"I Accept!"

injury

og pics under the cut

Seguir leyendo

He just saw his hero picking his nose

I’m a big fan of Bartomoleo, such a silly guy 🐓

I rlly went through all the stages of grief with this drawing lmao (acceptance being the last one so it’s all good <3)

Requests from twitter

Moon Knight (2022) | 1.06 ‘Gods and Monsters’

It's a bit windy today huh

Dancing in moccasins

Bartolomeoxreader. Modern AU. An opposite attracts story!

Lots of swearing, some violence.

*****

You and Bartolomeo are of an age and both grew up in the same little town, but you are as different as two people can be. Barto is a thug, a good-hearted but prone to violence hoodlum who never finished school, and supports himself working odd jobs and gets involved in a different brawl every week; with his green hair, heavy motorbike and disrespectful attitude, not to mention the way he dresses, he’s well known to the local authorities. For Barto, the ideal night is spent drinking at a bar, getting in a fistfight with Gambia and his other friends -the Barto Club, obviously named after their leader- against another of the town’s gangs, riding around town on their bikes, and then camping all together at the place of one of them, nursing both an hangover and bruises as they sleep until late. 

You are at the other end of the spectrum. A straight-A student, you won not one but two prestigious scholarships for academic merit, and were accepted into a prestigious university; you spend your time reading, writing, visiting museums and attending conferences on various subjects. Years spent poring over books and staring at your computer’s screen -to study, not to play videogames or wasting time on social media- have ruined your sight to the point you have to wear thick eyeglasses, and your look is as classic as they come: plaid skirts, blouses and tweed jackets, moccasins and oxfords. Your criminal record is unblemished, you never even got a parking ticket or a fine at the library, and only drink a glass of wine on special occasions, more because you genuinely dislike alcohol than because you think there’s something wrong with it. 

In short, you and Barto hang out with different crowds and have no friends in common, but he was hired as a cashier at the same grocery shop where you work -those scholarships were not, unfortunately, enough to pay for your tuition, and you didn’t want to ask your parents for a loan- and so you did start to bond. You helped Barto learn to use a till and manage the shop’s books, and he insisted you let him carry all the heavier packages, and even defended you when a drunk customer started harassing you. You spend your breaks together, and he insists on walking you home every night, given the lateness of the hour, and even though he lives in the opposite direction, claiming -every single night- that he has to meet a friend in your neighbourhood.

In the end, six months after you started working together, you have become… friends, in a sense, and while when you first met him you were a bit intimidated by his weird hair and clothes, not to mention his name in town is synonymous with troublemaking, you did come to respect him immensely: Bartolomeo -it’s just Barto, alright? Not even my mum calls me Bartolomeo- is headstrong, determined, the sort of person who never gives up on something he cares for and lets no one disrespect him, all characteristics you admire in a person. He’s kind as well, even if he’s too embarrassed to admit it: he regularly comes to work still tipsy or with a bruised face, and he and his bike are regulars at the town’s illegal street races circuits, but you have also seen him buying -not stealing, buying- a bottle of milk from the shop to feed the neighbourhood’s stray cats, and to carry the purchases of a few old ladies to their car, saving them the effort, even though that is not part of his duties. 

He has told you he quite likes working at the shop, for once, and you are proud of all the effort he is putting in it; he might not be the sort of friend your parents, or society, would want for you, and you still disapprove of his habit of getting into fights and causing trouble for the mere thrill of it, but Barto is a good man, clever, kind, and…

… and you have gotten a crush on him, maybe even something more. It is your first time, but you feel yourself blushing every time his hand touches yours as he passes you a bottle or a can to put on the shelf, and one day you happened to catch a glimpse -you weren’t spying on him, you swear!- of his naked torso as he changed into his work shirt in the toilet, and the image wouldn’t leave your mind for days.

So yes, you like Barto, and, you decide after much deliberation -seriously, it took you less time to decide what university to attend!- you would gladly start a relationship with him, if he were to ask you, or accept your proposal. The problem is, much as it grieves you to say it, Barto has never given you reason to even just suspect your feelings are reciprocated. He’s always friendly and appears to sincerely enjoy your company, but nothing more; he doesn’t have a steady partner, but sometimes he mentions a man or a woman he went on a -social or, err, domestic- date with, never the same person for long, which makes you suspect he might not be interested in a more long-lasting relationship, no matter who with. You’re not even sure he considers you a proper friend; one day his friend Gambia came into the shop to buy some groceries and he refused to introduce you, mumbling something you didn’t catch before grabbing his friend’s arm to pull him towards the frozen foods section. 

The people he likes are probably as different from you as they can be; girls who wear low-rider jeans and heavy make-up, who hold their liquor as much as their boyfriends do and hold on their backs during a motorbike ride. Barto did offer to take you for a ride once, but you declined, because you were scared of falling, and of the speed the bike could reach, and you could see how disappointed he was, even though he didn’t insist. 

Why would Barto want to go out with you?, you reflect sadly one night as you close the lid of your laptop before preparing for bed; you have just received an excellent grade for your latest exam, but you can’t find any joy, nor satisfaction, in that result for once; there are so many other people he would like better, people who have more in common with him that simply thirty hours of work a week. He has probably never thought about you as a potential partner, content with being your colleague and nothing more…

 … then I’ll have to show him; show him I can be more than a colleague, and that no matter how boring and mousy I seem, I can make a man’s head spin, if I put my mind to it. Even yours, Barto. 

