomeo lifted his foot, then slammed the switchblade into the man’s palm. The scream that echoed in the alley made it all the more worth it. He yanked the knife out and wiped the blood off on the man’s shirt before standing, casually nudging him to the side with his boots as he began the walk home. He found himself humming a random tune along the way, satisfaction welling in his chest.

After all, he promised to take care of anyone who dared to mess with you.

Chapter Text

“Oh, ew!” Nami recoiled, opening the front-passenger door. “And you didn’t slap him for that?”

You shook your head, face twisted. “He smelled like rotten fish. I didn’t want to touch him in case the smell got stuck to me.”

You and your friends were piling into Drake’s SUV after leaving the bar. You and Robin had split the cost of the tab after she’d warned you it was probably time to go before things went sideways. Curiously, you noticed the receipt showed a discount, but didn’t think much of it and still made sure to leave a hefty tip in the jar before you left.

“I’m sorry about your last drink,” Robin said. “I should have made sure you moved it to our table before we left so it didn't have to go to waste.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. If he did something to it, he’s just gonna have to be salty that his plan didn’t work.”

“He tried,” Drake said.

You and Nami shouted simultaneously, “WHAT!?”

He nodded, starting the engine. “I was going to say something, but then I saw your friend behind the bar switch the glasses.” He looked at you in the rear view while backing up. “I can guarantee you, that prick is having a much worse night.”

Your heart leapt to your throat. Bartolomeo did what? Of any other option he could have picked — getting you a fresh drink when you got back, kicking the guy out, even warning you what happened — he switched the drinks, and made a man drug himself.

Nami's laughter cut through your thoughts. “Holy shit, that’s priceless.”

Robin concealed her mouth when she giggled, though the mirth still shone in her eyes. “You should join us for drinks more often, Drake. You have a sharp eye.”

“I would like that.” His eyes flicked to Robin for a moment before coming back to you. “I’m not trying to overstep here when I ask this, but can I say something I hope you’ll keep in mind?”

You nodded, and he continued. “I know I’m not really the chattiest at work, so I don’t know you very well, or how well you know Bartolomeo. But even if I wasn’t made aware that he was part of why you picked that bar, I can tell you’re interested in him at the very least.” Drake shifted into drive, now focused on getting out of the parking garage. “While I'm not against what he did from a moral standpoint, it seemed to be a bit of an extreme measure.” He glanced at you once more in the rearview. “Someone who does something like that without hesitation — he’s either cocky, reckless, or dangerous. Maybe even all three.”

“Oh, come on.” Nami nudged him. “That creep got what he deserved! Besides, it's in the big guy’s best interest to keep the bar and customers safe. I don't know about you, but I think making a guy roofie himself is a great way to deter bad behavior.”

“It is a bit unorthodox,” Robin said. “And technically, if anything bad happens to him afterward, Rooster could be held responsible even if the reasons were justified.” She then smiled again. “Very justified.”

“I just said I wasn’t against it morally,” Drake muttered, sighing. “Just be careful if you intend on seeing him more. Keep one of us in the loop in case anything happens.”

You nodded again, taken a bit by surprise. Drake wasn’t exaggerating when he said he didn’t talk much at work. He tended to keep to himself, only really interacting with Vivi and the head archivist. Yet, you learned more about him in one night out than you’d learned in the four months you’d been working with him. And while you felt his assumptions about Bartolomeo were somewhat misguided, you were still relieved to know that you had an extra person in your corner.

It was nearly midnight by the time you were dropped off at the apartment building. Nami and Robin had already messaged Vivi and Rebecca about the night you all had, and a new group chat was made so that Drake could be included on pay-day drinks planning. You had gotten to see Bartolomeo, and he made a very... interesting impression on your coworkers. And you’d spent the entire night unworried by any break-ins, which upon returning to your apartment you found no evidence of, bringing further comfort to your once anxious mind.

All things considered, the night had been a success. And you were exhausted.

You collapsed onto your bed, now in your comfiest pajamas and staring up at the ceiling. You wondered what time the bar closed, if you’d be awake when Bartolomeo got off work. Okay, it was probably a little shady how he decided to go about handling a drink-spiking creep, but at the same time it was kind of thrilling to think how bold that move was. Besides, it felt like he was dealing a little bit of karmic justice. Maybe he was just protecting his bar and his other patrons, like Nami had suggested, but something deep inside you couldn’t help but hope that maybe he’d done it specifically to protect you.

I’ll need to find some way to thank him, was your last thought before you slipped off to sleep.

It was nearly three in the morning when Bartolomeo returned to the apartment building. The rush in his veins still hadn’t subsided, even after he’d purposefully ridden the subway past the correct stop to try and walk off the rest of the adrenaline. All he wanted to do was see you again and ask if you were all right after what happened. 

He knew you were all right, he’d seen you leave with your friends and you hadn’t tried to reach for “your” drink. Even if the guy with the glasses said something to you about the swap, you’d still never need to know just how much further Bartolomeo had gone to protect you. He’d never try to make himself out as wholly innocent — that would just be ridiculous. And frankly impossible. But it was still better if you didn’t know just how vicious he could be.

All the same, however, Bartolomeo imagined you’d probably be a little shaken if you were told about what nearly happened. Anyone would be. So even though he knew you were okay, he had to be sure.

That’s what he kept telling himself as he broke his promise to himself not to climb the fire escape again.

Correction: he never promised not to do that. What he promised was that he’d stop breaking in. There wouldn’t be any harm in just looking through the window, right?

Once he reached the fourth floor, Bartolomeo just barely managed to keep from reaching for the window’s bottom rail, instead sitting down and leaning his shoulder against the building. He bent one knee and propped his forearm atop it, resting his head against the glass pane, its chilled surface like a fire extinguisher to his overheating nerves. After a few deep breaths to bring him down the rest of the way, he peered into the darkness of your bedroom, bringing one hand level with his brow to better block out the reflections in the window.

You were sleeping. Pretty soundly by the look of it. Good. If you were asleep, you weren’t worried. If you weren’t worried, you felt safe. And you were safe — he was going to keep it that way. He watched for a few minutes, the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest lulling him into a sense of calm he desperately needed after stabbing that fucking scumbag.

His fingers twitched. He was no stranger to violence. In a way, he thrived off of it. He’d spent most of his childhood getting into fistfights with other kids over things like whose turn was it to look after the class hamster (“Don't let Bartolomeo do it, he’ll eat it!”), or who was better at dodgeball (“Just because you throw the ball hard doesn’t make you good at it!”). When he first met Gambia in middle school they didn’t introduce themselves, they just started throwing punches until someone caved, and then they were thick as thieves. That was how most of his friendships were made, and even more of his rivalries.

As he got older, the spontaneity of the fights had subsided, though the brutality had increased. People enjoyed trying to get under his skin over superficial shit — his brow, his nose, how he did his hair — and he quickly learned to ignore that. They could say whatever they wanted about him. What he didn’t tolerate was kicking when people were down, or taking advantage of others who didn’t know any different, or people who thought because they were born into better-off families that they were better than others. And god help anyone who decided tried to mess with his friends.

That shit — that was the kind of shit that made his blood boil. He cracked a football player’s ribs for that once.

Bartolomeo didn’t fancy himself a hero or anything, just someone who didn’t tolerate heinous bullshit. With a penchant for fighting dirty.

Still, the fights grew less frequent as he got out of school. He’d had run-ins with people stupid enough to get in his face, and the odd person at the bar attempting to start a brawl that he’d ultimately finish. But those fights felt almost hollow. Routine, even. No thrill or enjoyment to them, just him doing what he does best.

Stabbing some sick creep’s hand as penance for him trying to get you? Felt better than any petty altercation Bartolomeo had gotten involved in. The last thing he wanted was for you to get hurt by someone. But if you did, he’d make sure they'd never do it again, especially after how good it felt knowing it’s to protect you.

His breath fogging up the glass drew him from his thoughts, and he realized that his ass was getting sore from sitting on the metal grating of the fire escape landing. With a heavy sigh he started to push himself upright —

You flinched in your sleep.

Bartolomeo’s hand went for the window in an instant. But he didn’t open it. He held his breath, and waited.

Your breathing evened back out, and he released his own, his hand falling back to his side.

And then he booked it. He didn’t stop until he was back in his own apartment and laying on his bed, though if asked he couldn’t answer whether he went through the front door or up the fire escape on his side of the building. What he did know is that he just risked getting himself caught — what the hell had he been thinking? What exactly was he planning on doing if you woke up and saw him?!

Okay. Now Bartolomeo promised himself he wouldn’t climb back up the fire escape.

But... you looked so cute when you slept. Maybe, if he only did it late at night—

NO. He smacked both hands over his face, groaning. Bad Barto.

Why did he hear that second thought in your voice?

He swallowed, a chill creeping down his spine. He’d almost forgotten your shirt was right beneath his pillow, your perfume wafting up and creeping through his senses. He pushed himself upright, sitting against the headboard as he tugged it free and buried his nose into it. Almost immediately, the tension dissipated, and his mind was filled with images of you: how your face lit up when he called you “sweetheart”, the cute little outfit you’d worn, the way you’d rushed up to the bar and stuck your tongue out at him. How would that tongue feel on his—

Down, boy.

Your voice came to mind again and he whimpered, pulling his knees up. He was rapidly becoming more and more aware of a tightness in his jeans. He briefly considered ignoring it, but the dam had cracked, and he started to think about what it must be like to kiss you. Would you be sweet and shy, making soft little moans every time he pushed against you? Maybe you’d tease him with little bites on his lip, goading him into biting down on yours with just enough pressure to make you wonder if he’d actually puncture.

Really, it was foolish of Bartolomeo not to think it would come to this. How he held off for as long as he did, he’d never know.

One foot slowly slid atop the comforter, laying one leg flat while he busied a hand with undoing his belt and fly. He let his fingers brush against the patch of hair just above his pubic bone, his breath hitching again the further down he went until he finally freed his aching cock from its confines. He let his imagination go a little further down, wondering how your hands would feel against his chest. He thought of you tracing your fingers over the tattoo he had there, ghosting along the curve and dipping near his midsection with each tip of its inked teeth. And then your hand sliding lower, over that same patch of hair he just touched, before wrapping around the base of his shaft, giving him long, lazy strokes. His hand wasn’t as soft as yours probably was, but it would do.

Let me take care of you.

No. He was supposed to take care of you. He was watching out for you, after all. What could he do to prove he wanted to take care of you? Bartolomeo inhaled your scent, moaning and tightening his grip. He would start with kissing you, definitely. Not just your lips, though — every inch of you that he could possibly cover, he’d do it. Your cheeks, your shoulders, your neck. He’d trail down your stomach, stopping right around your hips, then he’d start from the bottom by nipping at your ankles, drawing a path upwards along the underside of your knees and between your thighs.

He increased his pace, your name tumbling out before he could even think to hold it back. He thought about what you would taste like with his tongue sliding between your folds and making you say his name the same way. He thought about how hard it would be for him to keep from holding too tightly to your thighs as you writhed against his face. How he’d have to do everything he could not to dig in and feast.

Barto, please.

From there, Bartolomeo’s thoughts were less coherent. Images flashed through his mind, both from memory and fantasy, as pressure began to build. Your hands fidgeting. Your hands in his hair. Your tongue peeking out at the bar. Your tongue whirling around the tip of his cock. You alone in your bed, then with him in his. Whispering sweet nothings in each other’s ears. Pushing your legs up to your chest and sinking into you as far as you could take him.

I love y—

A desperate, unabashed groan came from deep within his chest, enveloping your name as he again let it slip out. The sound was hardly muffled despite how close he had pressed your shirt to his face as seed spilled forth and coated his hand. A few hard spurts sent it spattering over his leg and onto the comforter. He wasn’t sure when his hips left the bed, but they came crashing back down, making the bed frame creak obscenely as he rode out the last few waves of his orgasm.

Panting, sweating, and feeling like he’d just had the hardest come of his life yet, Bartolomeo let your shirt drop down beside the bed, sparing it from the offense of using it to clean himself up. He stood with a sigh and started stripping, using his own shirt to at least wipe his hand off before throwing it and the rest of his clothes in the hamper. He’d worry about the comforter later. Right now, he needed a cold shower.

Bartolomeo woke up the next morning to knocking on his door. With a groan he pried his eyes open, greeted by the apartment ceiling as he was sprawled out diagonally across his bed. He wiped away the dried drool on his cheek and felt around the nightstand for his phone, sunlight creeping in beneath the cheap blackout shades.

The knocking came again, light and quick.

“All right, all right, I heard you the first time!” he called, managing to find his phone and sit upright. The cracked screen read 10:12 AM, early enough for this to be a pain in the ass. No missed calls from anyone, or messages saying they were coming over, so as he stumbled through the apartment in loose sweats and no shirt, he hadn’t the slightest clue who his visitor could be. With enough force to nearly pull it off its hinges, he swung open his door, ready to chew out whoever it was that thought they could wake him after only four hours of sleep.

You jumped out of your skin at the aggressive opening, but smiled at Bartolomeo all the same. “Hi.”

He about slammed the door out of sheer embarrassment. Why didn’t he think for two seconds longer before opening the door — he probably gave you a worse jump scare than you’d given him! He would have berated himself internally for much longer if you weren’t standing right there, staring up at him with those eyes he liked so much.

“Hi,” he said, having the decency to blush. “Uh. Sorry about that. I thought — well —”

You giggled, a wonderful sound that made his heart rate shoot through the stratosphere. “Not a morning person?”

“No. Yeah. Uh.” His hand slid down the door frame and he leaned against it with all the nonchalance he could muster. “Just wasn’t expecting my day to start before noon.”

You shrank back a little. “Oh, shit — I’m sorry, I can come back later?”

“Nah, you’re here now.” No no no — don’t go. “Whaddya need?”

You folded your hands in front of you, shifting your weight from one leg to the other. “Well, one of my friends saw what you did for me last night, and they didn’t mention anything until after we left.” Your eyes began to flick between his face and his torso, and your cheeks rapidly flushed. “I wanted — I wanted to come by and, ah. Thank you. So.” And then your gaze went straight to the floor, your ears a bright pink. “Thank you.”

Bartolomeo cocked his head, puzzled by your sudden onset of bashfulness. But without you giving him those pretty eyes, it did make it a little easier for him to concentrate. “Oh. Well. I mean, I told ya I was gonna look out for you, didn’t I?”

You looked up at his face, smiling wide and still blushing. “You did. But... well, no one’s ever done something like that for me before.” You averted your gaze again, your little sway halted as you started fidgeting. “I mean, granted, even though I know how to keep myself safe against those kinds of things, I’ve never had someone actually be ballsy enough to try and drug me before. If I’d been a little more careless, I could have been in real trouble.” You glanced at him from your periphery. “But you swapped the glasses, so I still would have been okay.”

This was weird. Normally it was him who had trouble looking you in the eye, but you were being way more skittish. Was everything really okay?

“Anyways.” You took a deep breath, seeming to steel yourself as you looked up at him. “I was wondering if you’d like to get lunch sometime.” You glanced down and up again. “It — it doesn’t have to be today, if that’s too last minute for you, but—”

“Yeah.”

The ease and quickness with which Bartolomeo answered the question startled both of you. He cleared his throat, standing up straighter. “No — yeah — I mean —” He exhaled through his nose, composing himself. “Today’s perfect.”

Few things made his chest tighten with the urge to cry: disabled cats, movies where the dog actually made it to the end, and the way your face lit up with the intensity of a supernova over him agreeing to go to lunch with you.

“Great!” You bounced on your toes, pointing over your shoulder with both hands. “I can uh — I’ll give you time to get ready, yeah? And then when you’re good just come over and knock, aaand we’ll get going!”

Get ready?

It dawned on him: he was still shirtless. Oh my god.

“Yeah!” His voice was at least an octave higher. OH MY GOD. With another awkward throat clearing it returned to its normal cadence as he backed into his apartment. “That sounds great — I’ll uh. I’ll be out. And we can go.”

“Yeah, no, take your time.” You were backing up toward your door and clumsily opening it, still smiling. And then your eyes flicked downward to his sweats and the blush turned outright excessive. “Bye!”

Both doors slammed at the same time. Neither you or Bartolomeo seemed to care if the other one heard inarticulate, flustered yelling.

Chapter Text

The place was a hole-in-the-wall diner near the subway station. You kept telling yourself that you’d try it sometime after work, given that it always smelled like fried food when you walked by. Now you had the perfect opportunity. Greasy burgers and fries weren’t the most romantic thing in the world, but you weren’t going for romantic. You were going for something that was cheap, filling, and within walking distance. Better to save anything ritzy or personal for when you knew for sure whether or not Bartolomeo was interested in you, or if you were even compatible. After all, you were trying to thank him, not scare him off.

The good news was that Bartolomeo was more than happy with the choice. He agreed to the location with all the enthusiasm of a kid being told he could get whatever he wanted from the toy store. With how quickly he showed up at your door, you had a feeling that he would have shown the same level of excitement if you’d picked gas station sushi. Even with the return of his cool and untouchable demeanor when you both stepped out the door, you didn’t miss how he kept glancing over at you during the whole walk to the diner. Like he was worried that you would fall behind with how big his stride was, or somehow get swept away by the moderate foot traffic.

Resisting the urge to hold his hand was easier said than done. Unbeknownst to you, he was thinking the same thing.

In fact, for Bartolomeo it was agonizing, but he already felt like he toed the line of “too much” when he showed up at your door less than thirty minutes after you asked him out. He was trying to play it cool, though internally he was about ready to throw you over his shoulder and take you back home. Who cares that you both just sat down for food — he wanted to find out firsthand if his fantasies could compare to the real thing. 

He vigorously shook his head, trying to focus on the menu. Slow down, Barto. It’s just lunch. With her. In public. Where anyone can see and assume we’re—

“Everything okay?”

He looked up then quickly back down. Nevermind. He wasn’t sure he’d make it through lunch. Surely, he’d die of cuteness overload first.

“Yeah,” he lied. “Just wonderin’ what to get.”

“Whatever you want,” you said, resting your cheek against your knuckles. “My treat, remember?”

“Are you sure? I don’t want you to go broke or nothin’.”

You smirked. “Are you planning on having one of everything?”

He shook his head. Just you.

“Then don’t worry, lunch with you isn’t gonna break the bank.” You looked down at the menu yourself and gave an exaggerated wince. “Maybe don’t order the steak.”

Bartolomeo’s responding laugh was low in his chest, a stark contrast from his usual loud and boisterous one but no less full of amusement. A pleasant shiver went up your spine at the sound, and you wondered what you’d have to do to hear more of it.

Once drinks were ordered, you leaned forward again and smiled, kicking your legs. “So, last night, I never got an answer to the whole ‘something you’re passionate about’ thing.”

