Archive of Our Own

To borrow a quote: If people were rain, you were a drizzle and Donquixote Doflamingo was a desert.

He sweeps in front of you, straw and oats wrapped in a spill of red velvet and shrouded in feathery blush pink. A casual nod of his head causes his men to flank you protectively; they stand silent and stoic behind their captain as he tilts his head this way and that, hawk-like, examining the duo in front of you. One tall, mournful-looking man, and a short one with a hunger-sharpened face like a rat.

He asks if they're having fun.

Stay outta this, the rat-like man snarls, she owes us for her little tricks. We paid for that statuette—

You object. It was paid in stolen money, which you'll be investigated for—

"You little bitch—"

He stops abruptly, frozen in place. 

"Now, now," Doflamingo says. His teeth are bared in what could be considered a smile, were it not so malevolent. His teeth are normal, you suppose, but they seem sharp somehow. "I asked you a question and you're being terribly rude.”

"No, we're not fucking having fun, and you can go the fuck away and mind yer own business."

That’s not nice at all, says a huge man beside you; Machvise, you’ve seen his wanted poster.

No, Doflamingo agrees, it isn’t.

The taller man in front of you curses again and takes two forceful steps in your direction. Doflamingo’s fingers twitch just in front of your face. He has large hands, you think absently; everyone here is so damn big.

The man in front of you splits neatly into 6 pieces.

“Oh my god.” Bile rises in your throat, and you shut your eyes. The impression of those white, sharp teeth floats in the negative space behind your eyelids. Doflamingo’s laughter rings in your ears.

“Well?” he asks. “Are you going to be more polite? The privilege of being rude belongs to the strong, after all, and you strike me as a weakling.”

Shit, yes, stammers the remaining man. Uh—wh-what did he want? Did Doflamingo want you? Take whatever. Just—Just leave him alone—

Doflamingo hums, thinks he can beg harder than that.

Please, you hear. You cringe, hearing the rattle of a gun being loaded, the click of a safety being disengaged. Please.

“Oh dear,” Doflamingo says. You can hear the smile in his voice. “I don’t recall asking you to go that far.”

Please—

Bang.

“Well then,” he says. You hear the shuffling of feet and force your eyes open, your pulse a rapid drumbeat beneath clammy skin. The lower half of Doflamingo’s coat obscures the carnage behind him, so you take a deep breath and force yourself to raise your eyes to his face. He grins at you, looking for a reaction. 

You clear your throat. Stammer out a thank you that you hope will pacify him.

“You’re quite welcome,” he says. “How nice for you. Your life is saved and you don’t owe anybody anything! Except for me, of course. You owe me very much indeed now, wouldn’t you say?”

...Yes.

You’re not a fool. You’ve heard of the Donquixote Family before, and what happens to those who get on its bad side.

He seems to find this whole situation much funnier than you, observing your trembling hands with some satisfaction. Doflamingo hops backwards and lightly kicks something at you; you shudder as a severed hand flops and comes to a rest in the dirt, tumbling like some kind of hellish football.

You look like you need a hand, he says with a sly grin and a gesture towards your handcuffs. With a flick of his fingers, they fall away, sliced neatly in half. He smiles broadly. “A life saved means a life owed, right? That’s only fair. So, welcome to the family.”

Welcome to the Family, he means.

You’re less a... Family member and more of a prisoner, but there’s not much room to argue when you’re flanked on each side by Machvise and Trebol. Doflamingo stands up and walks away without waiting for a response. You scramble to your feet and follow after him, half-jogging to keep up with his absurdly long stride. To be honest, this is an upgrade; compared to conning criminals and having to keep one eye open when you sleep, you’ve acquired a certain level of security and permanent employment. There are dozens of pirates always clamoring to join the Donquixote Family, so it can’t be that bad of a deal; and if nothing else, Doflamingo seems like he takes care of his own.

He gives you a devil fruit when you return to the Donquixote Family’s hideout.

It’s not like these things are easy to come by; actually, it’s the first time you’ve seen the fruit uneaten in your entire life, considering the exorbitant price and rarity. It’s bright purple with flower-like protrusions drooping on every side.

“The petal-petal fruit,” he says. A Paramecia? Maybe even a Logia; even more expensive than you’d thought. “Go on, take a bite.”

“What if I don’t want to?”

Doflamingo laughs. “Eat, or I’ll make you.” He twists his hand and your arms reach out to pick up the fruit of their own accord. You swallow down a flash of panic at the loss of control.

“Okay! Okay. I’ll eat it.”

He lets you go and watches you turn the fruit over, wondering if you should peel it. The skin is fairly soft under your hands, so you opt to bite in directly. It tastes awful, like rotting vegetables, and you swallow the mouthful through sheer force of will.

And then you burst into petals.

Just as quickly, you gather yourself back together. It’s an oddly intuitive feeling, like your body is responding to even the slightest desire to change your form, and that somehow makes it difficult to control. Your hands flake and peel, little bits of purple flower drifting to the floor.

You look at Doflamingo, who’s still watching you. “Good for you,” he says.

“What is this good for?” You can’t say there’s much use to just drifting apart like this. It's not like the navy admirals, made of ice or magma or light itself. It's not like those fruits that can produce objects or change items, either; you’re neither destructive nor constructive.

Carrying messages. Spying. He shrugs. Whatever you can do to earn your keep. You can hardly freeload off one of the seven warlords of the sea, after all. 

You look down at your hands, willing them back to smooth flesh. That much sounds okay. It's not murder, at least. 

"You're not capable of murder," Doflamingo says, as if reading your mind. It's a criticism coming out of his mouth. He loses interest in you then, turning his attention back to his bottle of wine, and you escape to practice using your new powers. 

(You look up the petals in a book later; they're from the anemone flower. Buffalo, peering over your shoulder, takes to calling you by the flower's name. It spreads quickly, until that's all anyone calls you. 

It's better than your real name. You can keep that much as your own, privately tucked away from him.)