Your decision is taken. The perfect occasion presents itself a week later, when you read in one of the magazines you are arranging on a shelf that the Dressrosa, a popular club Barto told you he and his friends often hung out at, is going to reopen soon after a period of closure for renovations. That very night, as you and Barto walk towards your home, you gather your courage and propose that the two of you attend the Dressrosa’s opening night together, just the two of you.

Barto refuses.

“Why? Are you going with your friends? Can’t I… come as well?” you ask, sounding small.

“It’s not that; I mean, I’ll probably go with the boys, but… it’s not the place for you, (name); you shouldn’t go to a club like that.”

“But… I thought you liked the Dressrosa.”

“I do. Just… promise me you’ll stay away, alright?”

You have no way of continuing the conversation, because you have reached your complex; Barto mumbles a goodnight and then leaves, briskly walking away while you remain at the door, looking at his retracting figure while your heart breaks in a million pieces.

He’s ashamed of you. Ashamed of what his friends, and the other men of the town, would think if he showed up at the Dressrosa with a woman like you by his side; does he think they would laugh about you both, calling his virility into question since he was unable to attract a more desirable partner? Would he choose to avoid being seen in public with you, rather than chiding his friends for making fun of you and your clothes?

Well; if that is the reason, then Barto is not the sort of man you thought he was, nor the man you’re interested in being in a relationship, or even just friendly, with. By now he knows the job well enough not to need your help, and from tomorrow on, you promise yourself that night as you take a quick break from your usual night study session, you’ll spend as little time with him as possible, using your bicycle to return home and spending your breaks reading rather than talking to him. Part of you will probably miss him, but if Barto is unable to look beyond your clothes and love for studying, and cares more about his friends’ opinion than to spend time with a person who cares for him, then too bad for him, and you won’t waste your tears on a man like that. 

Still, no matter how determined you are to leave your affection for Barto behind, since he’s clearly not worth it, you are still annoyed, and upset, that he thought the Dressrosa, one of the town’s most popular clubs, was not the right place for you. Who gave him the authority to decide? Does he really think that only because you enjoy studying, spend most of your time in the library and only drink cola and tonic water, you are unable to enjoy yourself and spend a night dancing? In that case, you decide as you reach your first-row seat for your first class of the day, your laptop already at hand to take notes, you’ll show him! You’ll go to the Dressrosa opening night by yourself, wear a nice dress, dance and meet new people, and when Barto sees you you will ignore him, making it clear that you are more than able to have fun, preferably without him. 

A perfect plan, except for one single detail: you’ve never been to a club before and have no idea what to do, how to act, and especially what to wear, to a place like that. Fortunately, you have recently become friends with a girl attending a few of your classes, named Nefertari Vivi; her father is a famous fashion designer, and she is studying to follow in his footsteps. Who better than her could suggest you what to wear for your first visit to a club?

So you stop Vivi at the end of the class, explain your situation -at least regarding the Dressrosa and your desire not to look like a fish out of water; mentioning Barto would be too humiliating- and beg for her help, which your friend is happy to lend. 

Two days later, three before the day of the club’s re-opening, you go shopping together, and on your request Vivi chooses a dress, shorter and more ostentatious than anything in your wardrobe, a pair of high-heeled shoes, and even a few accessories. 

“Come on, try them on, let me see how you look.” she excitedly invites you, and you obey, disappearing in the shop’s dressing room. You emerge a few minutes later, and the woman staring back at you from the full-length mirror is… well, not you, or at least not a version of you that has ever existed before. But you look good, even though you just need to look at your naked legs, or the portion of cleavage left exposed by the dress, to feel embarrassed. And the heels are so high! Do women actually dance in these?

“Are you sure this is alright? I mean, I know one doesn’t wear to a club the same clothes she puts on to go to class, but…” you stammer, unsure of how to express what you think and fear, but Vivi, who is a kind soul who would never deliberately embarrass you, assures you that there’s nothing inappropriate in what you are wearing, at least for a place like the Dressrosa. Of course you don’t have to wear what she chooses, let alone something you don’t feel at ease in, and if you’d rather keep your legs covered, or choose a less modest neckline, she can…

“No, it’s fine. These are fine, really.” you rush to add, already regretting your objection as you retreat towards the dressing room, more than a bit unstable on your new shoes “I’m gonna take them off and go pay.”

And so it is that you buy your first club outfit - quite an expense, for clothes you doubt you’ll ever get to wear a second time, but you are sure it’s worth it. 

Over the next few days you pointedly keep your distance from Barto, who seems to perceive you are angry or upset for some reason, but when he tries asking what is eating you, (name)? you avoid meeting his eyes and ask him to leave you alone because you are busy with your book, which he does, with a roll of his eyes. Later that day, you hear him make plans over the phone with his friend Gambia to attend the Dressrosa opening night, and the humiliation inside you reaches the breaking point: he does intend to go, knows you want to do the same, and still he won’t invite you.

I’ll show you. Oh, I’ll show you alright, Bartolomeo!

Finally it’s the big night. Two hours before the club’s opening, you reach Vivi’s house with your new clothes in a bag, and she helps you prepare, even enlisting the help of his father’s assistants, Pell and Chaka, to take care of your hair and make-up. 

“You look lovely, (name).” she says in the end approvingly. The effect of the outfit, so different from anything you have ever worn before, not to mention the fact you are wearing contacts rather than your usual glasses, is even more striking now that you are all dolled up, but as you observe your reflection in the large mirror in Vivi’s room -which is bigger than your apartment- the feeling of estrangement has been replaced by something akin to pride: you may be a four-eyes teacher’s pet, a woman who has never been asked on a date and feels more at ease in the library than in a club, but you can look good, and even make heads turn towards you, if you put your mind to it.