From there, it was almost seamless. Bartolomeo told you about his interest in motorcycles, how he was saving up for one so he could get out of the city every now and then. You chatted about different places you knew from growing up in the suburbs, and where the best scenic roads were. You mentioned your free time was usually spent watching movies or playing video games, which led to him to go on for several minutes about the Yakuza Kiwami series and how he could lend you his copies. Then he talked about how his own free time now was usually spent helping his best friend Gambia, whose grandmother owned The Sound Barrier. When you told him you thought it was nice of him to help, he shrugged it off — he wasn’t nice, he just knew it’d be shitty not to help out someone who was practically his brother. You decided not to argue that he was nice, considering he barely knew you when he had offered to look out for you. Better to let him have his way so he could keep up the whole devil-may-care attitude.

By the time the food came out, you were more aware of the fact that Bartolomeo’s legs were stretched out far enough for his feet to be touching your side of the booth. His knees were wide apart, leaving your legs dangling between his. Feeling a bit more bold, you lifted and dropped one leg, letting your calf brush against his and watching carefully to gauge his response.

“By the way,” you said after inhaling a few fries, trying to remain nonchalant, “my friends seemed to like you. Nami especially. She thought what you did was hilarious.”

Bartolomeo shrugged, his ears turning pink. “Guy deserved it. I’d be a pretty bad bartender if I let that kind of shit go unpunished.” He then cracked a smile. “You should’a seen him after the switch. Dumbass didn’t even realize his drink was suddenly cider instead of beer and just kept drinking it.”

You laughed, covering your mouth. “No way, seriously? How fucked up did he get?”

He shrugged again. “Last I saw him he could barely stand from the barstool. Gambia had to throw him out the back door when we closed up. I didn’t tell him about what happened ‘til after.” He tore into his burger to keep from going into detail about what he did in the alley, and hoped to whatever god was out there you didn’t notice him shiver when your leg touched his.

You lifted your other leg, this time letting your foot nearly touch the underside of his knee before letting it drop back down. More color spread across his face, and his posture seemed to stiffen. Was that too much? You crossed your ankles and dug into your grilled cheese, thinking it might be better to see if he reciprocated the contact.

“Robin kept calling you ‘Rooster’ all night, so I know she likes you,” you continued. “She thought what you did was funny, too — said it was ‘unorthodox’ but deserved.”

Bartolomeo relaxed now that you weren’t making his heart race, and tried to appreciate the flattery behind your statement, but then he remembered the fourth member of your friend group. He felt the same knee-jerk jealousy that crept into his mind upon seeing him last night, and he had to force it back down before it made his shoulders turn to stone with the rising tension. “What about the big guy?”

“Drake? He actually saw the initial slip, then saw you switch before he could step in.”

His brow twitched, and he tried not to let the bitterness creep into his tone. “Sounds like a nice guy, if he was willin’ to get involved.”

You shrugged. “Last night was the first time I’d seen him outside of work, so I wasn’t sure how he’d do. He seems kind of protective though, thinks you went a little far.”

Bartolomeo could care less what he thought. You were grateful, and you were still here without a scratch on you, and that was what mattered. He kept his promise to look after you, and he was going to keep looking after you. No matter how “protective” anyone thought they were being if they decided to get in the way of that.

You finished your drink and continued, “I think he’s just more of a stickler for doing things the ‘right’ way, since he was also really worried about Nami scamming drinks off your other customers.” Your eyes widened and you covered your face. “Oh my god — she’s gonna kill me for telling you that.”

The loud, boisterous laugh was back, and Bartolomeo shook his head. “She’s not the first to try, won’t be the last.” He grinned, leaning forward and resting his cheek against his knuckles, the tension finally leaving his shoulders some. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not gonna tell anyone.”

Sweetheart. Your chest fluttered so suddenly it was almost painful. That had to mean something, for him to use it when it was just you two and outside of the bar. You giggled and smiled wide, unable to stop the floaty feeling in your chest from reaching your voice, “Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”

He shrugged. “Hey, what’re friends for?”

A plate shattered in the kitchen.

You both flinched and Bartolomeo looked over his shoulder, meaning he missed your smile shattering to the floor. Friends. You were almost embarrassed, really — he just said his free time was spent helping his friend, so probably didn’t have the time for a relationship. He probably had no interest in one, either. 

It still stung like hell to hear it. Friends.

When Bartolomeo faced you again, something seemed different. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something seemed just a little less radiant about your smile. “Everything okay?”

You nodded. “Yeah, everything’s fine.”

Now why didn’t he believe that? He gave you a once-over, brow furrowed slightly. You had tucked your arms in a little closer to yourself, and he hadn’t felt your legs nudge against his for a bit. In the midst of his earlier euphoria over the gentle contact, it hadn’t occurred to him that maybe it was accidental, and now you were suddenly aware of how much space he occupied. While it hurt a little to think it wasn’t intentional, it made sense — maybe you didn’t want to rush things (even if he really, really wanted to). Not wanting to make you any more uncomfortable, he spread his legs a touch further. He already almost fucked up by letting his little guilty pleasure get out of hand, so he’d do anything to try and remedy it by getting to know you the normal way.

Even though doing anything the “normal” way didn’t suit him, Bartolomeo was determined to be at least a little bit good. Just for you. He didn’t want to scare you off.

You, however, were now certain you had spooked him. He had shifted his legs further apart, which in your mind proved that he didn’t reciprocate the earlier touches. Though trying to keep up the smile was starting to feel phony, you used it to hide your disappointment, slowly letting yourself sink into the seat. It was fine. This was fine.

You did your best not to let the walk home be awkward. You let Bartolomeo lead the conversation a bit more, listening to him describe other times he’d stopped creeps at the bar. Apparently, though infrequent, it happened enough that he and his friend had a system, and he’d technically gone off-script the night before. You considered asking why he’d done something different for you, before biting your tongue and considering otherwise. It was nice just to listen to him, and you were again reassured that regardless of whether you were friends or more that he’d watch out for you.

As you approached the apartment building, you paused, a very faint but familiar sound reaching your ears. Bartolomeo kept on for a few steps before stopping himself, turning to look at you. “You good?”

You nodded but said nothing, instead staring down the alley between the apartment and the neighboring building. 

He rejoined you and leaned to one side, his gaze following yours. “You sure about that?”

“I just thought I saw something,” you said, distracted.

Then you heard it again: a very faint, mewling sound.

With a gasp and no hesitation, you started down the alley.

“Ah — wait a sec!” Bartolomeo only had to take a few long strides to catch up, but he very nearly bolted out in front of you. “Where’re you going? The front door’s—”

You shushed him, putting up a finger and pausing to listen. The mewling came again, much closer and to your right. You turned and looked down, seeing a beat-up, damp box. The lid had been folded shut in a way that kept it closed without tape, but was clearly too much for the critter inside to break through. Falling to a crouch you shuffled toward it, ignoring the grit and grime of the concrete as you put your hands down on it to keep yourself balanced occasionally. 

Bartolomeo followed your lead, though you missed how his hands reached and retreated — something about the risk of you getting dirty made him nervous. To him, it was like you were reaching into a world you didn’t belong to. He wanted to keep you safe from it. He could get dirty all he needed, all he wanted, and if you were going to insist you do the same he doubted he could stop you. This was all sparked by what amounted to just gritty concrete and a dingy box, but he still couldn’t help but worry.

Carefully, you opened the box, and let out a high-pitched cry. “Barto, look!”

He peered over your shoulder, and nearly melted.

In the box was a very tiny kitten, black with orange speckles. It mewed, standing on its back legs and attempting to climb out of the box now that it was open, but it could barely reach the top edge.

You whimpered and reached in, letting the kitten sniff your fingers before petting its head. “Who left you here? Who’d be so mean?”

Bartolomeo leaned over you, trying not to let your bodies touch. He wanted so badly to pick you up and hug you with how you cooed and doted on a stray kitten, but he remembered how you looked in the diner, and that he was trying to be good. But goddamn, it was hard to resist. Instead, he reached past you and toward the kitten as well, mirroring your gesture and letting the kitten sniff his hand. 

“Poor little guy,” you said, before shrugging off your cardigan. “Barto, do you know if there’s a pet deposit?”

He was so distracted by the fuzzy, glittery bulbs he imagined around you that it took a moment to register that you asked a question. “What?”

“I’m taking him in. You think the landlord would mind?”

Bartolomeo blinked and struggled very hard not to get choked up. Of course you’d take in a stray kitten. You were so good. As you bundled up the kitten into your sweater, the fuzzy bulbs returned, and he felt like he was staring at a painting of a Madonna and child. How could he ever hope to measure up to that kind of goodness. The saint who’d given the sinner a chance — he was suddenly all too aware of how easily he could tarnish it.

He cleared his throat, regaining his composure with a shake of his head. “No — uh. I don’t know about a pet deposit, but it should be fine.”

You smiled, the light from it nearly blinding him. “Can you help me keep this little guy secret then? Between us friends? At least until I can either find a home for him or get him settled.”

Bartolomeo nodded eagerly, mirroring your smile. “Yeah, I can do that.”

And then it hit him. A secret between... friends?

Oh. Oh fuck. Friends.

Part of him? Ecstatic. Absolutely thrilled. Could not be happier to be considered your friend, and that was the honest truth. He was going to be the best damn friend you’d ever had.

Another part of him, however, cried out in anguish. How was he ever supposed to hope he could get close to you if you just thought of him as “friend”? Panic filled his veins. What could he have done different? Did he misinterpret the leg touching? Should he have reciprocated? Should he have let his body touch yours just a moment ago? Should he have told you the lengths he went to in order to ensure that creep from the night before never set foot in his bar again?

Oh fuck, oh shit, oh fuck—

“Oh no.”

Your voice snapped Bartolomeo from his thoughts. He looked down at the kitten in your arms, and noticed it, too.

There was a cut under its left eye.

You gently tipped its head back, trying to get a better look at the crusted over gash. The kitten protested, wiggling a bit and mewling louder. Your heart ached — did someone hurt it, then try to abandon it when they realized they couldn’t? Or was it hurt from the start and someone decided they weren’t going to keep something that might actually take effort to take care of?

With a huff, you pushed yourself up and looked back toward the street. “Come on, let’s sneak him in! I’ll get him all cleaned up.”

Bartolomeo nodded and stood, still reeling internally with the mixed ecstasy and despair. With another shake of his head he recomposed himself, taking the lead out of the alley. He could tear himself apart internally over the word “friend” later. Right now, he was going to get you past the landlord.

It wasn’t all that hard to get the cat through the door and up the elevator. The landlord didn’t even seem to be in his office. You thanked Bartolomeo for the help, and he thanked you for lunch, and you parted ways in the hall as you set to work cleaning up the kitten. 

It served to be a nice distraction from the crushing feeling in your chest, checking it for fleas, disinfecting the cut, what its parts were (you had said “little guy” as a diminutive, but it turned out to be accurate). Once he was all dry, you took a picture and sent it to the group chat, asking for name ideas. You know you’d said that you wanted to keep him secret from the landlord until you found someone else to take care of him, but who were you kidding — you’d always wanted a cat. It didn’t take long for the group chat to respond, your phone chiming in quick succession with messages.

From Nami, embellished with heart emojis, “WHAT A CUTIE!”

Followed by a message from Robin, simply reading “Cute,” with a single heart.

Then from Vivi, “He looks like Luffy. Look at that scratch!”

You cocked your head and typed, “Who’s Luffy?”

“An old friend of ours,” Robin responded. “He has a scar under his eye, too.”

Rebecca pitched in. “He has a kind little face. But also looks like he’ll get into mischief. Exactly like Luffy.”

You lifted the kitten up and cooed, “What do you think? Are you a Luffy?”

The kitten let out a loud mew and wiggled in your hold.

You texted, “Luffy it is, then.”

As you sat back on your couch doing the math on how much you could afford in cat supplies this paycheck, you could no longer ignore the twisting pain in your chest. With a deep breath, you finally let yourself cry.

“What are friends for?”

Swallowing the heavy lump in your throat, you decided were perfectly okay with being just friends with Bartolomeo, especially if he treated all of them with the same level of protectiveness and loyalty he seemed to naturally hold. It wasn’t like it was his fault that you misread the situation. You’d been too hopeful and reading too deeply into things, and so it was your burden alone to untangle your feelings. You could do that. Easily. It might take a few days, and a few tipsy, sad calls to the group chat, but you would be okay. At least you had the advantage of only knowing him for a comparatively short amount of time, as opposed to the crushes you had known for years and made the same mistake with.

It still sucked. So you cried. The release felt like a weight off your shoulders, even if it made you miscalculate your budget a few times.

That night, as you lay in bed wondering how to best ask for Monday off so you could take Luffy to the vet, there was a faint nagging feeling in your mind of being watched. But all too quickly, you were falling asleep, and didn’t think too much of it.

Besides. You weren’t being watched. Not technically.

Bartolomeo was just sitting next to the window. Not looking in.

Chapter Text

Friend.

Friend.

Fuck. Bartolomeo hated how much he was agonizing over the word. Wasn’t it supposed to be a good thing? It meant taking things slow, natural-like. Wasn’t that what he wanted? Apparently, he underestimated how badly he wanted you. He tried to keep it in check, and look where it got him. He never thought he'd be the type to use the term "friend zone", but what else could he say? While he hadn't technically been expecting sex just for being nice to you, he still had been thinking about having sex. But, still, it wasn’t like he felt he was owed that...

He just really. Really wanted to fuck your brains out.

Among other things that were decidedly more wholesome. Like holding your hand, or cuddling on his couch, or spooning. Mostly whatever involved holding onto you and not letting go. For some reason, thinking about those types of things almost felt even more scandalous.

Bartolomeo sighed, carding a hand through his hair. He shouldn’t have been doing this. He knew that. He promised himself he wouldn’t, and yet there he was, sitting on the fire escape next to your bedroom window. He didn’t dare look in — not yet, anyway. He had to be sure you weren’t still awake, and even then he waited a bit longer.

All because of what he was about to do next.

Painstakingly slow, he opened the window. He kicked off his boots and left them outside before climbing through. A tiny shadow darted from a pile of clothes near the hamper to under the bed. He stiffened, waiting to see if you would stir, before slowly shutting the window behind him.

At first, he sat down, his back pressed close to the wall as it dawned on him what he’d done. He could just as easily reopen the window and slip back out, making a break for it back to his apartment like he’d done before. But instead he stayed, staring at the you-shaped lump in the bed. His breath caught in his throat as you continued to sleep, not even remotely aware of his presence. Eventually, he pushed himself up, the street lights from outside throwing his shadow over you. He carefully stepped closer, watching for any further signs of the tiny kitten you’d taken in so he didn’t accidentally trip over it.

Bartolomeo really was happy to be friends.

But he needed more.

He had to be closer. And if friendship was as close as you would allow, then doing this was necessary if he wanted to know what it’d be like... just once... to be closer.

Before he knew it, he was standing next to your bed. He was ghosting a hand over the sheets. Then it drifted over your back, to your side, and settled its full weight on your shoulder, feeling your soft body give just a little under his palm. He could even feel your warmth radiating from under the bedsheets. There was just barely enough room... he could... maybe—

He shook his head, snatching his hand back. This wasn’t right. He was trying to be good. What happened to that?

You don’t have to be good.

Once again, it was like you were speaking to him in his head, and he had to lean over you to make sure you were still asleep. The action resulted in him holding himself up with his arms on either side of you, his body twisted slightly awkward to balance his weight and keep from collapsing. Oh, shit. Your face was so peaceful. So close. So close.

Protect me.

Bartolomeo blinked, and slowly brought one knee up onto the mattress. It sunk deep into the springs with his weight, and the frame creaked a bit. You barely even stirred, a short hum leaving your throat. Right. He promised he’d protect you. Even as your friend, he could do that. He’d make sure no one ever hurt you. And he could do that his own way.

He stayed like that for a moment, watching your face, listening to your breathing, your body just ever-so-slightly grazing his with each rise and fall of your chest. If he couldn’t have you now... he’d be damn sure to be there for you later. And anyone who dared to come close to you in the meantime, he’d be sure to tear them to shreds.

He wasn’t nice. He couldn’t be good. He’d been fooling himself to think he could keep from sneaking back in, and smothering that urge only made it so he had to break in while you were home, just to satisfy the itch. He’d bring it back down to coming in whenever you were gone, but for now he’d savor this moment. Savor being so close. Close enough that he could drag his teeth over your skin.

Bartolomeo flinched away from the bed. The sudden movement made you twitch and curl up tighter under the blankets, but you otherwise remained asleep. The dim light of the street lamps illuminated a thin scratch on your cheek. Barely even a surface scrape — it would fade by morning.

He made himself scarce, slipping out the window and back into his boots, then back to his apartment.

A week passed. True to his word, Bartolomeo helped you keep Luffy secret from the landlord. After reviewing the contract, you found that there was a pet fee, and a ridiculously high one at that. So, when the landlord inevitably came around with suspicions, Bartolomeo distracted him... rather, he loomed behind him while you lied through your teeth. He helped sneak in cat litter and a carrier, practically smuggling them in like they were contraband. It made you wonder if he’d ever done shadier work before bartending.

(The answer was technically no, at least never paid work. Bartolomeo just spent a decent chunk of his highschool days sneaking in and out of classes with backpacks full of fireworks, stolen sports uniforms, and alcohol.)

Amidst the hiding of various cat supplies, Bartolomeo showed up at your door one day with a handful of video games. Not only Yakuza , but a few Devil May Cry games and one you’d never heard of called Dark Cloud. He even ran back across the hall and returned with an old Playstation 2 when you told him you couldn’t play all of the titles. He didn’t strike you as the type to be so excited to share his interests with someone, making the action all the more endearing.

It all helped to distract you from the fact that things were feeling off again.

The smaller things, like your bracelet and the hat for your monkey plushie, easily could be sequestered away by Luffy somewhere. Most likely under the bed, but whenever you attempted to check, he was already under there and you became distracted by his purring and nuzzling into your hand. You weren’t entirely sure how long Stardew Valley had been missing, given how sporadically your sudden desire to play it for long stretches of time came and went. However, you were certain that you didn’t just forget or lose it during the move. You had another day of changing the bedsheets before running errands, only to find them rumpled when coming home. Sure, that also could have been Luffy, though it would have taken some serious zoomies for the covers to be as mussed up as they were.

You once more tried to put it all out of your mind. Knowing Bartolomeo was around to keep an eye out made it easier to dismiss your fears, since you had no doubt if he saw something, he’d do something. If he kicked someone’s ass to make them stop, you probably wouldn’t even know.

Meanwhile, Bartolomeo spent the last week indulging in his bad habit. He hadn’t snuck in while you slept since the night he practically bit you, but he still looked in through the window every chance he could just to watch you sleep. When you were gone, he no longer resisted the urge to cuddle up with your pillows, reveling in how your scent lingered in the sheets. He took a chance on swiping one of your games, picking one he would normally never have chosen for himself. He wanted to know (as close as he could know) what it’d be like to play something with you. He also couldn’t help but play a little with Luffy, and one day realized the monkey plushie’s hat was the perfect size to fit on the kitten’s tiny head.