You're kept on something of a tight leash when he first takes you on a job. Maybe he can see the hesitance you're trying to mask, the tension in your limbs when there's a crowd and you consider if you could just slip away—but he holds so many strings, this puppet master, and your chances are slimmer outside of Doflamingo's protection. Nonexistent if he feels compelled to chase. And those teeth seem awfully sharp and hungry; who's to say he wouldn't just go for your throat?

Instead you walk hurriedly in his wake, one step behind and off to the side; a blind spot, or so you'd think, but Doflamingo talks to you casually as he ambles along and his fingers twitch if you stray a little too far.

This time he's meeting another pirate crew, exchanging a real devil fruit. You're just decoration, he explains with a grin (it's not malicious, or—well, it's not any more malicious than usual). It's useful if they don’t know what you do, if they speculate that maybe you're a little more capable than the reality. Do you have any other talents?

You've got good aim, and you know your way around a pistol. He raises his eyebrows when you say so, pointing out gleefully that you've never killed anyone. 

"You can be my first, if you want," you offer, a sharpness in your tone that you can't quite seem to suppress around Doflamingo. He laughs at that. You're welcome to attempt, he says. Wouldn't it be a sight if you succeeded? Not that you ever could. 

You know that much—

"Or was that a proposition?"

—but it doesn't stop you from wanting to try.

The exchange goes smoothly. Doflamingo does most of the talking. He's charismatic and awfully persuasive; you know the price for the fruit (a truly staggering amount of beri. Enough to cover your living expenses for years, if not the rest of your life) but he still demands more, and the nervous background chatter suggests that the pirates find him very difficult to refuse.

He secures a pair of particularly nice looking pistols in addition to the chests of coins stacked on the deck and hands them to you, looking enormously pleased with himself. You gingerly stick them in your belt, double checking the safeties. They're heavy and awkward, but you have nowhere else to put them. The image of your legs getting blown to bits hovers in the back of your mind.

The other captain remarks on Joker’s generosity with ill-concealed bitterness. He's clearly feeling the loss of his favourite weapons. Doflamingo's hand lands on your head and you flinch—or try to, but your body doesn't respond. You stand rooted in place as he pats you almost affectionately and says a few meaningless words about compensation and incentive, and then your body jerkily turns around and follows him back the way you came. Soft grunts of effort and the clinking of coin trail after you, but you find it impossible to turn your head and look.

As loud as you dare (don't get caught, wait until you're out of earshot, you can't look and check), you ask Doflamingo why he has assumed control of your body.

Because he wanted to. There’s a matter of fact tone to his voice, as if dominion over your every movement is only natural. He sounds almost surprised that you’d bother asking.

He does release you, though. You stumble, unprepared, and instinctively catch his hand for balance. Someone behind you drops one of the chests; you hear a thud and a shout of surprise before another voice immediately declares that everything is fine and the young master doesn’t need to worry.

Doflamingo doesn’t react at all, to either the chaos behind him or to your hand curling around his fingers. You wonder if his mind is elsewhere, or if he's letting you test the waters like a crocodile, ready to close steel jaws around any part of you that ventures too close.

You let go hurriedly. It’s better not to risk your limbs.

“Don’t get cocky,” Gladius says one day.

You aren't really sure what he's talking about and your face shows it, but you nod slowly in response. Pissing off a walking explosion isn't exactly smart.

The young master doesn't favour you, Gladius insists, and if you think so then it's just your own stupidity.

(You hadn't been thinking so.)

He stalks away, leaving you bewildered, and Baby 5 sidles up to you with a sweet little smile.

“He asks for you more often than Gladius,” she says softly, her eyes darting nervously in the man’s direction between every few words. She’s still so young, is Doflamingo building a crew out of children? Before this, you heard, there was also Law. They don’t talk about him in front of Doflamingo, so you don’t either.

Baby 5 thinks Gladius is jealous. You think he’s cracked in the head. One too many explosions rattled his brain loose if he thinks Doflamingo feels anything for you beyond mild interest. You’re useful for business, perhaps more so than Gladius thanks to your devil fruit abilities. You’re a glorified messenger pigeon. That’s all there is to it. She leaves you to ponder this, called away by Buffalo for some undoubtedly bad idea (if the smile on his face is anything to go by).

You wander the local market, feeling adrift without any orders. There was no rule expressed to you that you needed to stay close during downtime, and you’re equipped with a baby den den mushi, so it’s probably fine. You barter with a woman for some peaches (two is plenty, thank you, are they in season? oh, then I’ll take three. I don’t need more, they’re just for me. thank you.) and eat two as you walk around, fingers sticky with sweet juice, trying to ignore how the pale flesh transitioning to blood red pits reminds you of when Doflamingo—the, when he—when you met. You buy a new lockbox, to keep your meagre possessions in. The return to regular civilization and the accompanying normal humans make you feel a bit steadier.

You’re approached casually in the street by some recruiter searching for pretty barmaids. You politely decline, but briefly enjoy a fantasy of a normal life. It doesn’t seem right somehow, like it’s too late for you to enjoy that luxury. A swell of resentment overtakes you, and you force it away because there could be nothing dumber than running from Donquixote Doflamingo to wait tables for a living instead. Eventually the crowds thin, the sun sets, and you return to your new home.

Doflamingo asks what you did that day. You describe the events with a sloth-like eagerness, making him force each and every detail out of you.

What a nice day, he says at the end. You don’t quite know what to make of his tone, and decide to beat a hasty retreat before he can say anything else. The remaining peach you had saved is offered up to distract him on your way out, and you miss the calculating look that crosses his face as you flee the room.

🎕

The man who tried to offer you a job is dead within the week. So is his entire family; the bar you were invited to was wiped from the face of the earth. Doflamingo laughs in your face when you ask him why.

"I was lookin' out for you," he says, leaning back in his chair. "Ain't gonna find a better job than with me, sweetheart. We wouldn't want you to be misled! You, a barmaid? A barmaid with a devil fruit? Don’t make me laugh."

You call him crazy, prompting an even louder laugh.

What's crazy, he exclaims, is how many people think they can steal you from right under his nose! It's a crying shame, how witless people are these days.

You suppress your anger poorly; it bleeds out into the fold of your arms over your chest, the jut of your chin and the narrowing of your eyes. It’s not like you’re branded as his or anything.