You can’t wait to see Barto’s reaction when he’ll see the new you. It might be childish, and petty, but you hope that he’ll realise how pretty you are, and it will be too late, because you will have moved on, and maybe even met someone else…

You thank Vivi for her help, promising to reciprocate if she ever needs it, and she wishes you a good night and begs you to call her tomorrow to tell her how it went. 

You reach the club by metro, planning on taking a taxi to return home. You are more than excited as you join the long queue before the entrance, and finally you are allowed to pay for your ticket and enter; no matter what happens today, you know already this night will be unforgettable. 

The inside of the Dressrosa is not different from what you had imagined: a long bar counter, loud music, a DJ, go-go dancers on podiums, bouncers patrolling the area. The energy in the large, dark room is electrifying, exciting, sensual, and just a little dangerous; unlike what you would have imagined just two weeks ago, you soon decide you like it.

It would be excessive to say that the moment you step into the room, every single head turns in your direction, half of the other patrons wishing they were you and the other that they were with you, but you swear you can see appreciation in the gazes of two young men who openly look at you on their way to the bar, and a girl you had shared a few class with last year recognises you and compliments your outfit. 

You look around you for a while, observing the crowd that has quickly filled the club to capacity, and to your relief you quickly decide you are not out of place as far as your clothes are concerned; if anything, your dress and high heels look positively tame compared to what some other people are wearing, but at least you do not look like a fish out of water, which is reassuring.

Deciding to take your time before joining the dances, you reach the bar, sit on a stool and ask for a cola, to the great amusement of the barman. “Would you prefer a fruit juice, darling?” he asks, openly derisive, but then he starts to prepare your drink, which you are free to enjoy as you observe the place and the people filling it; the dance-floor is already crowded, and while the music is different from the classic composers and opera pieces you’re accustomed to listen, it is catchy, and who knows, maybe someone will come inviting you…

“Hello.”

A man is leaning against the counter by your side as he regards you with interest; he is very handsome, with long blonde hair and an outfit clearly chosen to emphasise the wearer’s athletic physique. 

You can’t believe he’s talking to you. “Err, hello.”

“Name’s Cavendish.” he says, offering you a smile that is blinding even in the stroboscopic-lit darkness of the club; you have always had a weak spot for guys with a nice smile “Why haven’t I seen you here before?”

“Well, this is the first time I… I mean, I usually prefer other clubs.” you quickly recover, praying inside you the man -Cavendish- won’t ask you to elaborate, because you don’t know the name of any other club, let alone the ones that could impress him “But I heard the Dressrosa was a good place, so…”

“It really is, especially now that you are here. Can I know the name of such a pretty girl?”

He’s flirting with you, you feel flattered to realise, like no one in your life had ever done before; you tell him your name, and you spend a few minutes talking - or rather screaming at each other, since the music is so loud you can barely hear yourself. Catchy, yes, but you know already that tomorrow morning you’ll wake up with a migraine.

You and Cavendish are talking about your jobs when suddenly you notice a green mohawk in the crowd, out of the corner of your eye: Barto is standing near a sofa his friends are huddled on, staring in disbelief at you. Feeling extra petty, you smile and raise your glass at him, and then turn to look at Cavendish, trying to look completely interested in what he has to say. As you expected, a minute later…

“(name), what the fuck are you doing here?!”

Barto is now standing next to you, looking supremely pissed and incredulous, even though you could swear you can see him blush when his gaze falls on your naked legs “And what the hell are you wearing?!”

He, you must admit, looks amazing, black leather trousers hugging his strong legs and backside, a shirt left unbuttoned just enough to offer you a peek of his firm chest, silver jewels on his fingers and ears. 

“So? I asked you a question!”

“Dude, leave her alone.” Cavendish intervenes chivalrously; then, turning to you: “You know this guy?”

You are sorely tempted to deny. “We work together.” you admit “Leave me alone, Barto; I am perfectly fine.”

“You shouldn’t be here, (name). This place is…”

“I happen to like this place. Now, please, just go.”

Barto seems ready to argue some more, but then he sees something in your gaze, and he gives up; he leaves, clearly angry. 

“Your ex?” Cavendish asks, looking at Barto’s retracting figure; you can’t help following his eyes, until the ever-moving crowd of the club swallows your green-haired colleague.

“Oh, no; we’re just colleagues.” you explain; it’s not a lie.

“Well, I bet he wants to be something more.”

You both remain silent for a minute; Cavendish gulps down his drink, and then, just as you find yourself wondering, despite yourself, if you shouldn’t stand and follow Barto to explain yourself, he takes your hand. “Dance with me?”

You have never danced before, not since your ballet classes as a young girl -which you enjoyed, even though you and your parents agreed it was better to interrupt to allow you to dedicate more time to studying- and you don’t quite know what to do. Fortunately, there are no choreographies involved: people just seem to stand, swaying to the music, hugging a partner or in groups, at most waving their arms or jumping in place. As soon as you have reached the dancefloor, Cavendish’s hands find their way to your hips, which feels a bit premature since you have known each other for twenty minutes, but what do you know?, maybe this is how it works in places like this. So you look discretely around you to observe what other women are doing, and then circle his neck with your arms, which Cavendish seems to appreciate.

Neither of you notices a woman, dancing with two others nearby, whose eyes follow you intently, an expression of displeasure on her pretty face.