In between his trips, he found himself entertaining his fantasies a bit more, too. He was done convincing himself that he didn’t have impure thoughts about you, deciding it was better not to suppress them, lest they get out of hand and he accidentally act upon them instead. He didn’t jack off every day, but almost, all the while daydreaming of how you’d feel under him, or riding him, or on your knees with your pretty mouth around his cock. After parting ways in the hall one afternoon, he imagined himself yanking you into his apartment and fucking you on the couch. On a trip up the elevator with you, he had to keep his hands in his pockets so he wouldn’t act on the temptation to hit the emergency stop and pin you to the wall.

Bartolomeo was dying of hunger and staving it off with junk food. From smelling your shirt while he jerked off to stealing a bracelet he’d seen you wear only once. It was maddening and unhealthy, but he would survive.

Your mouth twisted into a frown at the notification on screen. It’d been sitting there since you’d arrived at work that morning, and you meant to respond during lunch but had your attention pulled elsewhere when Nami joined you. Now work was almost over, and you still weren’t sure what to make of it.

Cavendish Bourgeois would like to chat.

“Is everything all right?”

You jumped at the faintly accented voice and turned toward Rebecca, her brow knit and a bronze gauntlet under one arm. With a shrug you looked back at your phone. “I just got a message from some guy I knew growing up. He was always kind of snobby, so I don’t know why he’s messaging me.”

She leaned from one foot to the other, tilting her head. “Well, what does the message say?”

You sighed, your thumb initially hovering over the “ignore” button before opening the message instead.

“Good morning! I know it’s been a few years, but I thought I’d say hello. How are you?”

“He’s just asking how I’m doing.” You cocked your head. “Weird. I didn’t think he even knew I existed.”

Rebecca leaned over your shoulder to see. “Maybe he wants to reconnect and make amends?”

You shrugged again and pocketed your phone, resuming your task and pushing a cart full of boxes back to the storeroom. “He doesn’t seem the type. At least not since I last saw him in highschool.”

“People can change,” she said, shifting the gauntlet from under one arm to the other as she followed beside you. “I reconnected with my father recently, after I thought he had left us.”

“That’s a little different.” You paused to slide a box onto one shelf. “Your dad was forced to leave. No one forced this guy to be a stuck-up peacock.”

“You don’t know that,” she countered. “Plenty of people are raised with parents who have unreasonable expectations. He might’ve felt he had to maintain a certain attitude.” She then nudged you with a smile. “Come on. Reply to him. See where it goes.”

You gave her a side-long stare and a crooked smile. “You just want me to cheer up about the whole Barto thing.”

“And I think you could use a more traditional date.” Her grin didn’t falter and she nudged you again. “Maybe this one will surprise you.”

After putting another box on the shelf, you pulled your phone back out and replied, “Hi! I’m doing okay. Moved away from home a few months ago. How about you?”

It wasn’t long before your phone chimed with Cavendish’s response. “Lovely. I moved myself, though it was about a year ago now. I heard you live in the city, is that right?”

“Congrats on escaping the suburbs lol. Yeah, it’s on the cheaper end of town, but it’s home now. Where’d you move to?”

“What’s he saying?” Rebecca startled you as she leaned over again.

“Nothing yet,” you laughed. “We literally just started.”

You had more time to put boxes back where they belonged before your phone chimed again.

“I live in the city as well. I have a place near the business district.”

You let that one sit for a few minutes, unsure of what to say or where Cavendish was trying to go with the conversation. Luckily you didn’t have to say anything as another pair of messages came through.

“I’m sorry this is so sudden. But I have an ulterior motive for messaging you. 

“Would you like to go out together sometime? I have some things I’d like to discuss, but I feel maybe it’s better I do so in person.”

You froze, and Rebecca immediately noticed, trying to peek at your phone. “What? What happened? What did he say?”

You swallowed the lump in your throat. “He’s... asking me out.”

She gasped and set the gauntlet down on the cart, eyes glittering. “You should go. It’ll be good for you! Especially since you’ve been so heartbroken over Bartolomeo.”

You shrank back, blushing. “I dunno... I don’t think I’m ready to jump right into dating.”

“Well, isn’t this the perfect opportunity to try?”

You worried at your lip. In all honesty, you weren’t interested in Cavendish in the slightest. As you said, he’d always been a bit of a snob, and was never exactly nice to you. He had his own sphere of affluent friends he ran around with, and most of them were in the drama club. Rumors had it that he threw fits if he wasn’t the lead role or romantic interest in whatever production they were working on, so you never went and saw the shows. Besides, you were still hurt over Bartolomeo. You liked him too much still, even just as friends. It wouldn’t be fair to someone to try and make a connection with you, only for your heart to be elsewhere.

“Can I see what he looks like?” Rebecca asked, noticing your hesitation. She had an uncanny ability to read people, not unlike Robin. But whereas the latter did it from a standpoint of pure observation, the former seemed to do it as if people were opponents. It made meeting her a little intimidating, but also made her the designated workplace vibe checker whenever someone was unsure about a date. You pulled up Cavendish’s profile and handed her your phone, admittedly curious about what she’d say.

Rebecca held the phone close as she began scrolling through his posted pictures. “He has a lot of selfies. He definitely still has a snobby streak to him.” She paused, then nodded and continued, “There are some where he’s doing humanitarian work. He still looks too well-dressed and these could be staged to make him look better, but some look genuine.”

Shortly after the assessment, she started typing something into your phone, and you panicked, trying to grab it back. “What are you doing!?”

She held the phone at arms length and put a hand on your chest. “I’m not replying to him, if that’s what worries you. I’m just looking up one more thing.”

“No! It’s fine, I’ll respond to him.”

But Rebecca was already on a mission, and kept you at bay with surprising strength while she continued rapidly typing and scrolling. “Ah-ha! I had a feeling there was something under that princely face.”

She then turned your phone to show you, and your jaw dropped.

A criminal record for Cavendish Bourgeois. One count of assault and battery, released on bail with community service. His mugshot looked rough; a cut on his lip and a bruise under his eye, his normally luxurious hair wild and tangled.

You snatched your phone back and stared, scrolling through. “How the hell did you figure he committed a crime!?”

Rebecca shrugged. “His ‘humanitarian’ stuff looked so forced, and at the start the filters he was using were very obviously trying to hide something. Then I noticed no one in his friend list was from your hometown — not even his parents. Just lots of pretty girls.” She leaned forward against the cart. “I actually didn’t expect to get the criminal record right away. I thought maybe there’d be some scandalous articles first.”

You covered your mouth to keep from laughing too loud. Pretty boy Cavendish, convicted of a crime. His parents probably disowned him. The feelings in your gut conflicted. You felt bad. Vindicated. Concerned. What would have possibly driven him to hurt someone so badly that he was sent to jail? Let alone hurt someone at all?

You had to know what the hell happened. You quickly replied.

“That is pretty sudden. And a surprise. Any way you can be more specific?

“No offense, but we’re not exactly old friends. So I’m just kind of confused. I’d like to know more before I say yes or no.”

A few minutes passed, and you saw that Cavendish had read the message. On and off the string of dots indicating he was typing had popped up, but they didn’t stay long. And then they stopped all together. With a heavy sigh you tucked your phone away. He probably wouldn’t tell you, especially if he knew you found out about his record.

No sooner had you pocketed your phone did two more messages finally come through.

“I apologize. I know I wasn’t exactly kind to you when we were young. I’m hoping to make amends.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen anyone from home. I was hoping to meet with a familiar face.”

“Holy shit,” you breathed, showing Rebecca your phone. “You were right. How the hell do you do that?”

She grinned. “Just a hunch. It’s not uncommon for bullies to try and apologize after they’ve had some sort of change in their life.”

You put the last box away, right in time for the shift to end, and re-read the messages. Maybe going out with someone who had an assault and battery charge against him wasn’t the best idea, but then again, that wasn’t exactly enough to deter you. Bartolomeo was a rough guy, and though you didn’t know a whole lot about his past, you imagined it was probably a lot more intense than Prince Charming Cavendish’s, and he still was one of the nicest people you’d met since moving. 

Screw it. You’d give it a shot.

“When did you want to meet? And where?”

Chapter Text

Your date with Cavendish was in four days. That was four days for you to stew over if you’d made the right choice. What if the whole thing was a set-up for an elaborate and really mean joke? Maybe he was a clout chaser and was trying to get a video of your “gratitude”, or worse, your humiliation. What if things went sour, what if he got angry?

Probably the worst prospect of all: what if you enjoyed yourself?

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other as you stood outside Bartolomeo’s door, hesitating only a moment longer before knocking. If nothing else, you could at least ask him for help.

The door opened and thankfully this time Bartolomeo was wearing a shirt. He was distracting enough on his own, his bare chest didn’t need to distract you further.

“Hey,” he said, leaning against the doorframe with his usual relaxed regard.

You smiled wide, tapping your fingers together. “Hi. Uhm. Can I borrow you for a few minutes? I need a second opinion. Maybe a couple second opinions.”

He returned the smile. “Yeah, sure. What’s up?”

“It’s partially something I need to show you,” you said as you backed up to your apartment door. “You wanna come over for a little bit? Play with Luffy?”

Try as he might, he couldn’t hide the way his eyes lit up as he nodded. Your smile widening even further, you led him inside. Luffy immediately came trotting up, his little legs swinging out wide and awkwardly as he ran. He greeted Bartolomeo with a loud meow, weaving between his ankles. 

He laughed, crouching down to pet him. “Hey, Mister Luffy. Keeping out of trouble?”

“No,” you answered, giggling, “he’s got his own toys, but still keeps trying to fight my plushies.” You then gestured between the living room couch and your small dining table. “Sit wherever — want a drink?”

Bartolomeo nodded and opted for a dining chair, while Luffy came zipping back over to you with another loud meow. You set down a soda on the table, briefly standing between Bartolomeo’s knees. Your mind wandered for a moment, wishing you could sit on one of those knees, or straddle them both while fiercely making out with him —

You shook the thought from your mind and stepped back. “So. I need to put an outfit together for something, and I have it narrowed down to two.”

His bare brow ticked up in surprise. “Oh. Uh, sure — I mean. I dunno how much help I’ll be, but I can try.”

You scratched the back of your neck. “I’m just not sure which one looks better. And...” You sighed, leaning against the kitchen counter. “I dunno. I’m not sure I’m making the right choice.”

“In... what you’re wearing?”

Despite yourself, you laughed, shaking your head. “No, uh...” you paused to take a deep breath, steeling yourself as you averted your eyes, “I have a date.”

Bartolomeo’s nerves lit on fire. His jaw ticked, his free hand clenched tighter, red crept into his peripherals — he quickly took a drink, thankful that you were looking away. When you did meet his eyes again, he asked, “Where at?”

“Some place called Baratie.”

He nearly bit his tongue to try and relieve some of the anger, miraculously keeping his tone even. “Ritzy. Figures.”

“You’ve been there?”

He laughed, almost barking, “Hell no. Never been able to afford somethin’ like that. They must wanna impress you real bad.”

You shrugged, giggling as the tension rolled off your shoulders. “Probably. He was kind of a dick growing up.”

“Oh?” He propped an elbow up on the table, resting his cheek against his knuckles. “What made you wanna go out with him, then?”

“That’s the thing,” you said with another sigh, moving to one of the dining chairs across from him. “I don’t really know that I want to. But... I feel kind of bad for him? He says he wants to make amends.”

“What’d this guy do that was so bad?” It almost hurt Bartolomeo to ask that, as knowing how someone had hurt you in the past was likely to make him even more furious. But he needed to know.

You leaned back in the chair and tipped your head up. “He was always really over dramatic. And he kind of just... expected people to bend over backwards for him at the drop of a hat, and would throw a fit when they didn’t. But it wasn’t like he went out of his way to make anyone’s life hell, he just was annoying.” You rolled your eyes. “I mean. He’d make your life hell in the moment because he would act like you committed a crime against humanity, but then it was like he instantly forgot anyone who stood up to him existed. He was surprised by it almost every time.

“I was one of the people that pushed back,” you continued. “We’d get assigned group projects together and he wouldn’t pull his weight. Sometimes the other students would just roll with it and take on the extra load, but I always got in his face about it. Among other things, but that was the most common one.”

Bartolomeo smirked at that. “You? Gettin’ in someone’s face?” The image it brought to mind, of you standing up to someone with your hands on your hips and a mean glare, was equal parts adorable and sexy.

You gave him a lopsided grin. “Hey, sometimes you have to be a bitch. I’m not exactly physically imposing, and yeah I prefer to be nice when I can, but oh my god the snobbery. I can only take so much.”

He laughed again, “And you wanna let this guy apologize?”

“Well...” you hesitated, “apparently he got arrested about a year ago and made it out on bail. He hasn’t talked about it yet, but my coworker knows how to dig stuff up.” You pulled out your phone, unlocking it to re-read some of the messages. “He has talked about his parents, how they won’t speak to him, or acknowledge he’s their son. It’s sad.”

Bartolomeo felt his heart soften a little. You were willing to go out with someone with a rough past. But then it hardened again, because that someone should be him. He took a deep breath through his nose — no, this was fine. It could be worse. He would take care of it, before this guy inevitably hurt you.

For now, Bartolomeo had to be a friend.

“It’s real nice of ya to give him a chance,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth.

You apparently didn’t notice, your cheeks turning pink as you fidgeted. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” he said and took another drink. “Any guy’d be lucky to be with a girl who doesn’t care ‘bout his past, and is willin’ to forgive stuff. As long as he doesn’t keep on being a dick.”

You nodded, shifting to sit up a little straighter. “Right — exactly. It’s more important that they’re making the effort to do better, and how they treat people now.”

The reassurance helped to balance out some of the fury. He nodded to the hall. “So, what’re you caught between?”

You practically jumped out of your seat, beaming. “Right! Okay, stay right here — I’ll be right back.”

As you rushed off, Bartolomeo’s eyes fell to your unlocked phone on the table, and he downed the rest of his drink.

Your heart raced as you changed into each outfit in turn, Luffy going back and forth between weaving between your legs and trying to climb up Bartolomeo’s. He was very quick to encourage wearing a blue dress that had a sailor collar, his eyes gleaming, and you couldn't help but wonder if he was picking something he liked as opposed to just a non-biased opinion. Then again, you could have just been bringing your own feelings into it.

It wasn’t long before Bartolomeo’s phone pinged, and he sighed as he checked it. “Gambia needs help at the bar. Got packed outta nowhere.”

“Wait,” you put a hand out as he stood, gesturing to his phone. “Is there any chance I can have your number? So I can text you if it starts going south?”

He smiled and handed it to you, watching as you rapidly typed something in before your own phone pinged. When you handed it back, he saw you had messaged yourself the words “Barto’s phone!”

“You really think it’ll go that bad?” he asked, one brow raised.

You shook your head as you saved his information, paused, then shrugged. “I really don’t know. But it’ll be nice to have someone I can text for an emergency bail-out call.”

“You can text me anytime, sweetheart, not just for bail-outs,” Bartolomeo said, his smile widening at the faint flush in your cheeks. As he turned to leave, he saved your information with a heart after your name.

Now, to find out just who the hell was Cavendish Bourgeois, and why he thought he could try to claim what belonged to him.

It didn’t take long to track Cavendish down. Smug idiot broadcast practically everything about himself, except that assault and battery against him. He even tried to make his community service look like it was charity work or something. But anything Bartolomeo wanted to learn about him, he could easily find. Where he worked, which college he went to, what kind of car he drove. By the time there were only two days left before the date, he had even narrowed down where he lived to three buildings. By the day of, he knew which parking garage he’d find a particularly nice classic Mustang.

Bartolomeo didn’t like the guy on principle, given he was trying to take you out on a date. The more he looked into him, the more he just got annoyed by him. He didn’t doubt what you said about his parents disowning him, but even still, everything aside from the criminal record seemed so perfect. Then he got to the activity feed showing how frequently Cavendish was in and out of relationships in the past year alone. Guy had some issues on that front, that much was clear. Bartolomeo even did a little digging through the names that came up, lining up dates to see if any posts said anything deeper about what might have happened between Cavendish and his exes. Unfortunately, most were vague vents about wishing for consistency in a relationship and jokes about him sleepwalking, with only two saying anything about him being a stuck-up asshole, which was already obvious enough.

Bartolomeo hefted the metal bat over his shoulder and crossed his ankles, leaning back against the Mustang with one hand in his pocket. He was surprised just touching the damn thing didn’t set off an alarm, but then again, the pretty boy seemed arrogant enough to assume no one would dare steal anything from him.

But he thinks he can steal from someone else, he thought, his grip on the bat tightening. It was now about twenty minutes before the reservation. It broke his heart a little, knowing that you were about to be all alone, waiting for someone who wasn’t going to show. And it was going to be because of him.

The crazy things one does for love.

The slide of the elevator door echoed through the garage, accompanied by a very posh voice.

“No, no, I’m serious. I think she’s actually gonna be okay with it. Yes, I’ve told her a little. So far she’s been nice about me trying to be... nice...”

Cavendish rounded the corner and stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the beast leaning against his car.

The corner of Bartolomeo’s mouth quirked. “Hey.”

Cavendish hung up his call and took a few steps forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Bartolomeo drawled and nonchalantly switched which ankle was on top, pointing at him with the bat. “Seein’ as you’re askin’ out a girl who’s already spoken for.”

“What are you talking about?” Cavendish approached another few steps before stopping. “You mean—”

“Keep her name out of your fuckin’ mouth,” Bartolomeo growled, bearing his teeth. “You’re not worthy to say it.”

“She’s never said anything about a boyfriend.”

“Just like you ain’t said anything about that criminal charge on ya.” Bartolomeo smirked, lifting the bat over his shoulder again. “You keep that from all the people you date?”

Cavendish folded his arms. “No. I was going to mention it tonight.”

“Don’t bother.”

With that, he casually swung the bat downward without turning around, the barrel slamming into the car door and denting it.

Cavendish lunged, gripping Bartolomeo by the shirt in one hand, the other still holding his phone. His voice was low, dripping with venom as he said, “You have no idea who you’re messing with.”

Bartolomeo laughed, the loud, mocking sound reverberating through the garage and surrounding them. “Ooh, so scary. I’m shakin’.”

Cavendish released him only to quickly throw his fist. Bartolomeo leaned out of the way, though he would admit it was a close call. He definitely didn’t expect an actual fight. With equal speed, he swung the bat upward, cracking the end into the opposite hand, sending Cavendish’s phone shattering against the ceiling.

“What the fuck is your problem?!” the blond snapped, his voice cracking slightly.

Bartolomeo shoved him back. “I already told you my problem.”