...Or so you’d like to argue, but Doflamingo tends to take such statements as suggestions. You resist throwing a tantrum and curtly excuse yourself instead, heading out into town. It’s maddening how he acted as though you’re some kind of possession constantly at risk of being stolen.

You’re barely finished stewing over that thought before the very thing Doflamingo had been worried about happens. On your way out of the local market, preoccupied with a bag of fruit and chocolates, someone grabs you from behind and slaps a pair of sea prism cuffs on you before you can even figure out what’s happening.

“Bedtime,” someone says in your ear, and then a sharp blow to the back of your head turns your lights out.

You wake up an indeterminate amount of time later, long enough that your stomach is cramping with hunger. They’ve left you in a dark, cold cell with sea prism stone bars—an abandoned marine prison without hope of even the faintest facade of justice. There’s a window, at least, which stares out onto a bleak, rocky shore and distant ocean. You aren’t quite sure where you are, but it seems remote enough that rescue is unlikely. Worst case, you could be outside the Grand Line.

Would Doflamingo even come for you anyway? As you settle onto the hard bunk and wrap a thin blanket around yourself, you aren’t so sure. You’ve seen him discard people like broken toys before; fragile little dolls that failed him in one way or another. It was a different story before you got snatched like a helpless civilian, but this would be counted as a rather shameful failure.

You find out later, in bits and pieces of conversation filtered through the wooden cell block door, that you’ve been kidnapped by a group of slavers. It was bad luck that they saw you use your ability, since you’re still a little unused to shifting between forms; sometimes it happens subconsciously. A devil fruit user fetches a high price as a pet, and you’re not bad to look at.

They took the guns Doflamingo gave you, too. That’s more irritating than you expected. You haven’t had a chance to use them yet. You’ll have to retrieve them somehow if you manage an escape.

Your captors throw you a few stale crusts of bread and a glass of cloudy, lukewarm water once they realize you’ve regained consciousness. You crunch through them one by one; a bandit watches you with an ugly sneer on his face as you chew, staring back at him defiantly.

You consider fighting him if he enters the cell, but his arms are thick with corded muscles and his posture radiates aggression. Physical combat isn't your strong suit, so you eat. He takes away the glass afterwards and leaves you in silence for two days.

The time passes slower than you expected. Without Sugar’s laughter, without Buffalo’s quips. Without Doflamingo pulling some bullshit that you can spend hours complaining about.

After those two days, your captors come back; there’s another little man with a pinched face, watching as you force down the scraps of food thrown inside your cell. You intend to survive this, because at this point you’ve survived enough shit that dying of thirst in some out-of-the-way prison just doesn’t seem sufficiently dramatic. You’ll go out with a bang; in one of those wars Doflamingo keeps feeding, no doubt, or up against someone much larger and angrier. Maybe walking the plank. The possibilities are endless, really.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the creak of the cell door. The tired-looking man rattles your cage a little, giving you a crooked and ugly little smile.

“How we doin’, little flower?”

You’d like it if anyone remembered you're not a flower, but instead a human. You huddle closer to the wall, shrouded in moth-eaten fabric, and stare silently until his smile fades into a sullen frown. That’s alright, he says, you’ll be sold soon enough and then he’ll see how rebellious you want to be.

The human markets don’t scare you. If anything, there’s a better chance that Doflamingo would find you there, seeing as he deals there often enough himself. It's distasteful, but unharmed merchandise sells better. The only problem is if... if he doesn’t come for you. If you’re sold to a Celestial Dragon; there’s no saving you from that. You cast an eye around the cell, feigning disinterest at the threat, and come up empty of anything to use as a weapon or means of escape.

It's fine. Well, it's looking pretty grim actually, but you're willing to hope that Doflamingo will make at least a token effort to find you, and you can last until then.

You’re notified with an excessive amount of glee that your meals will be decreased until you’re obedient. You meet this revelation with more silence, hoping to infuriate them into telling you more about their plans, but your captor just kicks the cell door and leaves.

This time it’s three days of solitude. Your ears attune to the sound of the ocean outside, and to conserve what little energy you have, you stop moving almost entirely, Then your muscles cramp, begging for exercise, and you’re forced to pace the small space as a distraction. Thirst begins to gnaw at your throat, faint and then all-consuming; you consider licking the walls, where sea spray condenses into little droplets that trail down the cold stone. You wait.

And wait.

And wait.

The fourth morning passes at a snail’s pace. The pinched man from before comes back, a glass of water in hand which he sets down outside the cell with a smirk, watching your eyes zero in on it with intense focus.

“Are you ready to behave?” He asks. You drag your eyes away from the glass, towards his face, and notice the pistols at his hips. Your pistols. You consider what behaving means.

You nod. This is an opportunity, and not one you’ll get again.

He opens the door and steps inside, watching you cautiously. You stay still as he approaches. Closer. Closer. Too close for comfort.

“What are you doing,” you ask, stalling as a nervous tension builds in your limbs. He doesn’t answer, crowding you back towards your bunk.

Your throat is so dry.

Without warning, you lunge at his waist. Your bound hands scrabble for one of the guns and unholster it as you shoulder check him to the ground and then drop to straddle him, flicking off the safety and pointing it at his forehead. The trembling of your arms means little at such close range.

“Don’t move,” you croak. You know that doing this would mean every other pirate in the hideout comes running, and you have no idea how many that is. You know it’s a foolish move.

You’re so thirsty.

His arm twitches, reaching for the remaining pistol. You can’t afford to let him overpower you in this state, certain you would lose, and so you do the only thing you know will ensure victory—

You pull the trigger.

Bang.

You turn your gaze away as soon as the shot is fired, unwilling to confront the consequences of your actions more than absolutely necessary. The door at the end of the hallway flies open, slamming against the wall as three, four pirates rush in. They take in the scene faster than you’d hoped.

One and two go down with shots to the chest and face. You weren’t lying when you told Doflamingo that you have good aim. Three steps over their bodies, gets a little farther—you hit him in the shoulder instead, a non-lethal shot—and he sprints as far as the cell opening before you get him again in the gut. He drops to the floor with an agonized gasp that makes you recoil.