“You are very beautiful, you know.”

“Thank you.” you say, sincerely touched; you can’t help but wish Barto had been the one to utter those words, but he wasn’t, he didn’t want you when you proposed you go to the club together, and you have to forget him.

You remain on the dancefloor with Cavendish long enough to lose track of time; you enjoy dancing, but you keep bumping into other people, and at some point, you feel a hand -a masculine hand, no doubt- squeeze your backside. You cry out in alarm, and turn, and the closest people are laughing at you; you demand to know who touched you, and they ignore you. 

“You okay?” Cavendish asks when you tell him what happened; he seems to be genuinely sorry but, he tells you, accidents like that happen all the time at the club, and most girls get used to it.

“You mean they don’t fight back? And their partners and friends don’t intervene?” you ask, flabbergasted; you are the least athletic person in the world, and have been a victim of bullism since you started school, but the one time you were molested -you were fifteen, and one of the school’s rugby player decided it would have been fun to grab your skirt to tear it and expose your underwear in the middle of the corridor- you slammed a eight pounds physics textbook in his face. It was the one time in your life you were called to the principal’s office, but it was worth it.

“Sometimes they do, but it’s so dark here it’s hard to say who did what. Listen, I am very sorry; just don’t think about it. If it happens again I’ll intervene, I promise.”

You nod numbly, thinking, once more despite yourself, that Bartolomeo’s reaction would have been completely different, had he been present; he would have forced the people who might have witnessed the incident to listen, and then he would have beaten the crap out of the person responsible and forced him to apologise, even if it meant being kicked out from the club, even if it meant being blacklisted from the Dressrosa.

He would have done it; even if he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, even if he considers you nothing more than a colleague he is forced to spend time with. He would have defended you, whatever the price. He would have done it for you. 

“You want to stop?” Cavendish asks kindly, and you shake your head; you remain on the dancefloor for a while, but the fun you were having until a minute ago seems to have evaporated. The smell of alcohol and sweat impregnates the air, the music is loud, and every single other patron of the club seems to have decided to bump into you before the end of the night. In the next hour you see Barto two more times, the first as he sits by himself on a sofa nursing a beer, the second as he talks to a very pretty woman -you recognise her by her long pink braid; her name is Rebecca, and she’s a student of your university, a friend of Vivi- a sight that you have no right to be sad about, but you do, almost as if you could feel your heart breaking in a hundred pieces.

Suddenly you feel suffocating; suddenly, even though the evening has been somewhat pleasant until now, you wish you had never set foot in the Dressrosa. 

“I’m going outside for a minute; I need some air.” you tell Cavendish, and he nods.

“I’m coming with you.”

“There’s no need, really…”

“It’s fine, I don’t mind.” he says kindly, and you, who had actually hoped for a minute of peace and solitude, can do nothing but nod.

The bouncers standing guard at the entrance stamp your hand as you leave the club, so that you won’t have to pay again when you decide to re-enter. The landscape you find yourself facing is quite desolate: a large parking lot full of vehicles, a few people smoking, someone who didn’t even bother -or manage- to find a more secluded corner before starting to puke their guts out. You let Cavendish’s hand on the small of your spine guide you to the back of the building, where at least the music is a bit less loud, and you can finally breathe a little more freely.

The two of you rest your backs against the wall, alone save for a few garbage bins, full of bottles and plastic cups, and a cat huddled on the hood of a car. For a few minutes neither speaks; Cavendish has lit a cigarette, while you are still thinking about Barto, and wondering if he’s going to leave with Rebecca to spend the night with her, like part of you had hoped he would do with you, had he accepted your offer to go to the club together.

Well, he’s free to; Barto is not your boyfriend, he has a right to spend time with and date and sleep with whoever he pleases, and his life must be no concern of yours. It mustn’t; you can’t allow a guy who declined to be seen with you in public out of embarrassment to break your heart, because a man like that doesn’t deserve you. Still, you can’t help but feel sad about it, because you do care about Barto, and you thought he cared for you as well…

“You alright?” Cavendish asks after a while, the smoke of his cigarette spreading in the cold air of the night.

“Yes, sure; sorry, I just wanted…”

Suddenly he is smiling as he throws the cigarette on the ground and stubs it with his foot. “Yes, I know.” he interrupts you, and a moment later his arm has circled your waist, pulling you close “I know what you want, baby.”

And a moment later he is kissing you.

It is so unexpected, even though it shouldn’t be, that for a moment you don’t know how to react; you remain perfectly still, your mind gone blank because of the shock, as Cavendish kisses you passionately. It has been years since the last time something like this happened to you, and it should be pleasant, because he is attractive and he complimented and paid attention to you and his mouth is warm and soft against yours, but it’s not, it’s not pleasant at all!

Why the hell is he doing this? You barely know him, and you have not consented to this in any way! Could he not -oh God he just put his tongue in your mouth- could he not at least ask or make sure you also wanted this…?

For a minute, maybe two, you try to get used to the kiss, to find some pleasure in it, to feel what a person is supposed to feel in a situation like this; but you don’t, and when Cavendish pushes you against the wall behind you, gently but forcefully, and puts his free hand on your breast, you realise you need to stop this now.

You do. “Stop it; please, you need to stop.” you say, and push him away from you, in case he thinks you are just playing coy, and Cavendish does take a step back, looking at you with eyes full of disbelief.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and you don’t quite know how to answer, because you don’t want to offend him, because he did treat you kindly and doesn’t deserve it, but you’re not sure you’d want to see him a second time. 