He then wheeled around, swinging the bat with both hands and slamming it down against the windshield with a resounding crash. When Cavendish tried to lunge again, Bartolomeo stopped him by jamming the bat into his chest. As the former crumpled to his knees, the latter tipped his head back with the bat’s end.

“I oughta bust up your face, but I’m feelin’ generous. So, I’m only gonna warn you once,” he said, his lip again curled back in a snarl. “Stay. The fuck. Away. From my girl.”

Cavendish spat blood onto Bartolomeo’s boots. “Or what?”

He grinned. “Then you better hope all I do is bust up your face.”

As he left Cavendish behind with a broken phone, broken car, and at least one broken rib, Bartolomeo pulled out his phone. He’d need to hurry home — he had to be there waiting for you when you came back.

You were about to start pulling the threads on your napkin. It was twenty-five minutes past the reservation time. You texted Cavendish a few times, trying to make sure he was still coming, then asking if he was okay when there was no response, then just a string of question marks. At this point, it was starting to become clear he wasn’t coming. In the back of your mind, you hoped he was okay.

Then again, for all you knew, he bailed on purpose to embarrass you. You mentally chastised yourself — you should have known better. Or seen this coming. There was no way Cavendish had been serious about making amends.

You checked your phone one last time, now realizing that it was thirty minutes past the reservation time. With a heavy sigh you tucked it back into your purse and started rummaging through it for cash. Even though you hadn’t ordered anything, you felt it was rude to have occupied a table for so long, so the least you could do was leave a nice tip for the very patient (and growing notably more concerned) waiter.

As it so happened, while you were searching, said waiter set a to-go container down in front of you, making you jump. He gave you a sad smile as he straightened back upright. “I thought you might like some tiramisu to take home.”

Your chest tightened and you resumed searching for cash. “How much do I owe you?”

He shook his head, putting a hand on your shoulder. “Nothing. It’s paid for. A pretty girl like you doesn’t deserve to get stood up.”

You flushed at the contact and set your purse back on your lap. “Thank you.”

He nodded and glanced at the empty seat across from you. “I don’t suppose you’re going to be calling him again, are you?”

“Nope,” you sighed, sinking into your seat. “I should have listened to my gut.”

“The gut’s usually right. I’m sure yours must be starving.” He smiled and gave his hair a light toss, continuing, “Are you by chance doing anything else this evening? Maybe I can take you somewhere with better food than here.”

You blinked a few times, then laughed, shaking your head. “No — that’s very sweet, but. I think I’m just going to go home. Thank you, ah...”

“Sanji.” He retrieved a pen from his pocket, scribbled something down on his order pad and tore it off, holding it out to you between his index and middle finger. “If you ever change your mind.”

You giggled, slipping his number into your purse. “Thank you, again. I’ll think about it.”

As you hailed a taxi home, you blocked Cavendish’s number. Fuck him. You didn’t need some pompous asshole begging for redemption. And as kind as he was, you weren’t planning on calling Sanji any time soon, either. You just wanted to go home and share dessert with someone who’d appreciate it.

Bartolomeo didn’t have much nice to wear, but he did manage to find a pair of jeans that weren’t full of holes and an old purple flannel he couldn’t remember the origin of. He reasoned that if he left the shirt open with something underneath, it’d seem innocuous enough, and not like he was deliberately dressing nicer for you. He again felt his chest twinge a bit when he remembered you were probably going to be upset coming home, and that it was directly his fault, but he shook the feeling off — you’d never have to know his involvement.

And if you ever did find out... he could convince you it was the right thing to do. You’d come around. He’d help you. It’d be fine.

Bartolomeo heard the elevator ding and practically flew off the couch, stumbling toward the door. He peered out the peephole, his heart skipping a beat when he saw you come into view, carrying a clear plastic container with a little cake-looking thing inside. Your face was stained with streaks of makeup, and he heard you sniffle, making his throat tighten. 

You reached for your apartment doorknob, then paused, before rubbing your cheeks with the heel of your palm and turning around to face his door. He backed up a few steps as you knocked, and waited.

After a beat the door opened, and you stared up at Bartolomeo through watering eyes. He looked nice. It was a different look than what you normally saw him in. Maybe he had gone out himself.

He wasted no time, seeing the tears welling back up. “What happened?”

You hiccupped and shook your head, shakily lifting the to-go box. “D-do you wanna come over and — and share this?”

He nodded and followed you across the hall. You set the to-go box down, and before he could sit you went face-first into his chest, gripping his shirt and sobbing. His heart sang with the contact, and he gently pat your head. “That bad, huh?”

You nodded, wailing into his chest, “He fucking stood me up! I feel — I feel s-so stupid!”

“You’re not.” Bartolomeo pressed your head closer to his chest, the other arm going around your shoulders. “He’s a fuckin’ prick, leadin’ you on like that.”

“He’s — he’s a bastard is what h-he is!” You continued sobbing, just barely aware that he was rubbing his arm up and down your back, his fingers weaving into your hair. He was so warm, and you felt so safe in his arms. It made you cry even more that he wasn’t yours.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he said, his voice rumbling in his chest as he continued petting you. “This guy — soon enough, he ain’t gonna matter. He’s gonna be a sad, lonely shithead ‘cause he gets off on makin’ people feel bad. But you’re gonna be okay.”

You sniffled, nodding. “Y-you’re right. Fuck that guy.”

Eventually, you pulled away to get a couple forks, sitting down at the dining table with a huff. Bartolomeo sat down across from you and reached over to pat your knee, making your cheeks flush from more than just the crying session. You handed him a fork and popped open the to-go box, saying in a cracked voice, “Thank you. I’m sorry I got your shirt all snotty.”

He shrugged. “Don’t worry about it. ‘S what they made laundry soap for.”

“I guess so,” you giggled, then dug in.

As you shared the dessert, Bartolomeo gave you a once-over and smiled. He thought you were pretty in just about everything, but he knew the blue dress was a good choice.

Chapter Text

Spring melted into Summer, and you quickly learned the AC rattled for just a bit too long whenever it turned on. It hadn’t yet been pushed to its limit, but it left you worried that it would kick the bucket when the first truly scorching day rolled around. It worked for now, at least, which was a godsend given the more pressing matter at hand.

Namely, someone pressing into you while you were bent over the kitchen counter. You weren’t entirely sure how you got there, or how Bartolomeo got into the apartment, but things had apparently escalated quickly.

His hands gripped your hips, your toes grazing the floor with each languid push. He nuzzled the shell of your ear, and you were surprised his septum ring was still cold against your skin, sending shocks down your spine.

“Sweetheart,” he purred, his voice impossibly low.

“Barto,” you whined, his name echoing despite the small space. “More.”

He obeyed, pulling out almost completely only to slam back in, his pace increasing. He was long, that much you knew, even though you hadn’t seen it. No matter how deep he pushed, he always seemed to be able to go even deeper, his cock dragging against your tight walls as his pace grew more erratic.  

“My girl. Mine.” He punctuated his statement with a hard thrust, the rough handling contrasting sharply with the soft kisses and playful bites on your neck and shoulders. Sparks flew through your veins as the head of his cock pressed against your sweet spot. You hardly recognized yourself through the animalistic cry that wrenched free, your cunt being pushed to its limit.

Right on the cusp of release, a familiar rattling sound cut through the air.

Blearily, you opened your eyes. You were flopped over on your couch, dried drool on your cheek. The AC was wheezing to life, pulling you from your delicious reverie.

You groaned, covering your face. “Fuck.”

It was a beautiful evening as you got out of work for the day. The sky was a gradient of pinks and oranges as the sun began its slow descent below the skyline. Its reflection glinted off of buildings and cars, filling your vision with little sparks of gold.

The darkening sky made it easier for Bartolomeo to keep an eye on you as he followed you home, keeping three buildings between you and him.

For all intents and purposes, he could have casually walked up and passed off his presence as a coincidence, as if he was just out running errands. He imagined you’d ask if he wanted to walk home with you, something he’d do with all the enthusiasm of a puppy playing with his favorite toy. Maybe you could stop at the diner, and he’d actually get a chance to show that he loved the little brushes of contact with your legs against his. Maybe he’d even get to feel those legs around his hips—

Bartolomeo shook his head, expelling the thought. This was why he was following from a distance. He didn’t trust himself not to overwhelm you with advances, or let slip one of his more lewd thoughts.

You were blissfully unaware, a slight spring in your step as you walked down the steps to the subway platform. He watched you swipe a train pass and waited for you to turn the corner, before jumping the turnstiles and resuming the pursuit.

He’d never admit that, despite the risk of being caught, he was starting to get a bit of a thrill out of the whole situation. You hadn’t said anything about noticing break-ins in a while, which meant he was getting better about hiding his tracks. On occasion he hid on the fire escape when he knew you were awake, or sat by your door and listened to you play with Luffy or sing to yourself. Part of him felt guilty still, but that part was slowly getting quieter as he continued to get away with his antics.

Following you was another step down into the obsession pit. Bartolomeo could justify it to himself all he wanted to, despite the obvious truth. He boarded the subway car behind yours, watching your back through the windows.

The car you chose was less crowded than usual for this time of day, devoid of the locals you’d grown accustomed to seeing. It wasn’t completely empty, as there was a group of people near the front of the car who were too loud for the tiny space, horsing around and engaging in general foolishness. Not long after you sat down and started to look at your phone, however, the volume died down somewhat, replaced with some muttering and hushed snickering. Maybe they were being more considerate now that someone else was in the car with them.

If only they were that kind.

A few minutes passed before a shadow loomed over you. Startled, you looked up.

A blond man with sunglasses was staring down at you with a wide grin. He had two long scars across either side of his face, giving him an almost ruggedly handsome appearance, if it weren’t for the fact he was leaning over you with imposing intent.

“Hey there, dollface,” he said. “Traveling alone?”

You bristled, tucking your phone away. “I’m meeting someone.”

He laughed, “Sure you are. Who’re you meeting? A boyfriend?”

You shook your head, pulling your shoulders in, instinctively making yourself smaller.

The man laughed, “Aw, no need to be shy. I’m just making conversation.” He suddenly leaned over you, putting one hand over the back of the seat. “Tell you what — why don’t you ditch whoever it is and come join us?” He tipped his sunglasses down. “I’m sure my friends and I could show you a fun time.”

You tried to inch away, pressing yourself closer to the cool window. “I’m just meeting a friend. I’m sure we can have a fun time by ourselves.”

“Maybe they can join us. The more the merrier, right?” He cocked his head, looking you up and down. “If they’re half as pretty as you, you’ll both look good on either arm.”

You suppressed the urge to gag, instead shaking your head again. “I’m really not interested in a night out, thank you.”

“So a night in, then? I don’t mind going back to your place.”

You ground your teeth, a dial in your head moving a few notches from flight toward fight. Why couldn’t this guy take a hint? Abruptly, you stood, throwing him off guard enough that you were able to push past him and stand by the doors. “No. Thank you. Maybe some other time.”

One of his friends piped up from the front of the car, “Come on, Bellamy. She said she’s not interested.”

He shot the group a glare before smiling at you again, his tongue peeking out between his teeth as he regained his composure. 

“Your loss,” he said with a shrug and leaned against a support pole as the train slowly pulled to a stop. “See you around.”

You couldn’t get off the train fast enough, not caring that you were still several stops away from the apartment. You took off at a brisk jog, rushing back up to the open air and hugging yourself as you tried to come down from the adrenaline rush. You knew your way to the next station, you could get back on once the train came back around — surely they’d all be gone by then. The sky began to darken further as you slowed back down to a walk, pushing your hair back with a shaking hand. Granted, it was a brief encounter, but you were confident you’d had enough excitement for one night.

With that thought, you again tempted fate.

As you came up to the next subway entrance, you grew increasingly aware of a chill down your spine. Initially, you chalked it up to the slight drop in temperature of the crisp summer evening, but it started to feel more like there were eyes on you. You rounded the signpost for the subway entrance, trying to casually catch sight of whoever may have been behind you—

On the entrance stairs was the scarred man — Bellamy, was it? — surrounded by his entourage.

“Hey there, dollface.” He grinned, his tongue darting out between his teeth. “Where’s that friend you were meeting?”

After assessing each one of his friends in turn, the dial in your brain switched back to flight so quickly the knob broke. 

Voices shouted behind you as you ran faster than you believed you ever could, your steps thundering against the concrete. You couldn’t tell if the streets were strangely empty, or if you were running past people so fast that you stopped seeing them, only registering them as obstacles to dodge as you fled. You probably should have cried for help, but by the time you thought about it, your voice was lost in your lungs, smothered by the chilled night air that filled them. The only thing on your mind now was run.

Just as you made a sharp turn into an alley, a hand shot out and grabbed your arm, finally wrenching free the shriek caught in your chest. You clawed at the hand grabbing you, glaring daggers at Bellamy as he took off his sunglasses to stare down at you.

“Aw, you’re even prettier when you’re pissed off,” he laughed, lifting your arm over your head. With a sickening lurch in your stomach you felt your feet leave the ground, and your shoulder strained as he effortlessly held you up like you weighed nothing. He stopped when he had you dangling a good few feet above the sidewalk, his eyes wide and manic. “I’ll give you another chance: lemme show you a nice time, huh?”

It probably wasn’t the wisest decision, given the position you found yourself in, but it was the only thing you could think to do. You felt your palm sting and your feet hit the concrete before you fully realized you slapped him, hard enough to make him drop you. Staggering, you took off again in the direction you came, weaving around Bellamy’s friends only to run straight into someone’s chest. Panicked, you balled your hands into fists before you looked up and saw whose chest it was.

Bartolomeo put an arm around your shoulders and held you close, staring straight ahead at his target. In spite of the red creeping into his periphery, his expression was calm, only showing the bare minimum of the rage he felt firing through his nerves. “There a problem here?”

Bellamy’s troupe gave him a wide berth as he approached, a fading red handprint on the left side of his face. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothin’,” Bartolomeo started gently coaxing you behind him. “Just a friend passin’ through.”

The cocky grin from before slowly crept back up as Bellamy made eye contact with you. “Guess you weren’t lying after all about that friend.” His gaze then met Bartolomeo’s. “Not all that pretty though.”

“Funny,” Bartolomeo smirked, “that’s not what your mother was sayin’.”

Bellamy seethed, cracking his knuckles. “Looks like you and your little bitch need to learn some manners.”

Bartolomeo’s brow ticked and he took a step forward, before he felt you lightly pull on the back of his leather jacket. He looked down to you, putting an arm around your shoulders.

You tugged on his jacket again. He was outnumbered, and you really didn’t want to see him get hurt. “Come on, he’s not worth it,” you said. “Let’s just go home.”

His expression softened slightly, his fury abating. “You sure?”

You nodded, and he relented, turning his back slightly—

Before ducking out of range of a right hook. He backed up to keep out of Bellamy’s reach, nudging you further behind him. Bellamy threw another punch, and Bartolomeo brought both fists up to protect his face. 

You quickly backed away from the fight, surprised to see the rest of the group do the same, as Bartolomeo swung from the left. As Bellamy went to block, he was struck from the right and nailed in the solar plexus, knocking the wind from him. Fueled further by the anger flooding his veins, Bartolomeo started wailing on his face, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and crunching bone echoing against the buildings.

You flinched with each hit, unable to look away as Bellamy’s face turned bloodier and more bruised. One of his friends tried to step forward before another one stopped him, muttering things between them before giving Bartolomeo a wide-eyed stare and backing up further.

Finally, the sounds stopped, and Bartolomeo shoved Bellamy backward toward his friends. He looked dazed, for as much as one who could barely see through the swelling on his face could, blood staining down the front of his shirt. Cuts on his cheeks and nose stood out sharply against the bruises, and he struggled to stand upright, before staggering back and being caught by two of his bigger comrades.

Bartolomeo turned back to you, barely having broken a sweat, knuckles bruised and his shirt spattered with blood.

You gaped, your heart racing, and a faint flush crept to your cheeks.

That is. Disturbingly hot.

He pulled you to his side with an arm around your shoulder, holding you close as he led you from the bloodbath. “C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s get home.”

When you returned back to the apartment, you spent way too long in your living room helicoptering around Bartolomeo and dressing his knuckles, trying to insist that you treat his shirt with peroxide, and fangirling about how he handled that fight. He happily let you do so, even allowing you to shove an icepack into his less bruised hand to take with him, despite him having plenty of first aid material already. He was just relieved he’d gotten off the subway in time to follow you, and that you hadn’t noticed him when you were trying to get to the next station.

And he was relieved to show that prick what happens when someone messes with his girl.

Later that night as you slept, you felt a weight on your chest. You tried to move it, assuming it was Luffy, but your arms wouldn’t listen. You tried to roll over, but your body wouldn’t budge. You felt hot, heavy breathing across your face, and with immense effort you managed to open your eyes.

Bartolomeo was straddling your waist, his arms on either side of your head to keep his body from completely pinning yours down. His lips were pulled back into a snarl, his eyes glowing. His teeth looked even larger, especially up so close. Puffs of steam came from his mouth as he breathed, and in the darkness you weren’t sure if what was dripping from his lips was drool or blood.

You couldn’t stop the snarky part of you from saying, “What large teeth you have.”

Bartolomeo’s snarl turned into a grin. It was definitely blood coming down from between his teeth. His voice came out low, layered over itself as he growled, “Better to eat you with.”

The weight on your chest moved, and you looked down. There was a pile of gore, gently beating.

“A gift?” you asked, your voice detached and distant.

He leaned down to your ear, “Our heart.”

An interesting word choice. Not “my”, not “your”. Our heart.

His tongue slid over your cheek as he pulled away, leaving behind a dark, wet trail over your face. Your arms finally responded to your demands as you reached up to try and keep him in place. But your hand slipped right through him, instead landing right on top of the messy heart on your chest.

It felt strangely furry, and made a very confused “mrrreep”.

You opened your eyes with a gasp. No Bartolomeo, no heart, just Luffy wondering why you awoke him from his sleep. You pushed yourself upright, surveying the room.

Nothing. No one. Just you and the kitty.

And it was uncomfortably hot in your bedroom.

You groaned and gently nudged Luffy off of you, stretching as you rolled out of bed to find a box fan. There was no way in hell you were going to try messing with the AC this late at night. You retrieved the fan from the hall closet, flicking on the light in your room as you dragged it over to the window to the fire escape. Before you could push it open, something on the floor caught your eye.

Flecks of rust, dirt, and chipped paint were scattered around near the window. You groaned, crouching down to look at them a bit closer. You knew you vacuumed just the day before, so where the hell did the stuff come from?

You got your answer when you opened the window and bits of rust shook loose, littering the carpet.

It occurred to you that you’d never opened this window before now.

Everything you had been trying to ignore, everything you thought had been resolved, all of it came flooding back, pouring in from the window and sending debris to your floor.

Someone had been in your bedroom. And the fire escape was how they got in.