The fourth one dodges two shots and then you’re out. The empty click of the pistol is like a timer starting on a death clock, and you stumble backwards until your heel, sticky with rapidly pooling blood, hits your very first victim. You can’t afford to turn your back so you twist your body and grope blindly for the other pistol you know is there. It takes precious seconds to fumble free the gun from his belt, and you get the last slaver three times in the chest from a range of four feet. He jerks back and falls with a sickening thump, cracking his head against the stone floor.

And then it’s quiet, save the soft wheezing of the pirate you hadn’t killed; the one bleeding out within arm’s reach of that damned glass of water. You rifle around on both the bodies inside the cell and come up empty of keys, your hands now red and sticky too, clumsy with exhaustion. The pistols lay abandoned on the floor beside you.

You don’t want to go over there. You’re pretty certain he’s still conscious, that he’ll grab for you if you get too close, but you need the water.

His labored breathing is interrupted by a faint commotion from the other end of the hallway. You snatch up the gun with three shots still left in it and position yourself beside the cell door, at an angle where the bars can’t interfere with your aim.

Diamante pokes his head into the room. “Found her, Doffy,” he says.

Doflamingo strolls into the room and takes stock of the corpses littering the cell block, whistling as though impressed. He walks over them to get to you; you hear the crunch of a bone under his foot and your stomach turns as you retch. Thankfully there’s nothing left to come up.

He kicks the surviving slaver in the stomach, hard, and the man makes a choked noise before losing consciousness. That’s enough for you; you don’t care if he’s dead or not, dropping the pistol and scrambling past Doflamingo’s legs like an animal to snatch at the glass of water and down half of it.

It feels so good for just a second, before a churning hunger awakes in your gut. It’s painful enough to keep you hunched over, breathing hard in an effort to control the agony and nausea.

“Guess you had it in you after all,” Doflamingo says behind you with a laugh. There’s a rustling sound as he kicks at the bodies again, looking them over before bending down to pick up the keys spilling out of one’s pockets. He undoes your shackles and your body immediately hurts even worse, without the muted and sluggish veil of devil fruit suppression to distract you. You feel grimy and exhausted as the blood dries on your hands, trembling as you fight to stay standing, and your eyes are so heavy they begin to close of their own accord.

You’re lifted into a sturdy set of arms before you can fall asleep where you stand. They cradle you against a shockingly warm body. Gingerly, you open your eyes to soft pink feathers and a broad chest.

Doflamingo still wears the same wide grin as he hefts you in his arms. “You did a pretty good job here,” Doflamingo says. He smells like sharp cologne and the metallic tang of blood; and underneath that, something like lemons.

An odd warmth blooms in your chest at that. It’s unexpected, that’s all. You thought he would get angrier at you.

You tell him you didn't think he was coming, earning a raised brow in return.

“You’re one of mine,” Doflamingo replies as he strides towards the door, “and I don’t abandon my family.” 

That's reassuring, emboldens you a little more than normal. You confide that you waited for him, your ear pressed against his heart. His steps pause for half a second, but the rhythmic beating remains unchanged. 

“Don't get caught again. I don't tolerate repeat failures.”

You glance up at the sharp line of his jaw. At his sharp, white teeth. He doesn't look down at you, already focusing on telling Giolla something else. Your pistols are dumped back in your lap by Diamante, where your fingers curl weakly around them. You can't afford for this to happen again. That much you can agree on.

If you’d thought Doflamingo was overly concerned about your whereabouts before, you had gravely underestimated your boss’s capability for being an annoyance.

He starts acting clingy after that. Not in a cute way, either. That shit eating smile edges your vision a dozen times a day as he just watches you go about your business, observing your interactions with Baby 5 and Buffalo or hovering over your shoulder while you try to read. He settles himself beside Machvise when you’re chatting and studiously ignores you while refusing to leave you alone, like a proud housecat (though nothing else about him is particularly domesticated, and you might liken him to a lion with his rosy mane rather than its smaller relations); or sometimes he stares directly at you, unnervingly persistent until you ask what his problem is only to receive a mocking shrug in return.

Gladius becomes even more openly contemptuous of you in response. The others are mostly content to leave you well enough alone.

"Thanks, I wanted to be a social pariah," you quip when he casually chases away a messenger for the umpteenth time, lounging in the alcove of a nearby window. His presence is enough to make them flee the room. You shiver as the man hurries past you, a faint puff of wind from the door closing enough to irritate your sensitive skin; despite the passage of time, you seem to have retained that chill from the cell you were trapped in weeks ago.

Doflamingo laughs. “Are you feeling troubled by my care and concern?”

Yes. Not that you can say that. It's not as if you have much of a say in whatever he chooses to do. It's just—tiresome, feeling his eyes on you like that. It's starting to provoke some kind of anxiety response, your heart rate kicking up a notch and limbs twitching with nervous energy. You fiddle with the straps of your pistol holster, avoiding his gaze.

"That hurts, anemone, it truly wounds my feelings," he says. And then laughs again, a little more derisively than before.

You ask why he's crowding you so much, shooting for casual and landing somewhere in the realm of shrill. Doflamingo replies that he's simply protecting his investment, his beloved family, who has proven herself incapable of handling danger.

So—he could leash you to someone else. You wouldn't mind Pica, really, you can deal—

Surely you can bargain better than that, he says, the corner of his mouth curling upwards. If you can come up with a worthy proposal, he might entertain the idea. He snickers to himself at the thought, no doubt imagining your face when he denies you anyway.

Gladius is right. You're some kind of pet kept for his amusement. This is just another game for him.

You ask what would make him leave you alone and he flashes you a brilliant, pearlescent smile in response.

Grow some claws, he says. Show him you’re not just a pretty little thing waiting to be plucked. His amused smile only stretches wider when you yank a pistol free from your hip and aim it at him, cheeks growing hot with humiliation; in an instant your body jerks to its knees and assumes an apologetic posture.

Better luck next time, he says, but he gives you points for spirit. Extra when you curse him out with every word Gladius has ever leveled at you.