So you explain that while you do find him very attractive and had fun spending time with him, you are not interested in getting any closer, and poor Cavendish is completely flabbergasted.

“But… but you did dance with me, yes? We’ve been together for hours… and you let me accompany you outside…”

And this was enough to make him believe you wanted him to kiss you? Is Cavendish used to women falling at his feet five minutes after meeting him -it could be, since he is handsome and clearly knows it- or it is you who, since this is your first visit to a club, have no idea of how relationships develop in places like the Dressrosa?

In any case your decision is made and so, without hesitation, you tell Cavendish you are sorry to disappoint him, and that you never intended to let him on, but you have no intention of kissing him, never did, and you’d really like to remain alone now.

“Are you really sure?”

“Absolutely. Listen, I appreciate you keeping me company, but I don’t want you to waste the rest of your evening on me.”

Cavendish seems to agree, because a moment later you part, still amicably, and he leaves, in search of a woman more sensitive to his charm. The moment his blonde figure disappears from sight, you sigh to yourself, resting your back against the wall.

What a disappointment! Your first kiss in years -you could calculate how many exactly, but you are too embarrassed to- and you wasted it on someone you had no real interest in. You had expected so much from this evening, and yet here you are, head hurting because of the loud music, the packed room that made you feel claustrophobic, and you’ve been touched without consent by not one but two men!

Why the hell did you come here? This is not the right place for you, and you’re not the right person for a club like the Dressrosa, and there’s nothing wrong with it. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to try something new, but this has been a completely wasted evening, and your desire to show Bartolomeo you could have fun without him and despite his declining your offer is beneath you, something you should and do feel ashamed about. Oh, why did you not stay home with a cup of tea and that book you wanted to start reading…?

Busy as you are feeling sorry for yourself, you don’t hear danger approach until it’s too late.

“Hey, you!” the woman calls you, marching in your direction “What were you doing with my boyfriend?!”

You blink, absolutely sure you have never met her before. “... excuse me?”

“I’m talking about Cavendish! I saw you, you know, flirting with him and rubbing yourself on him! He’s mine, and you have to stay away from him!”

Cavendish did mention, as you made each other’s acquaintance at the bar, that he has recently broken up with a woman he had dated for a while, because she had been too controlling and obsessive, to the point of following him around and forbidding him from hanging out with his friends; he could have lied, obviously, to attract you, but you are almost sure the woman is the one framing the truth as it suits her.

“Hasn’t Cavendish broken up with you a while ago?”

“He… shut up! You don’t know what you are talking about!” she orders, her pretty face now bright red “You slut, you need to stay away from my man!”

Not wanting to get involved in a -former- lovers’ quarrel, you tell the woman you have no interest in Cavendish and she is free to go get him if she wants, but she doesn’t believe you, already convinced as she is that you have somehow seduced her man to take him away from her. You are usually a non-confrontational person, inclined to solve problems with words and reasoning rather than arguing or worse with violence, but tonight your patience has reached its limits; so you bite back at her, making it clear that you have no interest in Cavendish and that maybe he’d be still dating her, rather than kissing other girls, if she were less controlling and obsessive…

“Kissing?!”

Shit.

It’s too late, unfortunately, to take your words back, and learning you have kissed her ex turns the woman’s anger into full-blown rage. She swears at you using words you had never even heard before, and then, still unsatisfied, starts threatening you. “I can find out where you live, you slut, I’ll cut your face with a knife!”

“You can try!” you answer, equally furious; how dare she?! Does she not know you could go to the police for words like these?! “Who the hell do you think you are? The only way you can get a man to date you is by intimidating other women to stay away? You are pathetic!”

You are really fed up with all of this; fed up with this idiot, fed up with this sordid place, fed up with yourself even, since you got yourself in this stupid situation to get back at a guy who never even wanted you. Why didn’t you stay home?

“You know what? I’m sick of this. I’m leaving.” you declare, turning on your heels -your poor feet hurt, after a whole evening with this stupid, uncomfortable shoes, and you can’t wait to take them off and make yourself a footbath- and that is your mistake, because there are few things more dangerous than to take your eyes away from a person who is threatening you. 

You had noticed the glass bottle in the woman’s hand, but you had paid no mind to it, just vaguely thinking her behaviour was due to the number of drinks she had imbibed, not imagining that the harmless container might be used as a weapon; you are grabbed by the shoulder…

“You bitch!”

… and the moment your body is forced to turn, an arm is raised above your head…

“Noo…!”

… the bottle is smashed against your forehead, and the world turns into pain and the red of your blood.

“(name)? Oh, fuck… (name), baby, please, talk to me, please… open your eyes…”

Obeying is the hardest thing you have ever had to do -and since you have once taken three exams in a day, skipped two grades in school, and enrolled in more optional courses than any other student in your year, that is saying something- but you have recognised the voice calling your name, and this makes you less afraid of the world you could find yourself in once you come around. 

“Are you alright?” Barto asks; he’s kneeling on the ground next to you, genty supporting your head with one hand while the other is holding a dirty napkin already soaked in blood - your blood. You can feel it on your forehead, on your hair, dripping down your cheek, syrup-like dense and sticky, and you’re terrified, because you don’t…

“... know.” answer in a small voice “W-what happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I… yes, a woman hit me with a bottle, but… am I hurt? Barto, I am bleeding… I can’t see well…”

It’s true, his face and the wall behind it swimming in front of you, first clearly visible and then shrouded in darkness and then somehow opaque, as if you couldn’t focus on them, but Barto assures you your eyes are fine, even if some blood trickled on the left one. “You are probably under shock.” he murmurs, and then anger fills his face - an anger that is not aimed at you “Where is the bitch who did this to you? I’m gonna kill her!”