Chapter Text

Your heart thundered in your chest. Bartolomeo promised he’d look out for you. He hadn’t mentioned seeing or hearing anything since you asked him to start. How did this get past him? How long could this have been getting past him? You really didn’t want to think that he was failing to keep his promise, so maybe whoever had been getting in stopped for a time, and they were picking back up again now that the weather was warmer. You had to tell Bartolomeo what you found.

The racing in your mind should have ended there. You should have closed the window and just hoped that the fan being on would be enough and wouldn’t blow around stale, hot air. You should have gone back to bed, ready to talk to Bartolomeo in the morning.

Instead, you leaned out the window, peering down the fire escape, wondering how someone could even get up to your floor without anyone noticing. Though it was hard to tell for sure, the ladder at the bottom looked too high off the ground. The average person would need to get a little creative to reach it. Although, on the subway commute you’d seen pretty tall locals, so it wasn’t that it was impossible to reach without having one’s own equipment or by exerting a bit of effort. Just unlikely.

As you leaned back in and closed the window, a tiny voice in the back of your mind piped up: Barto could reach that ladder.

You froze. No. No, that was highly unlikely. Bartolomeo wasn’t the type to do something like that. No way. He was kind to you, protective even, and... and he knocked that guy’s teeth in today!

He showed up with pretty convenient timing.

He could have just been out running errands. It was lucky that he showed up like that.

Your stuff stopped going missing for a little while after you asked him to help. How long was it before things got weird again?

Bartolomeo tricked a creep into drugging himself, he wouldn’t stoop so low as to be a creep!

Unless he was protecting something he thought was already his.

No. No, no, no.

You slowly sank to the floor, your face in your hands. There was no way that all this time, Bartolomeo had been stalking you. You felt nauseous at the thought. He’d been so kind, and supportive — he was your friend for fuck’s sake! No. You just weren’t thinking straight. You were panicking over some fucking debris on the floor, that could have come from anywhere.

Luffy hopped down from the bed and approached, purring and nuzzling your ankles. In his little kitty mind, he was trying to ask why you hadn’t come back to bed, because since you weren’t going to the kitchen to feed him, it was obviously still bed time. Then, when he leaned into your palm as you reached for him, he gradually became aware of your distress. You started making sniffling sounds, like the ones he’d done when he had gotten a little sick. He began to purr louder — purring always helped him, maybe it would help you.

You scooped up Luffy into your arms, petting him against your chest. His purring softened for a moment before picking back up, and you gradually felt the panic leave you. There was no way Bartolomeo was the one who’d been breaking in. It couldn’t have been him.

Right?

...It was too late at night to keep dwelling on the thought. You set the fan against the window — if it opened, surely the fan would be knocked over — and turned it on, carrying yourself and your cat back into bed.

Your paranoia would have to wait until morning to be sorted out. You needed a clear head to do so.

Vivi snapped her fingers in front of your face a few times. “Hello? Anyone home?”

You jumped, shaking your head free of the image of the debris in your bedroom. “Sorry, what were you saying?”

She propped her elbows up on the table and placed her chin in her hands. “I asked if you’re okay. You’ve been extra quiet today.”

You nodded, picking at your takeout lunch. “I’m fine. Just... distracted.”

“Over Bartolomeo again?” Drake asked, sipping at his coffee.

“No,” you said a bit too quickly, turning pink. “Sort of.”

Vivi cocked her head. “What’d he do? I thought you guys were doing the ‘just friends’ thing.”

“We are. He didn’t do anything.” You tapped your fingers on the table. “Or he did... guh, I dunno.”

Vivi stared at you expectantly. Drake eyed you suspiciously over his glasses.

You sighed. “After I moved in, someone started breaking into my apartment.” You scratched the back of your neck, avoiding their surprised gazes. “Barto said he’d keep an eye out, and it seemed to stop for a while. I figured he had it handled. But just last night I noticed something that makes me think the break-ins didn’t stop.”

“Do you think he’s been missing whoever’s doing it?” Vivi asked.

Before you could answer, Drake read your mind. “You think he might be the one doing it, don’t you.”

You shrank back, putting your face in your hands. “I don’t know what to think.”

Drake took another drink of his coffee. “Well let’s start with why you would think that.”

You sighed again, running a hand through your hair. “He seems kinda protective of me, the more I think about it. Like what he did at the bar, and then yesterday...” You again avoided eye contact. “He might’ve. Beaten some guy to a pulp for harassing me.”

Vivi’s brows ticked upward. “Wow, really? I would’ve thought that would be more reason not to suspect him.”

“That’s the thing,” you continued. “It was when I was going home. Bartolomeo and I — we weren’t even hanging out. He just... happened to show up.”

Drake’s frown deepened. “Sounds a little too convenient, if you ask me.”

You nodded. “Exactly. And when I think about it, the times I noticed that something was off in my apartment line up with times when he’s been home.”

“Then that settles it!” Vivi jumped up, her hands splayed out on the table. “It’s gotta be him!”

“Slow down,” Drake said, putting an arm on her shoulder to coax her back into her chair. “What would make you think it’s not him?”

You fidgeted in your seat. “Well, he’s been so nice. He comes across as this tough, scary guy, but you should see how he plays with Luffy. He even calls him ‘Mister Luffy’ in this tiny voice I didn’t even know he could do. He’s been helping me keep him secret from the landlord. And he works at that bar partly because he’s helping out his friend’s grandmother. He’s kind of... tender, y’know?”

Drake cocked an eyebrow, silently prodding with a look that said “That’s the best excuse you have?”

You relented, “He doesn’t seem tall enough to reach the fire escape. I haven’t had a chance yet to look at it from the ground, but it looks pretty high up.”

Drake nodded. “All right. How far off the ground do you think it is?”

You leaned back in your chair and twisted your lip. “Eight feet? Maybe nine?”

He pushed out his chair and stood. “How tall is Bartolomeo compared to me?”

You eyed him up and down, tilting your head. “Almost the same height. Maybe a little shorter.”

“But that’s just from your memory,” Vivi said as he sat back down. “Maybe Drake could come by and see if he can reach it? Just to make sure.”

“It’s probably best that I don’t,” Drake said, though with a tint of reluctance in his tone. “If he’s the one behind the break-ins, and if he was stalking you home yesterday, it’s better not to let on that you’re on to him. Not yet, anyways.” He finished his coffee and added, “We also don’t know how he’ll react to other people in his territory, for lack of better term. You said he beat someone to a pulp yesterday?”

You flushed at the memory of Bartolomeo’s shirt and knuckles splattered with blood, quickly nodding your head to dispel the image.

Vivi piped in, “Didn’t you say Cavendish stood you up?”

You blinked, furrowing your brow. “I did, but what does that have to do with this?”

She leaned forward, glancing around as if anyone aside from the three of you were in the breakroom. “What if Bartolomeo had something to do with that, too?”

After a beat, you shook your head. “That’s too far.”

“No, no, think about it!” Her voice was suddenly hushed. “What if he figured it out somehow? If he’s as protective as you say, then someone going on a date with you would absolutely be a threat to ‘his territory’.” She then sat back, her voice returning to normal volume. “Come on, tell me you don’t see it.”

You turned the thought over in your head for a moment, and it sent a sickening shudder down your spine. You knew if you said “no” that Vivi would call you out on the lie, so instead you moved on. “What should I do? I don’t have enough to prove it’s him to go to someone about it, but I also don’t feel like I have enough to prove to myself that it’s not him.”

The three of you sat in silence for a moment, before a phone alarm chimed. Vivi sighed and stood, silencing her phone with an annoyed grumble. She was stopped from leaving when Drake put his hand on her shoulder again.

“I think for now,” he said, “we should keep this between us. No need to worry anyone else until we know more.”

Vivi’s look of annoyance turned serious, and she gave a short nod. “Right.” She then turned to you, making a zipped-lip motion. “Just keep me posted, okay?”

With that she hurried out of the breakroom, just as an alarm went off on your phone to signal the end of your lunch. As you stood, Drake did as well, though he looked deep in thought.

Finally, as you were both leaving the breakroom, he said, “Test him.”

You frowned. “How?”

He slipped a hand in his pocket, leaning against the threshold. “Get him to say something he shouldn’t know about you. Or get him to do something that needs the fire escape. See how he reacts.”

You thought for another moment then nodded. “Thanks, Drake.”

“Any time.” He pushed off the threshold and gently patted your back. “Keep us in the loop. You know anyone here will come running if you need help.” He then smiled, adding, “That’s what friends are really for.”

Bartolomeo was getting nervous. Something was off about you — you weren’t distant or anything, still making time to chat with him and texting him, but you seemed more... tense. He’d asked a couple of different times if you were okay, and you always answered with a shrug and a smile, saying you were just tired from work. Though he could tell that definitely wasn’t the full story, he didn’t want to push.

His patience seemed to pay off, as one evening you invited him into your apartment again for dinner. You’d said you wanted to repay him for knocking the one jerk’s lights out, and who would he be to resist a chance at dinner with you? Let alone a dinner made by you.

Bartolomeo showed up at your door right on time, again wearing a flannel he’d forgotten about. He wondered if he should invest in some nicer-looking clothes, before shaking the thought away — he never before cared about the way he dressed, and he’d only start caring if you said something.

When you answered the door, his heart melted, seeing you again in the blue sailor dress he liked when you... when that Pretty Boy attempted to go out with you. His heart melted further when you hugged him before leading him inside, his stomach doing backflips at the contact.

“Thanks for coming on short notice,” you said, beaming and heading back into the kitchen.

“No prob,” he said, sitting in the dining chair closest to you. “You don’t have to go through all this effort for me, though.”

“I want to,” you said, again making his heart weak. “I’ve actually been wanting to give you a proper ‘thank you’ for a while. Honestly, probably since I got stood up by...” you paused. Your back was to him as you stirred the pot on the stove, and you tipped your head back in thought. “Shit, what was his name again?”

Bartolomeo’s posture stiffened, and he bit down on his tongue. Pretty Boy. Cavendish. But he wasn’t supposed to know that. “I dunno, you never told me.”

You shrugged before returning your attention to the pot. “Well, either way. You put up with me then, and then you saved my ass the other night. I think that’s more than enough reason to go through the effort.”

He smiled. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Something in the back of his mind, however, began to gnaw at him. He started chatting your ear off to stop thinking about it.

Part way through your conversation about the difficulty of mahjong in Yakuza 0, it started pouring rain. You cussed, taking half a step away from the stove before freezing, then looking over your shoulder. “Can you do me a favor? I don’t wanna leave this alone.”

Bartolomeo jumped up from his seat. “Sure — you need me to watch it?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” your eyes then flicked toward the hallway. “I just left my fan in the fire escape window. Do you think you could pull it in and close it?”

He nodded, turning his body instinctively toward the hall and taking a step toward your bedroom, before freezing. His brow then furrowed — would it be weird that he already knew which room the fire escape was in? By process of elimination it wouldn’t be hard to figure out, but... something felt wrong about immediately going for your bedroom.

“Which room is it in?” he asked, trying to ignore the hairs standing on his neck.

And then he saw it. Your shoulders sank just slightly, and your gaze softened. Like you were relieved that was his response. “It’s in the bedroom. Just down the hall and to the left.” You then pointed accusingly at him with a slotted spoon and grinned. “Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Bartolomeo nodded again, heading for the bedroom and being careful not to trip over Luffy on the way there. He opened the door and hesitated, glancing around. It was the first time you’d willingly let him into your bedroom, and he tried not to think too hard on how you’d looked at him — maybe you were just relieved he was doing you a favor.

As he pulled the box fan out of the window frame and slid the pane shut, something falling to the floor caught his eye.

Flakes of chipped paint and bits of rust, littering the floor by the fire escape.

Fuck.

“Everything okay in there?” you called.

“Yeah, just. Distracted.” He quickly set the fan down over top of the debris and hurried back out, looking just a hair paler.

You cocked your head at him. “You feeling okay?”

He nodded, sitting back down. “I’m fine. You’re room’s just... cute.”

You gave him that thousand-sun smile, a faint blush in your cheeks as you continued cooking. “Thank you. Food’s almost done.”

The rest of the evening went surprisingly smooth, especially considering Bartolomeo was now paranoid that you were catching on to something he really didn’t want you catching on to. He didn’t think that you noticed the debris — after all, it could have been something that just happened. But that little gnawing feeling in the back of his mind told him that it may have been happening for a while, and he wasn’t as good at covering his tracks as he thought. Then it hurt him a little, to think that if you did notice it that you didn’t bring it up to him. He pushed that thought aside quickly, deciding that you were far too good to keep something like that secret from him.

Nevermind that the gnawing feeling tried to convince him you were trying to trip him up.

As Bartolomeo laid in bed that night, after jacking off for the umpteenth time since he’d started stalking looking out for you, he worried at his lower lip, his teeth dangerously close to digging in and drawing blood. The solution was easy — just. Back up off the break-ins again.

Far easier said than done.

Meanwhile, your dreams about Bartolomeo ramped up in frequency. Sometimes he came to you as the beast-like creature, his mouth dripping with blood and drool. He always brought gifts, your tired mind’s way of accounting for the weight of a kitten on your chest. He’d so far brought a heart, a hand, and something that shifted between being a head and a liver. 

There was once when he appeared normal, grinning at you like he’d just seen the sun for the first time. It was a smile offset by the broken skin on his knuckles, and the red stains on his shirt and the cuffs of his jeans. It was arguably a more unsettling dream than the monster ones, as he then approached and talked to you like nothing was wrong.

And those were just the dreams where he wasn’t fucking you. Over the kitchen counter, on the couch, in your bed, in what your brain could only imagine as his bedroom. Always moaning “mine” in your ear and leaving bite marks on your shoulders. To your immense frustration, you always woke up before you came.

Apparently, the efforts you had made to try and prove his innocence weren’t enough for your nerves to settle down. You decided to try one more idea.

After much further deliberation, you had a plan. It was pay-day, but you already declined to go out for the usual drinks. You were texting Bartolomeo when he told you that, by some miracle, he didn’t have to work, and you were going to try something a little riskier. That morning you made sure Luffy’s gravity feeder had enough food and his water fountain was still running and full, so you knew he’d be okay by himself for a little longer than usual. Then, during your shift, you pulled Robin aside. After explaining the situation to her, with only the slightest bit of judgment that you didn’t come to her sooner about the part where you worried about a stalker in the first place (though she figured you had your reasons), she listened to your plan.

“I need you to hold on to my apartment keys.”

She nodded, holding her hand out. “What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to see if Barto’s tall enough to reach the fire escape.” You shuffled through your purse and handed them over. “If he can reach it and unlock my apartment from within, then that might be enough to prove he’s been breaking in this whole time.”

“What if he says no? Or it turns out he can’t reach it?”

“I’ll text you and ask if you can swing by the archives to get them when you guys are done with drinks.” You shrugged, blushing faintly as you added, “I’ll hang out with him until then.”

Robin considered for a moment, before nodding again and dropping your keys into her purse. “If he does agree to help, what’ll you do then?”

You paused, frowning. You hadn’t thought quite that far ahead.

Robin could sense as much, and gently took one of your hands. “If he does it, still text me. I’ll come get you and you can stay with me for a little while until we figure it out.”

You stared at her with wide eyes, then tears began to prickle in your periphery. Without much warning you hugged her. “Thanks, Robin.”

She laughed, lightly hugging you back. “You don’t have to thank me. If this will bring you peace of mind, I want to help you. Rooster’s been good to you, so I hope he’s not behind all this.” She then held you back by the shoulders and gave you a look that sent chills down your spine. “And if he is, I’ll castrate him.”

Bartolomeo heard loud cursing right after the elevator ding. He looked out the peephole to see you digging through your purse, cussing up a storm and bemoaning, “How the hell did I lose them?!”

He opened his door a crack and leaned out. “You good?”

You huffed, frowning. “No, I’m not. I can’t find my keys.”

“Oh, shit.” He fully stepped out and shut his door, trying to subtly lean over and see into your purse. “Where’d you last see them?”

“I don’t know,” you groaned. “I think I forgot them in my work locker. Fuck.”

He couldn’t see them either, not from the angle he had. “Maybe the landlord can let you in?”

“And risk him finding Luffy?”

“...you got me there.”

“So, short of breaking and entering, I’m not getting in until I find my keys.” You pulled out your phone and started texting, before you paused. “You wouldn’t happen to know how to lockpick, do you?”

He scratched the back of his neck. “I might. But it’ll risk messin’ up your lock and you’ll have to pay for a new key.”

“Damn,” you huffed, then eyed him up and down. “...Do you know where the fire escape is from the outside?”

He froze. “Uh—”

“Maybe you could climb up and get in for me? Open it from the inside?”

Fuck. Shit. Shit shit shit FUCK. Panic slithered through Bartolomeo’s veins, and he tried to look anywhere but your face. You were on to him. You had to be. Why else would you ask him this? No — no, this was innocent enough. You did say short of breaking in, so maybe you had — what was the word? an epiphany? — or whatever. But... if you were on to him, and he did as you asked, how long would he have before you left him high and dry? Or worse?! After all the work he’d put into knowing you — shit, he was taking too long to answer!

“I dunno,” he said. “Those ladders are pretty high off the ground. I’m pretty sure I can’t reach them.”

You deflated. “Well, how tall are you?”

He swallowed. “Seven-three.”

“Come on, that’s plenty tall enough!” You looked up at him with puppy eyes. “Please? Can’t you try?”

Bartolomeo almost cursed you for having such pretty eyes. How dare you use them against him like this? With every ounce of resistance he had, he shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. Even if I could, I don’t wanna break the window tryin’ to open it from the outside.”

You stared at him for several long seconds, your eyes searching his face. He really hoped you couldn’t see the sweat forming on his brow. Please stop lookin’ at me with those eyes. Please, please, please I’m beggin’ you.

You sighed, finally looking down. “Okay, fair enough.” You then returned to texting. “I’ll see if Robin can bring them to me. I think she has keys to the archives.”

He let out the breath he’d been holding, passing it off as a sigh of his own. Another few seconds and he would’ve broke. His mind then circled back around — you couldn’t be on to him. You just couldn’t be. And if you were, how was he going to gain back your trust?

“Shit,” you hissed. “That’s right, it’s pay-day. I wanted to skip out on drinks tonight, but Robin’s still going. She doesn’t know when she’ll get to the archives.”

After a moment, Bartolomeo realized the opportunity before him. Not only could he regain your trust, but maybe... just maybe... 

“You wanna hang out at my place for a bit?”

Chapter Text

Bartolomeo’s apartment layout was a mirror image of yours. The tidiness was anything but. While it was free of trash, likely thanks to the frantic clean-up he did before letting you in, it was still a bit of a disaster. The kitchen counter was overflowing with mail, some of it just empty envelopes. The pile was accompanied by a key tray filled with change, two lighters, and a set of keys joined together by a jolly roger keychain. Turning toward the living room area, you were greeted by the sight of various clothes scattered about. Some draped over the couch, others on the floor, while the majority was piled onto a battered armchair.