A few days later, when you’ve made yourself comfortable outside in the grass with a book, Doflamingo tosses a couple of men at your feet. They’re tied up with rope, a little bit scuffed and dirty, and very afraid.

Spring cleaning, he says. He seems to be in an awfully good mood, but that’s nothing unusual when those around him are miserable.

You cock your head, attempting to get a handle on what exactly he wants you to do here. Doflamingo nudges one of the men with his foot; the man shakes with fear, staring at you with pleading eyes.

“A couple of rats tried to nibble at our coffers,” Doflamingo says, “and as such, they need to be exterminated. Don’t you think so?”

A cold feeling trickles down your spine. “Me? ”

“Why not? I’m helping you grow those claws.” 

He smiles. It’s almost encouraging, somewhere south of reassuring. You can tell that he wants to upset you. Wants to bring you back to that dank cell, the smell of blood. This is probably delayed retribution for getting captured.

Your throat feels dry again. You swallow hard. “I don’t want to.” Stupid. You don’t seem to learn. Doflamingo laughs in response. That’s expected; it rarely matters here whether you want to do something or not. 

You get to your feet and pull a gun from your belt, feeling the cold weight of it in your hand.

Please don’t, says one of the men. His voice is thick with tears. You can’t help but sympathize; it’s not like you’ve never stolen before. This isn’t kill or be killed, it’s not the same as when you were about to be assaulted, you don’t have to—

"What, you're not gonna do it? Do you need a demonstration?"

While you were thinking about how to get out of doing this, Doflamingo had moved close by. He looms behind you, murmuring in your ear like the devil himself. You feel the brush of his chin against your hair, the heat of his body against your back as he leans over your shoulder and wraps his fingers over yours on the gun and aims. Doflamingo's hand doesn't tremble like yours, and he squeezes the trigger almost lovingly. 

You're ashamed of how well his conditioning has worked; his presence is familiar, sparking a warmth in your gut that makes the nausea bearable. The next shot is of your own volition, and you feel ashamed of that too. 

It is kill or be killed. Doflamingo will make sure of that, meting out punishment for every failure. You turn your head, averting your eyes from the mess staining your reading spot (and it’s disgusting, how you start thinking about where you’ll sit now instead of the life you’ve taken, but your survival has always been your first priority) and feel Doflamingo’s hand gently patting your head.

Well done, he says. Like you’re a pet who performed a trick. Your heart lurches uncomfortably as you remind yourself of that, and you say nothing in response.

You don’t take much notice when your chill gets worse.

At first you think maybe the persistent coldness of your body is because of work. Doflamingo makes you travel often, and despite the ease with which you’ve settled into using your devil fruit, you can still sense the frigid air as you drift higher and higher. You’re not built tall and strong like he is; maybe some difference in your constitution is making you catch colds. The Grand Line has unpredictable weather, maybe that has something to do with it?

You can give yourself this excuse for the chill, and the occasional trembling, and even the dizziness. 

But then you start to cough.

It’s a normal cough, initially, though unaccompanied by the nasal congestion that you tend to associate with a cold. Your throat isn’t even sore, until you cough so much that it becomes raw and aching. It feels like there’s some kind of phlegm you can’t quite cough up.

The others avoid you even more than usual, unwilling to catch your cold. Doflamingo says nothing much about this, except to assign you a single room, which suits you just fine. He seems to think you can take care of your own health, laughing uproariously when you ask if he isn’t worried about catching your cold.

“Me? You think I could get sick? From someone like you? That ain’t gonna happen.” It sounds ridiculous (doesn’t everyone get sick? germs are germs), but Doflamingo says it with such confidence that you believe him. It’s something of a relief to be treated normally when Giolla acts as if you’re carrying the plague.

You contemplate seeing a doctor. Then you think about what would happen to the doctor if they fail to cure you, so you don’t. It’s not that bad anyway, you’ll probably just get over it.

You’re on your way home from buying oranges, hoping citrus will somehow fix this. Orange juice is good for a cold, right? You hope so. You just manage to close the bedroom door when you start to cough again.

The storm in your lungs claws its way up your throat and you cough, longer and harder than before, violently enough that your skin starts flaking again as you lose control of your body. It’s been a while since that last happened; both your arms have gone loose and formless by the time you finally hack and spit free a few purple petals. They’ve never come loose inside you before. That’s a little concerning. Are devil fruits supposed to do this?

A whisper in the back of your head asks if maybe you’re (really, worryingly) sick. You’ve heard of this before, after all; but it’s hard to tell, when what you’re coughing up looks the same as your own body.

You feel another cough building and swallow hard before scattering to the winds, hoping it might solve the problem, but something inside you jerks and your body abruptly gathers itself back together, sending you crashing to your hands and knees and choking until another wet glob of petals comes free. This time you inspect them closely, and feel that the petals look somewhat different than normal.

Your first thought is ah, fuck. Your second is that Doflamingo shouldn’t find out.

You do a good job of hiding it when the petals start coming up regularly. For a while, the coughs can be discreetly hidden behind a hand or a handkerchief. Most of the Donquixote Family don’t seem to care much about the ghostly pallor of your skin or your fits of trembling, aside from Gladius demanding you stay well away from him.

Baby 5 asks after you in a general sort of way, more curious than worried. You tell her that you have a persistent cold and she quickly loses interest. Giolla asks after you, too, wondering if you’re sure you aren’t contagious. You tell her you’re not sure, because being alone is better now. Gives you more chances to hide the evidence of your condition.

Señor Pink observes you in silence for a little longer than strictly necessary, whenever he’s reporting back to Doflamingo. He doesn’t say anything, so you don’t either.

Doflamingo doesn’t take much interest in your condition until you start losing control of your body again in front of him, trailing petals when you enter his room to report. His eyebrows raise as he watches you flake apart slowly (cold, you’re often cold now) and then collect yourself back into human shape (hot, burning up, you’re going to start sweating any second).

“Somethin’ wrong?” he sneers. You shake your head. Just feeling a little under the weather. No, you don’t need to see a doctor. You just need some rest.