“No…”

“Oh, yes! I know I shouldn’t hit women, but I swear, I’ll make her wish she was never born…”

And this is when you start to cry. Out of pain, yes, and of fear and anger, but out of relief and gratitude as well, because until a moment ago you and Barto had, if not properly fought, at least been more distant than you had ever been since the day you first met, and he still came to help you when you needed it… as if he cared for you.

“Oh, fuck… (name), I’m sorry…”

“I-it’s not your fault.” you stammer. You are pretty sure you’ve never looked worse in your life, between the blood, the tears, and the ruined make-up, and Barto is at the same time the first and the last person you’d want by your side in a situation like this “Please, I just want to clean myself… I need to go to the toilet…”

“Good idea. Give me your hand. Come on…”

In the end he has to almost lift you from the ground, and then his arm around your waist is guiding you back inside, as you cross the room in the direction of the ladies’ room.

“Come on, we are almost there.” Barto says encouragingly, and you nod numbly, still a bit wobbly on your legs, clinging to his shoulder to keep yourself upright as you limp by his side.

The white-tiled room is occupied by several women who fix their make-up in front of the mirror, smoke, or make out against the cubicle’s walls; they react with surprise when they see Barto, but then they notice you, still sobbing softly, and every one of those women you have never met before immediately offers their help, at first making sure this guy with the mohawk is not the one who decked you and then assisting you in cleaning the blood away from your face and hair.

“I’m afraid you need stitches, girl.” one of them says with a wince, as she observes the wound “There’s a clinic behind here…”

“Yeah, I know the place.” Barto points out, preoccupation evident on his face as he listens to your moans “Sorry, but can someone go take her stuff?”

One of the women volunteers, soon returning with your jacket and purse, while another gives you her water to drink and a third even offers to fix your make up. You thank them all profusely, their kindness so welcome in a moment you desperately needed some, and in the end you and Barto leave the toilet together, him once again holding you by the waist.

“I’m bringing you to the clinic, alright? My bike is right here.”

“I can’t ride a bike.” you murmur as you finally leave the large door of the Dressrosa behind you.

“You just need to hold on to me; we’ll be there in five minutes.” 

“Barto, I really can’t…”

“Yes, you can. (name), believe me.” he tells you, taking your face in his hands, large and rough, but so kind as they cradle your head, and suddenly you are so close he could kiss you, and the mere thought makes your heart tremble “I promise you won’t fall. I know it hurts like shit, but hold fast, alright? Five minutes, and we’ll be at the clinic. Can you do it for me?”

There is very little you would not do for him, but if there’s a right moment to tell him, this is not it. The truth is you have always wanted to ride Barto’s bike, a beautiful, powerful vehicle that is his pride and joy, but you refused the only time he offered to take you for a ride, afraid you’d be too scared and you’d make a fool of yourself begging Barto to slow down or to stop because you were feeling sick. He probably wants a girl who knows her stuff about bikes -“it has two wheels, and an handlebar”, that’s all you could say- you have thought ruefully more than once, a girl who probably has one of her own, unlike you, who take the metro to go to class and cycle around the rest of the time.

Still, that is a thought for another moment as well. The bike is parked on the back of the club; once you reach it, Barto helps you mount behind him, and you hold on tight, still too in pain and too scared of falling to appreciate the fact you can feel his athletic, solid body in your arms, the pleasant smell of his aftershave filling your senses. 

“Barto, please…”

“Don’t worry, baby.” he says, turning to look at you with a smile, as he starts the engine, the bike coming alive under him like a lion roaring “You’re safe with me.”

You believe him.

You reach the clinic less than ten minutes later, the brief journey at low speed and perfectly safe, and enter the waiting room, empty save for a clearly exhausted doctor taking a cup from a vending machine, a nurse pushing a patient in a wheelchair towards a corridor, and another nurse sitting behind the counter. 

It is she who Barto walks determinedly towards, having left you on one of the chairs available for the waiting patients. “Sorry, is Nico Robin here tonight?”

The woman Barto has asked for appears a minute later; she seems to be only a few years older than you, tall and slender, clad in an immaculate doctor coat, a stethoscope hanging from her neck. 

“Hello, Bartolomeo.” she says kindly, apparently not at all upset to have been called upon when she was probably already busy with something else “I’d ask what brings you here tonight but I think I can see it with my eyes.”

“This is my friend (name); some bitch at a club smashed a glass bottle on her face.” Barto succinctly introduces you “Can you give her a look? And she probably needs something for the pain.”

“Of course. (name), I am doctor Nico Robin.” the woman kindly introduces herself to you “Can you come with me, so I can get a look at your wound?”

You nod quietly, and five minutes later you are sitting on a hospital bed in a small, white-walled room, while Robin takes care of your wound and Barto stands guard by your side. He has taken your hand in his, squeezing it gently every time he sees pain on your face: you had never gotten stitches before, and you really wish that was a gap you wouldn’t have to fill.

“Alright, all done.” Robin announces in the end as she stands from her stool, to then retrieve a small mirror from a shelf “Have a look.”

You do, and fortunately now that it has been cleaned and closed, your wound looks… a bit less horrible than before. “Will it leave a scar?” you ask, dreading the thought of having a reminder of that horrible moment on your skin forever, but fortunately the doctor -Robin, please- reassures you.