Then your gaze fell on Bartolomeo, who was scratching the back of his head as he picked up some of the discarded garments. “Sorry, it’s still pretty bad. I uh... I wasn’t expectin’ anyone over.”

You smirked. “You don’t strike me as the type to clean up for just anyone.”

As his skin flushed and he continued bundling clothes into his arms, you silenced the part of your brain that insisted he was the type to break into apartments. He was the one who offered to hang out after all, making it so you didn’t have to impose it upon him. If he really was the culprit, would he really risk letting you in where you could find evidence?

You let your eyes wander once more, this time landing on his TV stand. There were dust imprints from the consoles he had let you borrow, but he still had one on the bottom shelf with different games stacked beside it. To the left of his setup was a tall bookshelf with more games, and a few shelves of DVDs. Curious, you wandered over.

Bartolomeo was doing an exceptional job at not visibly freaking out. You were here. In his apartment. Alone with him. He wished it could have been better circumstances — if he’d had more time to prepare he would have better hidden his dirty clothes. And got his shit off the counter. Maybe even put clean sheets on his bed. You cooked for him, he could have probably made something for you. He wasn’t the best, but he could’ve made like... omelets. Those weren’t too hard. It was just a matter of not letting the fact you were finally in his apartment distract him.

He could do that. Easy. Totally. Definitely without burning the eggs.

He’d probably just end up burning the complex down instead, if the fact that he couldn’t stop staring at you was anything to go by. He nearly jumped out of his skin when you looked over your shoulder, catching him in the act. 

You giggled, “What? What are you looking at?”

Bartolomeo shook his head. “N-nothin’. You uh. You wanna watch something?”

You shrugged, returning your attention to the options. “I was just being nosy, but sure.” You then picked up Screamoff the shelf and stuck your tongue out at him, asking in your best gravelly voice, “What’s your favorite scary movie?”

A smile slowly crept across his face as tension rolled off his shoulders. He could do this.

After setting up the movie and a playful argument over who would pay for takeout (which Bartolomeo won, holding his phone out of reach with one hand and keeping you back with the other), you were next to one another on the couch. There was plenty of room to sit on opposite sides, but it somehow felt... right, sitting closer to him. You wondered if it was partially from guilt, and you wanted to be closer as a way of apologizing for your suspicion.

Deep down, however, you knew it was because despite that, despite being “just friends”, you still had it bad for him. You decided from the moment he was cleared of guilt to lean against that boundary, if only just a little.

For his part, Bartolomeo was trying to lean against it as well. The close proximity made his heart race, and he summoned up the courage to let an arm drape across the back of the couch, propping one ankle onto the opposite knee. The mere inches between his arm and your back was enough to send sparks through his nerves, and he resisted the urge to let his arm fall onto your shoulders. Not yet.

The hair on your neck stood, feeling his arm behind you. Slowly, you let yourself relax, the warmth radiating from him drawing you closer as you sank into the couch. When the food arrived you assumed he would retreat back into himself, but surprisingly no — he would lean forward for a bite, and every time he sat back his arm returned as well. Gradually, over the course of the film, you found yourself leaning even closer, your hand brushing against his leg.

Bartolomeo wasn’t entirely sure when his heartbeat became louder than the movie, but he knew it wasn’t from the rising tension on screen. He could feel you inching nearer, whether you meant to or not. He was determined not to make the same mistake he had before at the diner — if you were uncomfortable, he trusted you would correct yourself or say something. And if you did, this would be a rare moment that he’d get to be so close. At least while you were awake and aware.

By the time the movie was done, you were almost completely against him, your head near his shoulder and your hand pressed between your leg and his.

Both of you separated, faces beet red as Bartolomeo took the trash to the kitchen and you skittishly retrieved the DVD. You glanced over your shoulder before pulling out your phone and quickly texting Robin,

“Any chance you can bring my keys tomorrow morning?”

The response came quickly, “Having fun?”

“Maybe? We’re watching movies. He almost had his arm around me.

“Even if it doesn’t... go anywhere. I might just crash on his couch.”

Another moment passed, then, “Tomorrow works.

“Don’t do anything you’re not comfortable with. Call if it changes.

“Have fun~”

Your heart skipped a beat. Hopefully you would, if you weren’t misreading things this time. Even if it meant you had to be the one to make the move.

Bartolomeo took in a deep breath, leaning against the kitchen counter. This was agony. It was nice, receiving the light physical contact that he did, but the pain of leaving things unspoken much longer was going to kill him. If he didn’t do something now, he never would, and he would spend who knows how long pining, and watching, and following, and breaking in...

And doing anything to keep other people from having you.

He took another deep breath, straightened his back, and turned around. Now or never.

“Well, Robin won’t be able to get my keys until tomorrow morning,” you sighed, turning your attention back to the DVD shelf. “Anything you wanna watch?”

He stepped out of the kitchen, feeling his heart beat heavier with each step toward you. “Nah, you’re the guest. You pick.”

You shrugged, running a finger along the titles, lingering on a few — Boondock Saints, Pirates of the Caribbean, Jaws — before pulling out Silence of the Lambs to read the summary. Half way through, you felt a warmth against your back.

Bartolomeo’s chest rose and fell as he wrapped his arms around your waist, bending just a bit to press his head to the top of yours. “Been thinkin’ lately. About you.”

You let out a shuddering breath, your heart racing. “W-what about me?”

His hold tightened, pulling you closer to him. “How I’ve been wantin’ to hold you like this for a while now.”

You gently put one hand on his forearm, swallowing. “How long?”

You felt his chest heave again and his breath huffed down your neck. “Since we got to talkin’, back when you first moved in.”

The movie case slipped from your hold and clattered to the floor. This whole time? As long as you have? Little moments began to creep into your mind. The way he seemed to flush at the slightest contact with you. How frequently he took time out of his day to talk to you. Every time he called you “sweetheart”. And then the bigger things — the creep at the bar and the jerk who harassed you on the train. Bartolomeo had gone out of his way to protect you. And when you were stood up by Cavendish, he was there to comfort you.

You suddenly felt ridiculous for having misread the signs.

Slowly, you managed to turn in his hold, his forehead now pressed to yours. His eyes bore into you, amber irises like crackling flames. Unable to stop their trembling, you lifted your hands to either side of his face, your thumbs stroking his cheeks as you tried to calm your rapidly increasing heart rate. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I dunno. Guess I was nervous. You’re so... you’re so cute. And good. And soft.” He averted his gaze, his cheeks turning warmer. “And I’m not any of those things.”

“Barto...” You tried to lean into his line of sight. “You’re definitely cute — you’re helping me harbor a cat, and I hear how you talk to him.” Your thumb traced the lines of his face tattoo. “You made a creep drug himself and punched some jerkwad’s lights out for me. If that’s not good, I don’t know what is.”

He cracked a lopsided grin. “Still not soft.”

“You don’t have to be.” You brushed your thumbs over his cheeks again. “Look at me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

He swallowed the thick lump in his throat. “I’ve been holdin’ back for a long time. Now you’re here, and I like holdin’ ya like this, and I don’t wanna ruin it.”

“How could you ruin it?”

The flames in Bartolomeo’s eyes flickered as he finally looked at you. “...’cause I wanna ruin you.”

Your heart fluttered, a sensation that rapidly descended to your stomach, then swelled to an ache between your thighs. With a deep breath to steady yourself, filled with confidence now knowing the truth, you were going to do what you had been wanting to since you met him.

Your hands moved behind his neck as you lifted yourself on your toes to kiss him.

His teeth made it a tad awkward at first, but after a moment, when he realized what was going on, he began kissing back — then his mouth fit perfectly against yours. He moved his hands to your hips, his grip almost too tight, and you felt his tongue push against your lips. You gladly granted access, both of you sighing between each other’s mouths as he slid inside. You let out a soft moan that ended in a squeak as he pressed his teeth into your lower lip. He then abruptly pulled away, leaving you dizzy and breathless as he leaned down and began placing soft kisses all down your neck, in between each one breathing out “please”.

Your core ached a little harder as you lifted one hand to thread it into his hair, the locks silky between your fingers. After he nipped at where your neck met your shoulder, you pulled at the base of his scalp, leaning into his ear.

“I want you to ruin me.”

You were swept up into his arms before you could utter another syllable.

With a startled shout you held tight to his shoulders as Bartolomeo carried you to his room, stealing another heated kiss from you, and another, and another, before he lowered you onto the edge of his bed. Your pants were gone all too quickly and discarded somewhere in the room as he sank to his knees between your legs, trailing more kisses down your right thigh, then the left, before nipping at the underside of your knee.

“I’ve wanted you so fuckin’ badly,” he sighed as he peppered more kisses on your skin.

You nodded, breathless. “I’ve wanted you, too.”

Bartolomeo’s heart clenched and he looked away, his voice wavering. “Don’t — don’t go sayin’ that if you don’t mean it.”

“I mean it.” You tangled your fingers in his hair and tipped his head back. “I’ve wanted you since we met.”

You could swear you saw his eyes water, and he lifted your legs over his shoulders, kissing your thighs again. “Please, please, please let me have you.”

Another flutter in your chest shot right down to your loins. “I’m yours.”

A soft moan rolled through his chest and he bit down on one thigh, making you throw your head back and cry out. He sucked on the skin there, his teeth pressing into the soft flesh and threatening to puncture, the sharp pain of a forming bruise sending pleasurable shocks through your nerves. When he finally let go, a dark hickey was left behind, trailed by a string of saliva and just the faintest bit of blood where his teeth managed to break through.

Bartolomeo then spread your legs just a bit further, stroking one thumb against your covered folds, his eyes shining in the dark room. “I’m gonna take good care of you.”

You giggled, “You talking to me or my cunt?”

His gaze flicked up to yours, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Both.”

The responding laugh quickly melted into a heady moan, your eyes fluttering shut as Bartolomeo ran his tongue over the outside of your panties. The barrier between his mouth and your core was torturously thin, the warmth and wetness of his tongue seeping through the fabric and mixing with yours. You felt the tip nudge against your clit, making you shudder and whine. He repeated the action, going slower and pushing harder against the fabric, just barely teasing your entrance.

Your grip on his hair tightened and he groaned, looking up at you. He only paused for a moment, before he pulled the fabric of your underwear aside and gave another long, languid lick to your folds. You bit back a shrill whine, falling back against the bed and holding his head with both hands, rolling your hips to meet each stroke and shivering every time the tip caught the edge of your entrance or pressed against your clit.

Bartolomeo relented, placing kisses along your hips and letting your legs drop from his shoulders. Agonizingly slow, he dragged your underwear off, his eyes flicking between your blissful face and the sight of the warm, dripping pussy before him. He could hardly believe this was happening — part of him was terrified he’d wake up and everything that had happened up to this point would be a dream. But the feel of your soft thighs in his hands, the smell of your slick, the dark hickey he left on your skin, all of it reassured him this was real. You were real. And you were right there for the taking.

He dove right back in, pushing your knees further apart as he devoured your cunt. His fangs dragged against your outer folds while he caught your clit on his front teeth, the sharp edges drawing forth a scream from you as your hips jerked upward. He lifted your legs over his shoulders again and held your hips down to the bed, pinning you in place as he teased the sensitive bud.

After letting loose another scream, you brought one hand to your face, biting your knuckle to keep from being too loud. A smart move, given you nearly screamed again when his tongue slid inside of you, his nose and the cold metal of his septum ring taking its place near your clit. With every arch of your hips, his grip seemed to get tighter, pressing you down more firmly to the mattress as he continued his onslaught, occasionally circling his tongue around the rim of your entrance before slipping right back inside.

Bartolomeo looked up after a particularly hard twitch of your hips, seeing you biting your knuckle. He growled softly, an action that sent pleasurable ripples up your spine, before pulling away, trailing wet kisses up over your hips and stomach. Stopping just above your navel, he released your hips to reach up and pull your hand away, pushing himself up onto the bed to straddle you. As he pinned your wrist beside your head, he took your chin in the other hand, looking down into your lust-hazed eyes with a mix of adoration and danger.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice low, his grip on your wrist flexing. “I wanna hear you.” He then leaned down to your ear, continuing, “I want everyone for miles to know you’re my girl.”

You couldn’t help the sharp whine in your voice, “Barto, please.”

He chuckled, nuzzling your cheek. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

His nickname for you took on a whole new meaning, knowing how he’d meant it, hearing it in that husky tone. With a shuddering breath you said, “More.”

He released your wrist. “Sit up against the headboard.”

You nodded, scooting yourself backwards and upright, taking his face in your hands to kiss him again. He responded in kind, his mouth covering yours as he again slid his tongue past your lips, and you tasted yourself on him. You were so occupied with the kiss that you hardly noticed the hand drifting down between your thighs until his fingers circled your clit, making you throw your head back again with a needy cry. Electricity fired through every fiber of your being, your hips arching up to meet his hand and attempting to grind against it. All the while he kissed down your neck and shoulder, leaving soft bites in his wake and dragging his teeth across your skin.

It was only when your hands fell to his shoulders that you realized Bartolomeo was, annoyingly, still clothed. With a frustrated groan you pulled at his shirt, tugging it up to expose his midriff. 

A low laugh reverberated in his chest and he kissed your cheek. “Relax, sweetheart. I get it.”

He removed his fingers from your folds and sat back on his knees, towering over you as he slowly pulled his shirt over his head. Your heart leapt to your throat, your gaze drifting from the tattoo on his toned chest down to the dusting of happy trail peeking out from his jeans. All too eager to respond in kind, you whipped your own shirt off and tossed it aside, before pausing to make eye contact. His eyes were wide, watching you with utter fascination as you slowly unhooked your bra and let it slide off your shoulders, finally fully naked before him.

He looked you up and down, his Adam’s apple bobbing and his eyes getting misty again. “Fuck... you’re beautiful.” He nearly collapsed on top of you as he buried his face in your neck, breathing in your scent. “How’d I get to be so lucky?”

You giggled, threading your fingers in his hair. You both would’ve been luckier if you’d known sooner, you thought. If either of you had actually said anything, maybe you could have been coming home to this every day for the past few months.

You could come home to it every day from now on.

With a desperate groan Bartolomeo shoved his jeans and boxers down his hips, kicking them off the bed as he pulled you down by the waist to lay fully flat against the mattress. He cradled your face in his hands and kissed you again, smothering you with more as he covered your cheeks and trailed them down your neck, each one gracing you with little scratches as his fangs caught your flesh. You dragged your nails down his back and he responded with a guttural moan, his hips bucking and pressing his length against you as a result. You gasped at the heated contact, looking down between your bodies.

Oh shit. He really was long. You couldn’t resist reaching down and taking his shaft in your hand, sighing at the weight and velvety feel. 

Bartolomeo let out a choked gasp, his eyes widening before squeezing shut as he bit down hard on his lip. Fuck, fuck your hand felt so much better than his, so small and soft in comparison. You gave him a squeeze and he practically yelped, burying his face in your chest to stifle the sound.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he whined, rolling his hips forward and making his cock slide in your hand. “You feel so good.”

You stroked along his length, the resulting moan from him vibrating your ribcage. You lifted your hips, pressing his cock between your body and hand, crooning, “You’re supposed to say that after you start fucking me.”

He smiled and lifted his head, caressing your cheek with the side of his hand. “Anything for you, sweetheart.”

His other hand covered yours and helped guide himself down, slowly sliding along your slick folds. The pressure of his length against your core was torment, making you ache with each teasing stroke. You lifted your hips again, trying to catch the head of his cock on the opening of your cunt, whimpering with each attempt.

Bartolomeo bit his lip again, hard enough to draw blood. It was taking every ounce of restraint he had not to shove into you — he wanted to savor this moment, knowing you were as desperate for him as he was for you, drinking in every needy whine and frustrated rake of your nails on his arms and back. But he was also so much bigger than you... he thought he’d be fine girth-wise, but length? He’d likely bottom out before you even reached the base.

“Barto,” you groaned, digging your nails into his back, “stop teasing and fuck me.”

“Ohh, shit.” He slowed his hips, lining up his head with your opening. “Say that again.”

You put your hands on either side of his face, looking into his fiery eyes. “Fuck me, Bartolomeo. Please.”

“That’s my girl.”

With that, he plunged his cock inside.

Your scream caught in your throat, the burning stretch of your walls a sweet relief from the torture. He pushed in slow, inch by blissful inch, stopping just shy of your cervix. For a moment, you both stayed there, adjusting to each other and staring into one another’s eyes. Bartolomeo then pulled his hips back, then snapped them forward again, pushing in as far as he could go. He was right — he wouldn’t fit to the hilt. But he was going to be damn sure to enjoy as much he was able to drive in to the fullest.

The next thrust sent spots scattering into your vision, and you finally let out the scream trapped in your chest, clenching tight around him. His groaning grew almost feral as he picked up speed, once more burying his face in your neck and biting. You shrieked, unsure if the sharp pain was him sucking at the skin or his teeth breaking through it, but combined with the feeling of his dick bullying its way as deep as it could go, you were more than willing to endure anything he decided to do with you. Even if it meant letting him eat you whole.

Bartolomeo let go of your neck with a satisfying pop , laving over the dark bruise he left behind and tasting the traces of blood there. His hips stuttered — shit, he hurt you... you tasted so much better than he ever dreamed — but he couldn’t stop. From how tight you became when he released his bite, you weren’t letting go of his shaft any time soon, regardless. Good. He needed this. He needed you.

“Mine,” he rasped, his thrusts becoming more erratic.

You whimpered, your eyes watering as you met each thrust, hooking your legs around his waist to draw him in as deep as he could go. Your name fell from his lips with every thrust like a prayer, occasionally broken by the deep husk of “mine”.

The tension in your gut finally snapped and you saw white, screaming Bartolomeo’s name in his ear as you held tight, your cunt spasming around him. Fire flooded your veins, spreading across your back and down again through your legs. He wasn’t far behind, his prayer devolving, “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

He abruptly pulled out, his orgasm ripping through him like lightning as he came, his seed spilling over your stomach and thighs. He quickly sat upright and took hold of his cock, pumping out the last of it onto your mound, unable to stop a bit of drool from dripping down his chin onto you. You whined and writhed beneath him from the sudden loss of contact, but in hindsight it was for the better, considering neither of you had protection.

Panting, Bartolomeo collapsed beside you, one arm draped over your chest and pulling you close as he peppered your face with kisses. Breathless, you returned some of them, struggling to keep up in the post orgasm haze, but relishing every time your mouths connected. 

After a few more placed to your forehead, he shakily stood from the bed, holding your face in his hands.

“Stay here,” he muttered, giving your cheeks a soft squeeze. “Please — please stay right here.”

You laughed, taking hold of his wrists. “I’m not going anywhere.”