He frowns a little bit at that. You’ve been saying as much for a few weeks now, so it’s obvious enough that you’re either lying or not resting. Doflamingo beckons you over to him and you approach reluctantly; it’s either by choice or by parasite string with him, and you’d rather retain control of your limbs.

One large hand settles over your forehead; he frowns harder at whatever temperature he feels, but his hand is still hot against your skin, so you think it must not be a fever. Rest, he commands, gesturing at the couch beside him. The irritation lingers on his face when you lie down obediently beside him, but he says nothing further, shaking open a newspaper that was on the table beside him.

You relax while he reads, and this is actually kind of nice; everyone else is out and he’s quiet, only muttering the occasional headline or tidbit that sounds interesting. The low rumble of Doflamingo’s voice and the creaking of the couch’s old springs are the only sounds to disrupt the silence surrounding you. As you’re lulled to sleep, a desire rises within you to retain this peace. It’s good like this, just the two of you…

Something unfurls in your chest. The sensation is unpleasant, brushing against some part of you that’s normally untouched, and it tickles in a way that makes you jerk upright and start coughing again. You cough so hard you can’t breathe, and you’re choking, you’re suffocating—

Doflamingo says something you can’t understand through the rising panic that you’re actually dying. You try to communicate some excuse like you’re about to vomit, but there’s no air to make the sounds. You leap off the couch and stumble blindly out the door, hoping that he won’t follow, and when you’re out of sight you heave and gag until another glob of petals comes free, this time stuck together with blood. You can feel it coating your throat as you gasp for air, as you swallow again and again in an effort to get rid of whatever is still stuck in your throat.

You wish you had some water. The dryness of your throat is an unpleasant memory.

“Anemone.”

Doflamingo is standing behind you. The perpetual smile that normally adorns his face has faded into nothingness as he takes in the violet petals scattered around you and the tears in your eyes. 

“What's this,” he asks, but it's not so much a question as a demand. 

Sorry, you mumble, mouth still full of fresh petals and the taste of blood. You try spitting a few more into your hands as discreetly as you can and watch his fingers curl with directionless violence. 

"I didn't ask for an apology, I asked what is this. "

You know from experience that Doflamingo will drag the words out of you, syllable by painful syllable, so you swallow hard again to try and clear your throat. You can still feel a petal stuck in your esophagus, another on the roof of your mouth. Your lungs feel thick with them.

So you tell him. They're flower petals. Which you coughed up.

His voice takes on a familiar, terrible tone as he says, Hanahaki.

You nod. 

For whom, is his next question. He starts pacing slowly around you then, the smile returning to his face with a razor sharp edge; there's no real humour to it, but there rarely is. He takes a few guesses—Señor Pink? Gladius? Diamante?

"Dof—" Where is this coming from? You haven’t even spoken to Diamante.

"How unfortunate for you. I doubt any of them would reciprocate your feelings. Don't worry, I'll arrange for a surgeon. You won't feel a thing!"

"Donquixote Doflamingo, it's you."

His footsteps slow to a halt behind you. 

Why, he asks. For the first time that you can recall, you hear genuine bafflement in Doflamingo's voice.

You don't know. Why does anybody fall in love? It just happened. It doesn’t feel like love. It’s dependence, maybe. You hate him. You crave his approval. You would prefer to see him dead. You feel safer when he’s nearby.

You’re not safer when he’s nearby. You know that, intellectually speaking.

Maybe it’s because you just don’t have anybody else. Maybe you’ve been deluding yourself about the favor he’s shown you. You can still feel the ghost of his hand against your forehead, can recall the feeling of being cradled against his chest; maybe you’re just that touch starved, that you’ll fall in love with the only person to touch you in recent memory.

You look down at the scattered petals, resisting the urge to cough again. Bitterly, you tell him that you didn't ask for this. You knew he wouldn't reciprocate.

The tapping of his shoes resumes; he walks around you again, until he's standing in front of you, and then he crushes the scattered scraps of flower deliberately under his heel. Doflamingo crouches in front of you, his feathered coat pooling on the floor around him, and you stare at yourself in the reflection of his sunglasses.

A stray petal is stuck to your lip, which he reaches out and brushes away with an uncharacteristic tenderness that makes your heart ache. A complicated series of expressions crosses his face, like he can’t decide whether to be upset at you or not. Disgust, confusion, scorn, pity—that last one smarts enough to make you close your eyes.

"How could I?" he asks. "We're as different as heaven and earth, you and I."

You know that. He knows that you know. The hand lingering near your lips moves gently across your cheek in the ghost of a caress, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear.

"I'll get a doctor," Doflamingo says, "and we'll solve this right away. Don't worry your pretty little head about it; you're my family, and I always take care of my own."

He means for you to undergo surgery. That’s fine. You don't want any of this, but you especially don’t want to die for him.

They’re hydrangeas, you’re told.

Doflamingo puts you up in the best hospital money can buy ‘round these parts; Hanahaki is a common enough disease that most doctors are familiar with it, and surgery is (you’re told) a simple affair using seastone to stabilize your body. They put you under and you wake up numb, with bandages wound over your chest and an odd sense of emptiness.

“How are you feeling?” asks Señor Pink. He waits in silence while you contemplate the question, turning the pages of a book he seemed to be reading at your bedside.

...Sad, you tell him. The word falls soft from your lips, a droplet disturbing the water collecting behind your eyes, but you don’t cry.

That so? He licks his thumb and turns another page. Tells you to suck it up. It’ll pass.

You pick up on the thread of concern over your well-being slipped between his words. You thank him for it and don't receive any response.

Another hour or two passes in relative silence. Señor Pink doesn’t leave you alone, but neither does he attempt to make conversation, and you’re just as content to allow your thoughts to flatline for a little while.

“The young master should be here soon,” he says finally. The sudden words make you jolt a little.

He’s coming?

Señor Pink tells you that you’re fit to be discharged soon, and Doflamingo said he’d come pick you up.

Oh.

You wait for your pulse to speed up, for a rush of excitement or a nervous flutter of your heart, and you feel...nothing.