“It shouldn’t; it’ll take a while to heal, but you should be fine. You will have to keep a bandage on it for a few days, though.”

That is a sacrifice you can bear. 

“That’s good; your face is too pretty to ruin it with a scar… even though you’d have looked badass, (name), I’m sure.” Barto points out; then, as if realising he has just paid you a compliment, he blushes furiously and looks away, hands in his pockets.

You thank Robin profusely for her help, and she just smiles in return, walking you to the door before returning to her job.

“How do you feel?” Barto asks quietly as you walk back to his bike; he seems nervous, as if fearing you could blame him for what happened, or tell him you never want to see him again.

Those are, of course, the farthest things from your mind, but you are too tired and in pain to focus on it; the only thing you want now is your home, your bed, and a cup of chamomile.

“Better, I think; I hope I’ll feel better tomorrow morning.” you answer, forcing a smile “Can you accompany me home, please?”

He nods, and so a minute later you’re riding through the night, the roar of the engine deafening you, and you are cold and tired and in pain and your feet are killing you, but you feel safe, clinging to Barto’s warm, solid body, no longer worried but sure that he’ll bring you home, safe and sound, just like he promised.

He does, and in the end it is very late, so late it is almost early, when Barto sees you retrieve your house key from your bag, standing in front of your complex and looking more ill at ease than you thought he could. 

“Listen, I…” he begins, rubbing his hand on the back of his neck “I… err…”

“Yes?”

“Shit… (name), I am so sorry.” 

“It’s not your fault, Barto. None of it is…”

Your friend shakes his head, apparently determined not to be comforted. He found you outside the club because he saw Cavendish inside by himself and asked him about you, he explains, but had he arrived five minutes earlier he could have stopped that bitch from hurting you. Or even better, he should have accompanied you to the Dressrosa, so that he’d have been by your side at all times…

Ah.

“Barto?”

“Yes?”

You swallow, now turned to look at him; you have never been afraid of Barto, but suddenly asking the question waiting behind your lips is the hardest thing you have ever done. 

“Why didn’t you want to go to the club with me? Are you… ashamed of me? Of the way… I dress? You thought people would laugh at you, because you were with me?”

The ten seconds that follow are the longest, tensest of your life, but Barto seems too stunned to react, staring at you as if he had never met you before. 

“Oh, shit.” he says in the end, finally realising the effect his refusal had on you “Oh, God, (name), no! I could never… be ashamed of you! Do you really think I care about what people think?”

“Well, I thought… the clothes I usually wear are not exactly the sort you wear to a club… and there were so many beautiful women…”

Another shake of his head, before your friend rests his hands on your shoulders, staring at you like a man does when he’s making a solemn promise, or swearing on his life what he says is the truth. 

Bartolomeo, it turns out, is doing both things.

“The only beautiful girl I could see tonight is you.” he murmurs “And believe me, I would have been happy to go to a club with you; or anywhere really. Proud to.”

“But then why…?”

“The Dressrosa is a dangerous place, (name); you’ve seen it too. It’s nice, the drinks are good and the music too, but the violence… Police have to intervene all the time, one time  I’ve seen three stabbings in one night, and no girl goes there without at least two guys protecting her, because you never know what could happen. I just didn’t want something bad to happen to you; I should have told you, but I didn’t want you to think I thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. I wanted to take you somewhere else, a nicer place where we could drink and dance and have time to talk, but…” 

“I beat you to it.”

“You did. I am so sorry, (name); it’s all my fault.”

You sigh, at the same time relieved you were able to clarify the misunderstanding, and feeling more stupid than ever; had you and your friend just talked, him admitting the reason for his refusal, and you being less petty and avoiding going to a place you weren’t even really interested in, all this mess could have been avoided. You could have spent a nice evening somewhere else, and now instead you have a new pricey outfit you will never wear again, and an ugly wound on your head that will take weeks to heal.

“I just wanted you to look at me.” you mumble; you can’t bear to look back at Barto, and suddenly you feel stupid, and childish, and so so tiny “Not as colleagues who help each other and spend their breaks together, and not like friends either. Girls like me are seen, but rarely looked at. I wanted you to look at me, and to want me.”

“But I do want you.”

“You don’t have to lie to make me feel better, Barto. I ruined your night, I’m sorry…”

“You didn’t. Fuck, I would have been happy to have a bottle smashed on my face, if it meant I’d get to take you home.” he says, and you can feel him tremble  “(name), I… I do look at you, and want you. I just… I’m not good for you.”

“Barto, no…”

Another determined shake of his head. “You know that too. You’re good, smart, you don’t get in trouble… you’re probably gonna have a great career and make a lot of money; I’ll be lucky if I get to work at the shop for the rest of my life and pay my rent with that. I’m not saying my life sucks; I like my life. But you deserve better, (name); you deserve a guy who can study with you, and who can afford to buy you nice things, and-and bring you to all those places for brainy people like museums and…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence; he can’t, because you have grabbed him by the front of his shirt, and smashed your mouth against his in a kiss that is passionate, fierce, and expresses everything you haven’t dared to utter in words. Barto is clearly taken aback, but a moment later he’s moaning in your mouth, one of his arms holding you by the waist while the fingers of the other run through your hair. 

“Shit, baby…”

“Don’t talk; just kiss me.” you tell him, without breaking the kiss, and you can feel Barto laugh softly against your mouth.