This time he couldn’t help it. A few tears slid down his face and he kissed your forehead again before parting and rushing to the bathroom. He nearly tripped running back with a hand towel, truly terrified that you weren’t going to be there, that you’d fade away. But there you were, splayed out on the bed with your eyes closed, a pretty smile on your face.

When you opened your eyes and directed that smile at him, he melted, crawling atop the mattress to kiss you again as he slowly wiped away the mess he made on you. You sighed, letting yourself relax as he cleaned.

Once he was done he pulled his bedsheets over you both, staring down at you with wide, watery eyes. You couldn’t help but laugh again, stroking your thumbs over his slightly dampened cheeks. “Everything okay?”

Bartolomeo couldn’t stop the words if he tried. “I love you.”

Your heart skipped a beat, and you saw your smile reflected in his eyes. “I love you, too.”

He pulled you close to his chest as you fell asleep, holding you as tight as he could without hurting you.

He was yours.

You were his.

Finally.

You awoke to find you and Bartolomeo lying diagonally across his bed, with him holding you close to his chest. His teddy bear he didn’t want falling off. You let out a content sigh, at first tempted to snuggle down closer and enjoy the heat radiating from him.

Unfortunately, your bladder demanded release, and his hold was just a little too firm to wriggle your way out of.

“Barto?”

He hummed, burying his face into your hair.

“Barto, I need to pee.”

He sighed, his breath tickling your neck as he muttered, “So go pee.”

You snorted, tugging at the arms around you. “Kinda need you to let me go first.”

“Don’t wanna.”

“You’d rather I pee the bed?”

He nuzzled the shell of your ear, purring, “Sounds kinky.”

“Eugh, gross !” you laughed, now squirming desperately to get out of his hold. “Not even remotely appealing!”

He chuckled and lifted one arm to release you. “Go piss, girl.”

It took an embarrassing amount of effort not to laugh too hard as you ran across the hall to the bathroom. When you returned, Bartolomeo was sitting on the edge of the bed, the blanket half-draped over his lap doing little to disguise his morning wood. Sunlight managed to peek through the curtains, outlining him in a warm glow. His hair was a mess, half of it hanging over his face until he pushed it back with a yawn. When his eyes met yours, he smiled. Even with his fangs, the expression was soft, and brimmed with adoration.

How did you ever think he didn’t love you?

You smiled back and moved to stand between his knees. He took your hands in his, rubbing his thumbs over them before he suddenly laid back, pulling you down with him. You squealed, giggling as he began peppering your face with kisses, trailing them down your neck and back up again. You pushed against him, fighting to sit back upright, but his arms kept you close, denying you relief from the onslaught of affection. He barely left enough room for himself to speak between kisses.

“I wanna—” chu “—spend every day—” chu “—just like this.—” chu “—Don’t wanna—” chu “—spend—” chu “—a single—” chu “—second—” chu “—without you.”

After a few more kisses, Bartolomeo paused, then sighed. “Now I gotta piss.”

“Guess you’re gonna have to spend just a few more seconds without me.” You kissed along his jawline. “Think you’ll survive?”

“I guess,” he whined, giving you one more squeeze before getting up. He gave you a wide, almost dopey smile at you over his shoulder as he left, then leaned back into the doorway and quickly said, “Stay right there. Gonna be right back.”

Another giggle bubbled forth from you as he darted off. With a happy sigh you shifted on the bed to lay on it properly, one hand slipping underneath his pillows. Your palm touched a different fabric than the pillow case, and your curiosity piqued. Curling your fingers you rolled onto your back and pulled the mystery fabric out, holding it over your head.

A small, light purple t-shirt, with the words “Bite Me” across the front in black, drippy font.

The bed fell out from beneath you. Everything in your periphery melted away. You sat upright, sliding your legs off the bed as you stared at the shirt in your hands. Your shirt. The one you lost not long after moving in. And it smelled like your perfume. How did it smell like your perfume? The shirt had been missing for months, it shouldn’t have still smelled like you.

Your stomach lurched. The world around you began to spin just a little too fast as a horrible chill crept up your spine. Movement out of the corner of your eye drew your attention to the door.

Bartolomeo was standing at the threshold, still as stone.

Swallowing the lump in your throat, you asked a question you already knew the answer to.

“Why do you have my shirt?”

Chapter Text

Bartolomeo was silent for a long time, staring between you and the shirt in your hand. Of course. Of all the things to forget about in the heat of the moment. Now you had it, and everything he ever wanted was going to come crashing down around him.

Fuck.

“Barto,” you pressed, “how long have you had my shirt?”

He leaned against the doorframe, avoiding eye contact. After a long moment he swallowed the lump in his throat and answered, “Few months.”

You abruptly stood from the bed, getting directly in front of him and forcing yourself into his line of sight. “It was you. This whole time. And you had me thinking it wasn’t.” Your eyes began to water. “What the fuck, Barto?! What else have you stolen?!”

He would have flinched, were he not distracted by the fact that you looked hotter when you were angry. The thought was enough to make him flush as he confessed, “A few things.”

You groaned and buried your face in your hands, once more catching a whiff of strawberries and vanilla on your stolen shirt. “My fucking perfume. What the hell did you do — steal that and put it back every time?”

“No! Just. Just once...” His eyes flicked to his dresser, where the new bottle was hidden in the top drawer. “Then... I bought my own.”

“Oh, well that makes it so much better.”

“Sweetheart—”

“Don’t,” you huffed. “Just don’t. I need...”

You paused, biting your lip. What did you need? Time? To do what exactly — think about how the guy you’d been crushing on was stalking you like you feared? You should be calling someone about this, not hesitating!

Bartolomeo’s chest felt like it was about to burst. He’d been ignoring it, but on some level he’d known it was inevitable that if you got together, you would discover what he had done. He convinced himself he could make it okay, give you his perspective on it, but he never thought that the need to do that would come before you even had a chance to go through the honeymoon phase. Slowly, he reached out and put his hands on your shoulders, the slightest bit of relief easing the chest pain when you didn’t try to pull away.

“Sweetheart,” he said again, “I already told you... All that stuff about you bein’ good, and soft, how I’m none of that—”

“Barto,” you interrupted, running a frustrated hand through your hair, “you realize that nothing you could say about this is going to make it okay. You broke into my room. You stole my stuff. You followed me home!” You paused, then gasped, taking a step back. “Did you have something to do with Cavendish not showing?!”

He shrank back, letting go of you and once again avoiding eye contact. “I might’ve... busted his car a little. And his ribs.”

You took another step back, shaking your head before starting to pick your clothes up from the floor.

He began to panic. “Wait — what are you doing?”

“Putting on clothes,” you sighed. “I can’t keep having this conversation naked.”

You paced the floor of Bartolomeo’s living room, running a hand through your hair while he watched trepidatiously from the couch. He’d confessed extensively, further adding to his earlier list of admissions. Laying in your bed, watching you sleep, hunting down Cavendish — he even admitted that after the man from the bar roofied himself, he followed him out and stabbed his hand.

(You would never admit out loud that you were thrilled by the idea of Bartolomeo beating creeps to a bloody pulp like some unhinged vigilante.)

With a heavy sigh you stopped in front of him, your arms folded. “I’m not gonna tell anyone about what you did.”

Bartolomeo straightened up slightly. “Really?”

“But,” you continued, “you’re gonna give me my stuff back.”

He nodded, just relieved that you weren’t immediately ditching him. “You got it.”

“I don’t have the funds to move right now, so I’m still living across the hall for the foreseeable future.” You took a step closer. “If you ever break into my apartment again, I will call the cops.”

He nodded again, and you took it as a small victory. If you were being honest with yourself, you weren’t sure you could make good on that threat. A tiny part of you felt guilty at the thought of having him arrested, but you couldn’t afford to let him see through you.

You let out another heavy sigh, your posture relaxing slightly. “What were you thinking, Barto? Why didn’t you say something from the start?”

Bartolomeo ran a hand through his hair, his face flushed. “I-I dunno... it’s like I said. You’re so good, and normally people who go around lookin’ and actin’ like you don’t talk to people like me. I ain’t ever really... fell for anyone before, and I couldn’t help myself from doin’ stuff that was wrong. Then when you said we were friends, I got scared that maybe you’d never see me the way I saw you.” He kept his gaze downward, the flush spreading down his neck and shoulders. “I started clingin’ to what I could just to feel close to ya.”

Your heart lurched at the confession, and you smothered the urge to let out a soft “aww”. That should not have been cute — how the hell did he manage to twist what he did into something that sounded so innocent?

You cleared your throat, holding your ground. “I don’t know that I can just forgive you for this. You know that, right?”

Bartolomeo seemed to shrink into himself. Yes, he’d known that was a possibility. Did he ever want to admit that? Absolutely not.

“We’re back to just neighbors,” you finally said. “I don’t care if we say ‘hi’ or whatever, but I’m not talking to you until I’m ready to be friends again. If I’m ready.” You hated that you were giving him hope, but you were kidding yourself if you thought you’d be able to keep yourself from peeking over the walls you were building.

He nodded in a way that betrayed his restrained eagerness. “You got it. Just neighbors.”

With another long look and one final sigh, you texted Robin for your keys.

The days passed by painfully slow. Routine made them bleed into weeks, and before you knew it, two months had gone by.

You occasionally caught Bartolomeo peeking out of his door whenever you got off the elevator. You could tolerate that.

He would hold the building door open for you whenever he happened (“happened”) to be there. You decided you could tolerate that, too.

When the landlord came around with suspicions about Luffy’s existence again, he was there, looming across the hall. And when you could no longer deny that yes, you had a cat, Bartolomeo’s presence kept the landlord from charging backpay. The moment the coast was clear, he quickly retreated, blushing all the way up to his ears.

Try as you might to resist the urge, you ended up leaving a bag of cookies in front of his door as thanks.

Shortly after, packages you ordered ended up at your door instead of the front desk. Sometimes there were flowers that were clearly picked from some poor soul’s window box. You’d wake up or come home to find a few dollars had been slipped under your door, with notes reading “subway”, “cat food”, and “drinks”.

You probably shouldn’t have tolerated that.

Bartolomeo eventually gained enough courage to greet you one morning as you were leaving for work. You gave him a small nod, and he blushed, quickly stepping back into his apartment. He took it as a sign that he could at least do that much, letting out a sheepish “hey” or “morning” whenever he saw you. Soon it grew into asking how you were, to which you didn’t answer with more than a shrug or a “fine”, despite wanting to answer with more. You found you had missed talking to him, but you were doing your best to stand firm.

Your resolve was tested further when he started having one-sided conversations with you. He’d tell you about his day, about how he heard Luffy running around, how Gambia was doing, almost like whatever came to mind he had to get out of his head just so he could spend more time talking to you. You kept your responses short, if you responded at all, though you struggled to hide your smile and stifle laughter.

You’d given him the inch. It was all he needed to pry his way back in.

The signs Bartolomeo was breaking in again slowly but surely returned. Rumpled bedsheets, haphazardly closed drawers, debris by the window. It made your stomach turn, but your chest fluttered. You shouldn’t have been so tolerant. It was only a matter of time, after all, and you should have kept to your word and put your foot down.

But you missed him. You found yourself lying awake longer at night, watching your window as you fell asleep. You would sit on your bed and look over the slightly untidied sheets and wonder why Bartolomeo didn’t just pull the pillows off and sit with them on the floor. Luffy’s treat bag wouldn’t be closed all the way and you were tempted to scold him for leaving it open, or for giving Luffy treats in the first place, instead of getting furious that he was in the apartment to start with.

It took some time, but you finally caught him.

You’d been curled up under your bedsheets, watching the window, when you saw a familiar silhouette take up his post on the fire escape. He had his back to the room, leaning his head back against the pane. Quietly, you crawled out of bed and across the floor, and tapped on the window.

Bartolomeo jumped up, ready to flee down the stairs, before you pushed the window open and grabbed the edge of his fur-lined vest, staring up into his fiery eyes.

“Stay.”

It had been two months since you’d said something first.

Bartolomeo blinked, then let you pull him into the bedroom. You took him by the wrists, gently guiding him to the bed before pushing him down onto it, crawling on top of him and pinning his hands down to either side of his head. He gave in with surprising ease, a mixture of shock and anticipation on his face as you started running your hands up and down his forearms.

“What were you going to do out there?” you asked, your voice low.

He swallowed, his eyes flicking back and forth as he struggled to focus on yours. “I was... going to watch you sleep.”

You couldn’t help the soft “tch” that left your lips. “Course you were. Just watching, right?”

He nodded frantically, his face turning redder by the second. “Yeah, just watching. I swear.”

Your hands drifted lower, ghosting his vest’s fur lining. “You weren’t planning on breaking in like you have been? After I’ve already told you to stop?”

All the color that had crept into his face immediately drained. He shook his head, “I wasn’t — I just — ...I really tried —”

“Barto?”

He swallowed. “Yeah?”

You put your hands on either side of his face, lifting it to meet yours. “Shut up.”

His eyes went wide before he nodded.

You released his head, letting it drop back down on the pillow with a satisfying whumpf. You returned to letting your hands wander downward, eventually reaching the hem of his shirt. “I should be calling the cops on you and kicking your ass right now. You know that, right?”

You felt his chest heave. “Why aren’t you?”

You shrugged, rolling his shirt up. “I’m still debating.”

A dusting of green hair was exposed at his waist line. As you traced a finger over it, Bartolomeo said, “What do I gotta do to convince you not to?”

Your eyes snapped to his. “Shut up and let me fuck you.”

Color returned to his face with a vengeance. Your hands slid lower, ghosting your fingers along the waistband of his ratty jeans before undoing them. When you tugged at them, he lifted his hips, but you didn’t pull them off all the way, stopping when they were just below the curve of his ass. You then brushed your hand over the obvious bulge in his boxers.

It was at that moment, with how easily he was complying, that you realized how much power you really had over Bartolomeo. He might’ve been the one stalking you and violently hurting people to keep them away, but you could probably step on him and he’d thank you. You could pull his hair, punch him in the gut, probably even kick him where it’d really, really hurt, and he’d still come crawling after you. It might even encourage him.

Maybe he was just as masochistic as you were, for letting him get away with his antics.

You broke the silence with a harsh, “You’re a real freak, you know that?”

Bartolomeo only whimpered in response.

Power thrummed under your fingers as you started fondling him through his boxers. “You start pining after a girl, and your first instinct is to start stalking her.” You gave him a light squeeze, barely even a twitch of your muscles, and his breath hitched. “How much did it hurt not knowing if I returned your feelings?”

He only whimpered again, his body starting to shiver under your touch.

You squeezed a little harder. “Answer me, Barto.”

“Badly,” he choked out, as if he’d been holding his breath from the moment you started touching him.

You hummed, rubbing him a little harder. “How long do you think you could have kept it up?”

He swallowed, trying to look anywhere but your eyes. “I-I dunno.”

Your grip on him tightened and he grunted, his hips bucking. You continued, “You ever jerk off into my shirt? The one you stole?”

Bartolomeo frantically shook his head. “No, not — not really — I mean —”

It was then that he finally met your gaze, and he froze. Was this a trap? He didn’t want to answer, but something about the look in your eyes dissuaded him from keeping the truth to himself. 

“I smelled it while jackin’ off.”

You nodded, loosening your hold. “You ever think of me?”

He moaned, rolling his eyes back. “Couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you.”

“You ever think about stealing my panties?”

“Y-yeah.”

“Would you have jerked off with those?”

“...yeah.”

You abruptly let go of his cock. The high-pitched groan that came from Bartolomeo made you shudder as you said, “What if I tried to go on another date? What would you have done to them?”

His eyes widened. “Wha—”

“You heard me,” you cut him off. “Would you have tracked them down and hurt them, too?”

After a moment of struggling to find his words, he finally said, “Yes.”

You put your hand back over his groin, lightly tracing a finger along the concealed length. “That guy from the train. What would you have done if he’d managed to hurt me?”

He clenched his fists around the bedsheets. “Y-you don’t really wanna know that.”

“I do,” you said, now tugging his cock free from his boxers and ghosting your fingers over the head, leaking with precum. “I want you to confess to all the depraved shit you’ve been thinking since you met me. I want to know how far you would’ve gone before you couldn’t take it anymore.”

Bartolomeo stared up at you for a long moment, his heart pounding. This had to be a dream. There was no way you were indulging him like this for real. On top of him, making demands, tormenting him like this. He’d hit his head on one of the ladder rungs and this was an unconscious fantasy. That was the only explanation for the twisted web of paradise and damnation he was currently caught in.

Still, this fantasy version of you was glowering down at him, one hand teasing his cock and starting to pull away. He couldn’t stop himself from grabbing your wrist to keep you there, and you flinched, but otherwise kept your steely gaze on him.

The message was clear. He had to answer, or you’d stop.

And Bartolomeo really didn’t want this dream to end.

“That shitstain would’ve been dead,” he growled. “Nobody hurts what’s mine.”

You smirked and swatted his hand away, returning yours to the head of his cock. “Good answer.”

You resumed with languidly stroking him, watching as his eyes rolled back and he struggled to keep them open. For the most part you kept your pace even, occasionally spitting on him to keep him sufficiently lubricated. He let out a long, obscene groan, throwing an arm over his eyes, whimpering your name. “Please...”

A shiver shot through you. After everything he put you through, knowing the violence he was capable of — hearing him start to crumble beneath you was immensely satisfying. “Please what?”

“Stop teasin’,” he groaned, his cock twitching in your hand. “I need you... so bad...”

“You need me, huh?” You slowed down, making him whine. “Beg for me, then.”

Bartolomeo’s eyes snapped back to meet your gaze, his pupils dilating until his irises were thin amber rings. His mouth went dry as he found himself unable to do anything except stare at you looming over him. After an eternity had passed, and he was positive he heard you correctly, he propped himself up on his elbows. 

With flushed cheeks and a look that made you think he might cry, he said, “Please, sweetheart. I’ll do anything.”

You stopped, tilting your head. “Anything?”

He nodded, gaze flicking back and forth as he tried to focus on yours, his tongue darting out between his teeth.

You gently pushed him back into laying down, finally shimmying out of your shorts and underwear. You held yourself over his cock, keeping one hand on him to guide him inside, but not yet. 

“Beg.”

His voice strained, “Please, please, please— I need you. I need to be inside you—”

“Just inside me?”

“Around you, with you, part of you —” his hands started gripping your waist to try and pull you down onto him. “I’ll be your slave if you ask me, just please—”

You gave in, spearing yourself on his cock and relishing in the sudden guttural moan it elicited from him. You slowly sank down onto his length, unable to stop the whine once you felt like it wouldn’t go any further. You felt his nails dig into your skin — you wouldn’t be surprised if his grip left bruises to find in the morning.

“Ohh, fuck,” he groaned. “Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

“Shut up,” you snapped, “and start fucking me.”