That should be good. It should be good, but you feel the absence of warmth like a drafty window.

Oh, you say, feeling the ocean inside you finally rise and spill over. Señor Pink only shifts a little bit sideways in his chair, away from you, and pretends he doesn’t hear anything. 

You're discharged into Doflamingo's care with instructions to take it easy for another few weeks. Your body is still recovering, after all. Doflamingo takes this more seriously than you expected, keeping a suffocating closeness that has more than a few people eyeing you with varying levels of jealousy and contempt. 

Gladius takes to making mocking remarks about a collar around your neck; you retaliate by saying he doesn't need one to sit and heel when his master says so, and the feathery mountain at your side prevents any lasting consequences to your person (much to Gladius' displeasure). 

The timing couldn’t be much worse. The Family is on the move; and as such, everyone is forced into closer quarters. Your bitter feud is judged hazardous enough to your health that Doflamingo says you'll stay with him rather than bunking with the other officers. 

Buffalo finds this hilarious. You do your best to squirm out of it. You could stay with Baby 5, or...Giolla might let you sleep on the floor, now that she knows you’re not contagious—

"You don’t like the idea?" Doflamingo asks, dangerously good-natured, and that's that.

His room is less a room than an entire suite; there's a spacious sitting area, laden with throw pillows on stiff brocaded couches. The curtains are heavy and offer more than enough shelter from the light of day, spanning ceiling to floor, where they kiss silky embroidered rugs over dark lacquered floors.

The bedroom is even darker and more comfortable looking, a fitting cave for a powerful beast. You've never seen such a luxurious bed in your entire life. Doflamingo watches you pad around the space for a couple of minutes, an amused little smirk playing at the edges of his mouth, before stripping half the bedding and dumping it on a couch.

He offers you the pick of where to sleep. The idea of putting your ten foot tall captain on one of those delicate looking couches is laughable; without a second thought, you start arranging the sheets and duvet into as comfortable of a nest as possible, and Doflamingo shrugs and splays himself on the mattress like a starfish.

It's not too bad, really. If you don't think about it, it's almost like he's not there. Doflamingo is a silent sleeper, or maybe he's still awake; maybe he doesn't sleep much. You're not particularly concerned either way, so long as you haven't upset him. You snuggle into the cocoon of bedding and drift off. 

For a short while, anyway.

He wakes with a gasp, startling you out of uneasy slumber. You crack open a bleary eye and watch him stumble from his chair (when did he get there? how was he so quiet? you hadn't heard anything) in search of water, which he promptly douses himself in with a heartfelt swear. 

"Bad dream?" you ask, unfolding from your position on the couch. Doflamingo startles slightly as if he hadn't known you were there. You can see the naked surprise before he scrubs a hand over his face and resettles his smiling mask. 

Just some memories, he says casually. He tosses the empty mug aside with a harsh clang and casually slides his hands into his pockets, adopting an unaffected air. If his shirt wasn't still dripping water, you might've believed it. 

You stand up to stretch and his eyes follow you. They’re frankly unusual to see, sharp like glass shards and the colour of rubies without his signature sunglasses to hide them. "Okay. How about a proper sleep in a real bed now?"

"Aw, you worryin' about me?" Doflamingo follows you from the living room to his bedroom like a hulking shadow, obligingly stripping out of his wet linen as you rifle through his wardrobe for anything resembling a sleeping shirt. 

The selection is appalling. Does he only own 3 shirts?

He feigns offense, asking if you have a problem with his clothes, and grins even wider when you say yes. You pull back with the oldest looking shirt you can find and toss it at him, trying your best not to look at his sculpted abdomen lest you give him even more ammunition to harass you with. You definitely have a problem with his clothes; he needs more of them.

"Gonna pick out my clothes for me?" He laughs. "You ain't my mom or anything. She's long dead."

The reminder makes you feel a bit awkward, which Doflamingo seems to take great pleasure in. You avoid replying by demanding he goes back to bed. You can't sleep through whatever nightmares he's having. 

He obligingly throws himself onto the mattress and then stares at you expectantly. 

“What?”

His eyebrows raise as he smirks at you. 

"Goodnight?"

Get in, he says. Since you’re obviously not sleeping very well on the couch. He thought you looked uncomfortable. You see his eyebrows furrow briefly as he says so.

"Doffy—"

"I'm asking you nicely," he says. "You wouldn't want to disappoint, right? After everything I've done for you? You're still recovering, after all. I'm being generous."

Reluctantly, you climb into the bed and lie down beside him. The pressure of his aura is overwhelming enough that for a minute, you can’t even enjoy the plush mattress, and wonder if you won't be able to sleep—

“Your thoughts are too loud. Just sleep already.”

He turns away from you and lays there motionless. Eventually, you drift off into a deep sleep.

🎕

You wake up hot, almost sweating. It's oppressively warm and still very dark, leaving you completely disoriented. You try to sit up, wincing as the movement tugs at your still-healing wound, and find yourself pinned down by a heavy arm.

Doflamingo is sprawled carelessly in slumber around you. He stirs as you jostle his arm, curling inwards somewhat and tugging you closer against him.

You resist the urge to sigh, afraid that it might wake him up, and resign yourself to your stuffy prison. His skin is burning hot where his bare arm is draped over you. You wonder how he can stand to wear that coat of his day in and day out when he already generates so much heat.

“Sleep,” he says. You let out a strangled squeak at the unexpected sound.

“I thought you were asleep!”

He cracks one eye open. He was. Until you started moving. You’re still supposed to be resting. 

You ask if he isn’t gonna get up, squinting at the light peeking through the heavy bedroom curtains; it’s searingly bright, suggesting that despite the room’s moody darkness, it’s actually closer to noon. Doesn’t he have things to do?

“Who would dare to disturb me? I’m the leader. If I want to stay in bed, I’m damn well allowed to do so.”

Lazy.

He doesn’t seem to take that personally, instead pulling you even closer with an exhale that might’ve been a sigh. You’ve only rarely known Doflamingo to sigh, mostly for theatrical effect, but this time he seems genuinely tired.

“What, is something wrong? And can you let go of me? It’s hot.”