“As you wish…”

You could get inside, you have the keys to the complex in your hand, but you can’t stop, you can’t stop kissing him and holding him and having your hands discover his skin through and under his clothes. Barto is holding you as if never wanting to let go, his strong hands moving up and down your sides, his tongue doing something so unspeakable to yours you can feel your knees buckle, if it weren’t for the wall now pressed against your back. You are kissing near the complex’s trash bins, in sight of any tenant who just decides to look out of their window, your wound is still hurting and Barto tastes like cheap alcohol and smoke, but it is your first kiss, and it is perfect the way it is.

The moment Barto’s hands touch your buttocks, you jump.

“Shit, sorry… I didn’t mean…”

“No, it’s fine.” you hurry to answer; you’re bright red in the face, he can see it, and you don’t care “I-I don’t mind; quite the opposite in fact.”

Barto laughs, clearly pleased as his hands slide downwards, his fingers grabbing at your flesh. “This is a side of you I didn’t think existed.” he murmurs.

“These stupids clothes don’t count?”

“I think you look very pretty tonight; but you always look nice.”

“Seriously?” you inquire, breaking the kiss to look at him; maybe it’s stupid to ask for reassurance in a moment like this, since Barto is clearly doing his best to prove how much he likes you, but you can’t help it “I thought… I mean, my long skirts and blouses and all the rest are pretty boring compared to what other girls wear…”

“I like your long skirts and blouses and all the rest just fine; and you are sexy as hell whatever you wear.”

“Barto…”

“I’m serious, (name).” he insists, and he really is, as he takes your face in his hands once more “Do you really think I care about the sort of clothes you wear? I know you, and I want you; I want you so much it hurts. And I know I’m not good for you, and that you deserve better, but if you actually give a damn about me, if you just give me a chance, I promise…”

“Ssh…”

A finger on his lips silences Barto. “I do much more than care for you.” you reassure him “I want you too, Barto; because I know you too. I know how clever, kind, and protective you are; I have wanted you for a long time, and I am so happy I got to tell you.”

You share a smile, still holding each other tight; no more words are necessary as Barto lets you lead him to the complex’s door, which a minute later closes behind you.

You find yourself whistling softly, something you only do when you are particularly happy or relaxed -or both things together, like in this particular instance- when, thirty-six hours later, in a sunny early afternoon, you leave the faculty building where most of your classes take place. Your bag, hanging from your shoulder, is as usual heavy with the weight of your books, but by contrast, your step has never been so light as you move towards the main door, walking past students and professors, some of which you greet with a nod without lingering. 

On a day like this you would normally spend the little time before you’re due at work in the library studying, but not today; today you have plans, plans that made focusing on your morning classes harder than ever, but the moment has finally come, and you can’t wait to…

You are so deep in your thoughts, it takes you a moment to realise your phone is ringing in the back pocket of your slacks; you plan on not answering unless it’s an emergency, given the fact you are expected, but reading the name of the screen makes a smile appear on your face.

“Vivi, hi! I’m sorry, I had promised I would…”

“(name)... hi, it’s Cavendish.”

You stop in your tracks, momentarily stunned. “... Cavendish?!”

“Yes, that’s me. I was talking to Vivi, we are old friends, and when I mentioned the Dressrosa we realised we both knew you.” he explains “I thought it wouldn’t be fair to ask her for your number without your permission, but I hope you don’t mind if I called you.”

Glancing at your watch -five minutes more and you’ll be late- as you force yourself not to sound too frustrated, you assure him that no, of course you don’t mind. Cavendish then tells you he heard about your misadventure with his ex, and he can’t help but feel guilty for what happened, even though you assure him he has no fault, especially since your wound will heal soon.

“That is very good to hear. The truth is… well, I was wondering if you’d let me buy you a drink sometimes? I know you… well, you didn’t let me kiss you, but we did have fun together, didn’t we? I’d really like to get to know you better. Just a drink, I promise I won’t do anything you don’t want.”

You thank him for the offer, and admit you enjoyed spending time with him at the club, but, you add, you are going on a date right now, and at the moment you are not interested in seeing anyone else.

Cavendish, to his credit, takes it pretty well. “I see. Well, have a good-day then.”

“You too, Cavendish. Thanks for asking, and will you please tell Vivi I’ll call her soon?”

He promises he will, after which you say your good-bye and finally close the call. 

Well, that was unexpected, you think as you put your phone away, but you know declining the request for a date was the right thing to do; you doubt you and Cavendish would have much to talk about, and he’ll surely find someone else to date soon… just like you have.

Barto is waiting for you in front of the university’s courtyard, sat on his bike, and grins happily when he sees you approach. “Here’s my woman!”

“I’m here! Sorry, I got caught up.”

“I already thought you had changed your mind…”

“Never.” you assure him decisively “Now come here, I need a kiss.”

You share one, long and passionate, indifferent to the many students and professors, some of whom know you personally, surrounding you; both of you are smiling when you part.

“Are you sure you don’t mind coming?”

“Of course not; if you like this bar, I want to see it as well. We have just the time for a drink before work.”

“Can’t we skip it and spend the rest of the day in bed at my place? I’m kidding, I’m kidding.” Barto laughs, before opening the tail box “You can put your books here.”

You do, and a minute later you are sitting on the bike behind him, happily holding Barto’s warm, solid body tight; he grins as he starts the engine. “I won’t let you fall, I promise.”

“I know you won’t; I just like hugging you.”

“Ah, well, in that case…”

You are both smiling; a moment later the roar of the engine has filled the air, and the bike is speeding down the road, carrying you both away under the early afternoon sky. 

4 slasher bastards

manhandling follow up ( on bsky )