Bartolomeo bit his lip and obeyed, lifting you by the waist to slide himself out, then pulling you back down onto his shaft. You whined again as he stopped just shy of pushing himself entirely inside you, savoring being pushed to your very limit. He repeated the motion, moving you with such ease it had you reeling for a moment. You steadied yourself by putting your hands on his chest, your fingers slipping into the fur lining of his vest. Another thrust and you weren’t able to stifle your moans, stuttering with each push inside you.

“My girl,” he growled, lifting his hips as he pulled you down. “Mine.”

A giggle escaped you in between moans. He could claim that all he wanted, but all things considered, it was you who had him wrapped around your finger. Current physical positions notwithstanding.

Heat began coiling in your core, and your hips started moving of their own accord, rolling in sync with every push and pull of his hands. Bartolomeo let go of one side to bring his hand up to your face, caressing your cheek. His eyes were blown so wide you couldn’t see the amber anymore, leaving behind a mixture of lust and adoration in their depths. He started moving you faster, the hand on your cheek moving into your hair and pulling you closer down to him. Your chest now within range, he started placing kisses on your shoulders and between the valley of your breasts. He circled his tongue around each nipple before latching onto one, rolling the sensitive bud between his sharp teeth. You let out a keening moan, your hands tightening into fists in the synthetic fur as you struggled to keep pace with him.

“Mine,” he growled again around your breast, his teeth threatening to pierce flesh as he frantically increased his pace.

You groaned, sitting up and pulling free of his bite, moving your hands to either side of his face. “That’s it, Barto. So good for me.”

Bartolomeo’s pace faltered for just a moment. “Y-yeah?”

You nodded, kissing his forehead. “Good boy.”

The responding guttural groan sent a shudder down your spine, and he pushed himself into an upright position, making you grind yourself along his length as he continued to thrust up into you.

You cussed harshly, allowing him to take over completely and fuck up into you like his own personal fleshlight. You latched onto his response, encouraging him further. “That’s it, Barto. Be a good boy and cum for me.”

He choked, eyes wide. “O-on you? Like this?”

You shook your head, running one thumb along his lip. “In me.”

“R-really—?”

“What?” you panted, sticking your thumb in his mouth and pulling at the corner, revealing more of his sharp fangs. “Don’t act like you’ve never thought of breeding me, fucking stalker.”

He moaned, his tongue chasing after your thumb as you removed it from his mouth. He hadn’t thought of it, not until the moment you said it. His desperation to please you however had him all too willing to accept the thought as his own, and he flipped both of you over, throwing your legs over his shoulders and folding you in half beneath him. 

You screamed at the now impossible speed he moved, your hands tangling in his hair as the knot building in your loins started unraveling. You cried out his name over and over, barely aware of him growling out yours in your ear until he slammed into you one final time, biting down on your shoulder to keep himself from crying out.

You both came crashing down from your ecstacy, tangled up in one another, panting and sweating and reeling from the whole ordeal. Eventually, and with no small amount of hesitation, Bartolomeo pulled himself out, pulling you as close to him as he possibly could as he lay himself beside you. As you slowly caught your breath, you curled into his embrace, allowing him to almost envelope you as the afterglow began to settle.

A moment passed in silence, before Bartolomeo muttered into your hair, “I love you. I don’t ever wanna let you go."

“...I love you, too,” you finally responded. Before adding, “Stop feeding Luffy treats.”

Bartolomeo thought his heart would burst from his chest, and he proceeded to cuddle you even closer. You let out a deep breath through your nose. You really shouldn’t have encouraged him, and you really shouldn’t have indulged yourself.

That didn’t stop you from smiling as you fell asleep in his arms.

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Of all things Bartolomeo could have forgotten about. He’d been so fixated on the rest of his apartment, it hadn’t crossed his mind. All the more reason he wished he’d had more time to prepare for you. Why’d he have to be so impulsive —

“Barto,” you snapped him out of his thoughts. “Answer me.”

His eyes darted around the room, double-checking that anything else he’d stolen was still hidden. Anything to keep from meeting your accusing stare. “Y-you left it in the laundry room. I was gonna — I wanted to give it back, but —”

He finally met your gaze, the venom it held freezing him in place. Despite being so terrified of the world falling apart around him, he couldn’t help but blush. You were sexy when you were angry. Definitely didn’t help that you were still naked.

“Tell me the truth,” you pressed, folding your arms over your chest.

Bartolomeo stuttered a few more times before finally conceding, his shoulders slumped. “‘Cause I got it... from your room.”

You felt the hair on your neck stand. “When?”

He scratched his cheek, back to avoiding eye contact. “...A few months ago.”

You groaned, letting the shirt fall from your hands as you hid your face in them. “It was you. This whole time. What the fuck, Barto.”

“I didn’t...” he sighed, running a hand through his hair and leaning against the doorframe. “I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t think you would be interested in a guy like me.”

“You could have asked!” you shouted. “You could have done literally anything else — wait.” You looked up at him with wide eyes. “What else didyou do?!”

He could swear his back was pouring sweat, but he kept a straight face, still avoiding your eyes. “Nothin’.”

“Bartolomeo!”

“Nothing!” he snapped back, his lip curling as he muttered, “Nothin’ I wasn’t already promisin’ to ya.”

You paled. “What do you mean?”

He finally looked at you again, no longer blushing, no longer flustered. “I promised to look out for ya. So I did what I had to so I could keep that promise.”

Realization hit you like a freight train. “You did sabotage my date.” You stormed up to him, your hands balled into fists. “What did you do to Cavendish?”

Bartolomeo shrugged. “Just showed him what happens when someone tries to move in on my girl.” He pushed off the doorframe, now looming over you. “Just like I did with that prick from the subway. And the shitbag at the bar. And anyone else who tries to get between us.” His expression then softened somewhat as he took your face in both his hands. “I wanna take care of you, sweetheart.”

Your eyes began to water and you took hold of his wrists, shaking your head. “You can’t just do that, Barto.”

“Too late for that,” he huffed out. When a few tears slipped down your cheeks he brushed them away with his thumbs. “I’m sorry for takin’ your stuff. I’m sorry I lied to you. I just. I wanted to be close to ya so bad. I’ll stop though, now that we’re together. I won’t break in, I won’t follow you home, we can just walk together —”

You shoved away from him, turning your back as you started picking up your clothes. “This isn’t right — I can’t do this —”

His eyes widened. “What are you doing?”

“Putting my damn clothes back on,” you spat, glaring at him as you pulled your shirt over your head. “I can’t keep having this conversation naked.”

As Bartolomeo watched you pull your underwear back up, panic took hold with its freezing grip. You were going to leave. You were going to get dressed and leave and shut him out. Or worse. After everything he’d done, after the unforgettable night you just had together.

Something in his mind, something he’d been struggling to ignore ever since you moved in, finally snapped.

You were bent over to pull up your pants when you were suddenly lifted up by the waist and thrown onto his bed. Shocked, you barely had time to roll onto your back and process what was happening before he was already straddling you, pinning you down by the shoulders with wide, manic eyes.

“What is there to talk about?” he snarled. “So I got a little carried away. I stole a few things. Stabbed a guy and broke the pretty boy’s ribs. But last night you said you love me. I love you.” His grip on you tightened, his brow furrowing. “You tellin’ me you’re just gonna take that back?”

A horrible chill shot down your spine. You shook your head, trying to make yourself smaller. “No — I just — I need some time to think —”

“About what?” he snapped. “How you’re gonna try to leave me?”

“No — Barto, wait, let go of me —”

“I can’t,” his voice cracked, the vulnerability he once displayed breaking through momentarily. “Don’t you understand? Now that I have you, there’s no way in hell I can let you go.”

The color drained from your face, and you started pushing against his chest. “Barto, please, don’t do this. W-we can talk about it — I won’t leave you.”

“Damn right you won’t.” He took both your wrists in one hand and pinned them over your head, continuing, “‘Cause you love me. You’re mine . I ain’t ever lettin’ you go.”

Bartolomeo’s mouth crashed down over yours, stifling any further protests you had. Where he was once gentle with his teeth, he was now ravenous, the sharp points dangerously close to tearing into you. His grip on your wrists was painful, leaving you wondering if the creaking you heard was the bed or your bones. Between that and his body over yours, there wasn’t room to fight back.

His free hand grasped your neck when he finally broke the kiss, his teeth pulling your lower lip for good measure. When he met your eyes, he tilted his head. What little was left of his rational mind wondered why you looked so scared.

However, a far more possessive part of his brain was in control. And it was viciously turned on by the sight.

Your own brain was screaming at you to do something, anything to get him to let go, but his hungry gaze kept you frozen in his grip. Your mind reeled, grappling with the reality that the unexpectedly kind Bartolomeo you’d come to know was just an act of the wholly terrifying man above you. The one you should have steered clear of since day one.

Despite the threatening hold around your throat, you found your voice. “Barto, please — just let go of me. We don’t have to talk —”

Bartolomeo tightened the grip on your neck, his pupils dilating and a flush spreading across his face. “You’re right. We don’t. Just let me have this.” His breathing was hot on your cheeks, like an insatiable beast. “Let me have you.”

Faster than a scream could form in your lungs, you were flipped over onto your stomach, one hand pressed between your shoulder blades to keep you down while the other moved to your underwear. You struggled to push yourself up, your hands scrabbling for any kind of purchase. Panic fired through every nerve as you felt him yank at the waistband, ripping the fabric from you with shocking ease. It was enough to make you scream at last, the sound falling on deaf ears as Bartolomeo was driven further into his sudden craze, both hands now finding your hips and keeping you firmly in place.

He softly shushed you, completely lost in his own delusion. He didn’t understand why you were fighting back. He thought you were supposed to be together. You were his, didn’t you realize that? If you’d just stop fighting and let him have you, he could show you that he loved you. He could prove that you were meant to be together. 

He laid himself over top of you, one hand taking hold of his shaft and lining it up with your entrance. “Hold still. It’s gonna be okay — I’m gonna take good care of you.”

“BARTOLOMEO, STOP—”

He shoved himself deep into your cunt.

Your brain kicked into overdrive. Coherent thought stopped as your body moved on instinct, violently jerking onto your side and twisting at the waist.

“SHIT— ” Pain shot through him at the sudden forceful turn of his cock, and he quickly pulled out, eyes watering. What the fuck was that about!? You practically twisted his dick right off—

You scrambled to get out from under him as he fell to one side, his hands now too occupied with the delayed protection of the family jewels. You awkwardly tumbled to the floor, and your hands found the hem of your pants.

The feral thing that had taken over Bartolomeo’s brain lashed out with one hand, managing, despite the agony radiating through him, to find your ankle. Momentum sent him sideways, half laying off the bed as he tilted his head back to see you—

Only to be greeted by your heel slamming into the bridge of his nose.

“FUCK!”

Your ankle free once more, there was no stopping you. You fisted the leg of your pants in one hand and pushed yourself up with the other, booking it for the front door.

Only once you were in the apartment hallway reaching for your own door did you finally have a clear thought: locked. You quickly redirected your path to the elevator, frantically mashing the down button between struggles to pull your pants on. Come on, come on!

The doors finally opened just as you heard Bartolomeo yelling your name.

You stumbled into the cabin, once more button mashing to make sure the doors closed. The second they were, you collapsed against the wall, tears streaming down your face. Your heart felt like it was going to break through your ribs, and though you felt like your legs could give out at any moment, you knew you still weren’t safe. Not yet. You had to get away from the building, even if it meant running until your feet bled.

The doors were barely open before you pushed your way through them, one hand holding up your pants as you burst out of the building. People, buildings, cars, everything became a blur as you ran down the sidewalk, blinded by adrenaline and tears. It was only by the grace of its obnoxious yellow color that you saw the cab in time to hail it, falling into the backseat.

“Whoa whoa —” the driver looked over his shoulder. “Where you goin' in a hurry like that? You runnin’ from the cops?”

You shook your head, your mind spinning like a slot machine to find just one word. Any word, preferably a place—

“Baratie,” you finally choked out. “Take me to Baratie.”

There was a fist-sized hole in Bartolomeo’s bedroom door. Dried blood was caked under his nostrils, crusting over his septum piercing. He’d tasted his own blood before, but not like this. Not with the sting of betrayal in his chest. It was a good, long while before the pain in his groin had subsided. Enough time to stew in what just happened.

He scared you. He just tried to rape you. He’d always been a violent guy, but never had he gone to an extreme like this.

Another voice in his mind was furious, drowning out the regret. You said you loved him. You said you loved him. Then why couldn’t you have stayed? After all he’d done for you, all he tried to do to keep from overstepping boundaries, and everything he’d done to keep from getting caught. Why did you have to find that stupid shirt and ruin everything?!

...No, you didn’t ruin everything. You were so kind, and so sweet, you just misunderstood him. He’d done a lot of wrong things, especially this morning. He just had to calm down and apologize. You’d come around to his way of seeing things. You had to — he only did what he did to protect you, after all.

For now, Bartolomeo had to deal with the problem at hand. It wasn’t likely you’d come back to him right away. He probably didn’t have much time before someone would be banging on his door and asking questions, whether it be your friends or the cops. Looking the way he did, there was no way he’d be convincing enough to play innocent. Oh well. He’d lay low for awhile, maybe hide out with Gambia until you came to your senses.

Bartolomeo ran a hand through his hair and licked at the dried blood on his lip. He looked between his rumpled bedsheets, to the hole in his door, to the forgotten shirt on the floor. Things were never supposed to get this out of hand. He had just wanted to be with you. What was so wrong with that?

A tiny part of his mind tried to tell him, but he ignored it as he started digging in his closet for a duffel bag. While he never liked backing down from a fight, he knew a chance to retreat when he saw one. Haphazardly stuffing clothes into the bag, one thought kept him from completely giving up hope.

You said you loved him.

You’d come back. Eventually.

You weren’t entirely sure why the first place that came to mind was Baratie. Maybe subconsciously you knew that the archives would be closed, and the first place Bartolomeo might try to look for you. It was halfway to the restaurant you realized you wouldn’t have a way to pay the cab fare, having left your purse behind in your escape. Which meant you didn’t even have your phone with you to contact your friends. Robin was probably still waiting for you to ask for your keys.

Thankfully, as you stumbled out of the cab, the driver didn’t seem too concerned about the fare, instead going as far as getting out of the car to walk you inside. While the door to vestibule was surprisingly open, the doors after that to the actual restaurant were locked.

“Hold on,” the driver said, pulling out his phone and dialing. “I know the owner, he’ll let you in if I call him.”

A few minutes later, you were sitting in a booth, a glass of water in your hands while the head chef, a grizzled old man with a prosthetic leg was bickering with the driver, trying to figure out why the hell he’d brought you there instead of a police station. You were staring into the glass, shaking, feeling like you’d just run several miles and then some. You just wanted to lay down in the booth and sleep. Maybe when you woke up it’d turn out that you just had an elaborate nightmare.

“Oh,” a voice broke through your trainwreck of thought, and you looked up to see a blond waiter. “Well, I was hoping you’d come back, but definitely not like this.”

You blinked a few times, squinting your eyes. Did you know him? Then it hit you, “Tiramisu.”

He gave a wry smile. “It’s Sanji, actually, but you can call me whatever you’d like, sweetheart.”

You flinched at the nickname, shrinking back. 

He seemed to realize his error, getting down on one knee. “What happened to you?”

Your throat tightened. Just as you were thinking you had no more tears left, you felt them spilling out again as you struggled to find the words. The severity of what you were trying to say was truly setting in, making it all the harder to speak.

You were raped.

Not only that, but it happened at the hands of someone you trusted. Someone you’d fallen in love with.

Why couldn’t you say it out loud? Part of you felt stupid — you should have trusted your gut the moment you suspected Bartolomeo was behind the break-ins. You should never have given him the chance when he invited you over. And especially after watching him pummel someone’s face in — how did you not suspect that he’d do something so horrible?

Unable to answer, you shook your head, your hands starting to tremble around your water glass.

“Is there anyone you can call?”

You shook your head again, squeezing out, “Lost my phone.”

Sanji hummed. After a moment, he took the glass from your hands and pressed his phone into them instead. “Here. You do whatever you need to contact someone. I’ll make you something warm to eat. How’s that sound, princess?”

The sharp-eared head chef snapped, “It’ll be comin’ outta your paycheck, you little shit!”

You nodded, staring down into your darkened reflection. “Th-thank you.”

You messaged Robin first, logging Sanji out of his social media to do so. Unsure of what else to say, you sent, “I need help.”

The reply was almost instant. “Where are you?”

Robin picked you up with a whole cavalry in tow. Riding shotgun was Nami, a metal baton in one hand and her phone in the other running GPS. In the backseat was Rebecca and Vivi, the former with murder in her eyes and a sword in her lap that was hard to tell whether or not it was a prop. Vivi immediately hugged you when you climbed into the car, reassuring you that you were safe, and that Robin knew tons of people she could call for more backup if you wanted, and this son of a bitch was going to regret messing with her friend.

You were relieved they didn’t try to bombard you with questions. You weren’t sure you were ready to answer them.

You definitely weren’t ready for Bartolomeo’s apartment door to be wide open. 

Robin went in first, calmly and quietly searching the apartment. When she reached the bedroom door, she was slow in opening it, checking over her shoulder and gesturing for the rest to follow. Rebecca went next, sword at her side, looking around the living room. Vivi checked the bathroom, and Nami stayed with you, baton at the ready.

“He’s not here,” Robin finally said.

Rebecca started ranting in what you could only guess was Italian before shouting, “Fucking coward!”

Vivi found your purse, which you eagerly took and started searching through. Everything was still there, including your phone, and funnily enough Sanji’s number hidden in one of the inner pockets.

You’d have to thank him for the meal.

Your friends helped you move out a few months later. They all took turns harboring you at their respective places for a while, and traded off who would babysit your apartment to make sure Luffy was taken care of... and also to call the cops if Bartolomeo had the balls to come back.

Vivi found an apartment further into the city that you could share. She took the opportunity to help you as a way to also move herself out from the suburbs. After what had happened, neither of you were willing to live alone.

In that time, you found yourself jumpier. More keenly aware of the slightest thing amiss in your room. Constantly watching over your shoulder when you took the subway home. You frequently had nightmares. Even the bi-weekly pay day drinks did little to soothe your fears, every flash of someone with green hair sending you into a panicked state.

You never fully gave anyone the details of what had happened, but they all somehow knew. Everyone made it a point to tell you it wasn’t your fault.

Gradually, you adjusted. You found coping skills, you talked more, and slowly you came close to how you used to be. You were closer to your friends than you ever were before. You knew you’d never be exactly the same as you were before you even met Bartolomeo, but close enough was enough for you.

One evening, after pay day drinks and when Vivi was gone visiting her father, you crashed into bed, petting a much larger Luffy as he jumped onto your chest. You realized for the first time in a long time, you finally, truly felt safe.

You never noticed the empty bottle of perfume that went missing from your trash.