Predictably, his arm tightens. “Don’t get sick again,” he says. His head turns, burying his face in his pillow and muffling the rest of his words. “This is bothersome.”

Well...That’s the plan. Your goal was never to die of unrequited affection. It’s not exactly fun for you either, getting sliced open.

You leave it at that. He seems moody, and you’re not looking to get sliced open again by his hands.

The transition to Dressrosa is not easy.

It's like a nightmare. Doflamingo goes on ahead to the royal palace. Not twelve hours later, Sevio turns crimson and then ashen, caked in blood and dust and gunpowder. And then the Family’s officers step in to save the citizens. It's a stunt so masterfully executed you can hardly believe it, almost beautiful in its simplicity. 

The plot is impossible for anyone but Doflamingo to pull off. He seems larger than life, godlike strolling out of the palace to greet you, and for a moment you can see what Trebol sees in him. Who else on this earth could be capable of such swift and unprovoked cruelty? He's something like a natural disaster, uncontrolled and indiscriminately destructive. You feel for the citizens of Dressrosa, but your sympathy is overpowered by relief at not being in their position.

There's not so much use for you during such a hostile takeover, so Doflamingo locks you away in the castle like some national treasure; he warns you with a jaunty wave of his finger not to leave the premises, as doing so would be at your own peril, and then vanishes into the hall of suits.

That part of the castle is—not off limits, but not somewhere you're wanted, and you can hear the occasional scream or sob through the wooden doors. So you climb higher instead, to the bedrooms you've stolen, and select the one closest to the king's chambers.

That's where Doflamingo will be, after all. The idea that he might sleep anywhere else is ludicrous.

The room you choose is well maintained and seems vacant; there is no rumpling of sheets, no clothes arranged in the wardrobe. You perch on the edge of the bed and steel yourself for a moment before opening the window.

Despite how high over Dressrosa the castle towers, you can still hear a cacophony of suffering. Distant screams echo across the cities, peppered gunfire crackling from every direction. You watch thin streams of smoke drift up into the sky and wonder how much more you can endure, how much you can excuse.

The lives you've taken are a heavy weight on your shoulders. Violence has never been uncommon among the downtrodden, but you can't stop remembering the pleading gazes directed at you. Without your feelings for Doflamingo, the decision to stay or go becomes more complicated, a balance of survival and conscience.

He won't just let you go now. Donquixote Doflamingo is a desert of a human being; he swallows up others and kills them without a trace of guilt, and the process is only quicker the more they struggle against him. You worry that he might erase one of Dressrosa’s cities entirely to stop you from leaving, as a threat or retribution. Doing so wouldn't be outside his capabilities. The uncertainty over his possible response is paralyzing.

It's all over much faster than you'd expect. Within a matter of hours, Dressrosa descends into chaos and is lifted back out at the hands of your captain. The king is deposed so swiftly that it's hard to believe anything happened at all—the very next day, Doflamingo lounges atop the throne with an imperious air that suggests he belonged there all along. 

You use your devil fruit ability to drift on the wind, a scattering of petals blown over the flower hill and towards the sea, and you observe the citizens. They're shaken but not broken. Many of them praise Doflamingo as a saviour.

You can't even laugh at that, considering that he's saved you too.

(Later, in the middle of the night, you wonder if your own abduction wasn't engineered by him too; if maybe your entire acquaintance with him has been an elaborate ruse, if you're just another hoodwinked fool. The thought keeps you up often, and you're never quite able to dismiss it.)

Doflamingo nods with relish when you report back that evening. How's it feel to be a member of the royal family, saviours of this country, he taunts, knowing you feel like nothing of the sort. 

It feels uncomfortable. It feels deceptive. But you can’t deny that Doflamingo, at least, seems to belong on his throne.

He raises an eyebrow at your admission. You're part of the king’s family, so it’s not really deceptive, is it? 

It is to you. Just because he’s a king doesn’t mean you’re a princess. You’re not that delusional.

“Well,” Doflamingo says, “you and I may be different, but you can be a princess to the trash living in this country. Think of it as a reward for your service. A king can bestow titles, can’t he?”

He sometimes calls you princess after that, the title edged in mockery. It's a reminder of the gap between your statuses. Maybe it's another punishment, or maybe he just likes seeing your chagrin. Ruminating on it makes your head hurt, so you let it go. You doubt you’d like his reasoning anyway. 

Doflamingo takes a little break from conquering, and you use the free time to explore the castle. It still feels like you’re some kind of mouse nesting uninvited within the walls, but if you lived somewhere else you’d just be summoned back here every day anyway; you make yourself comfortable without a fuss.

The library in particular is stunningly filled with titles ranging from science to fantasy. You spend an afternoon reading a novel about an emperor who conquered a kingdom and executed the entire royal family to cement his rule. That isn't quite what happened in Dressrosa—the king lives, obscuring himself somewhere in the shadows of the kingdom, and the real princess works under Doflamingo with a stiff politeness that shows her hatred less than you'd expect—but the similarities between Doflamingo and the crazed emperor are uncanny. Your captain has never shown any regard for those he views as extras, and much like the numerous palace guards in the novel, the army of King Riku Doldo III falls largely under that category.

The vast majority of them already died in battle for the kingdom. Some of the remaining soldiers are turned into puppets by Sugar and put to work. The rest are the strong, or at least the strongest among the weak, as far as Doflamingo is concerned. 

A handful of them agree to serve him in exchange for their lives, and are posted throughout the castle among Doflamingo's own men. He feeds them some lies about offering them a chance to prove their loyalty. You doubt anyone sees it as anything more than the warning it is.

For a few weeks, nothing happens. Things quiet down as Sugar creates more and more toys, and the citizens of Dressrosa… forget. It makes you shiver to see how easily they forget that their own families and friends ever existed. You wonder if maybe Hanahaki could be cured that way. Surely the flowers that had bloomed in your chest would just wither and die if Doflamingo was wiped from your memory; but the thought of him putting himself under someone else’s power, even for a second, is nonsensical. He’d rather see you wither and die instead.

Riku's own soldiers surely have not forgotten. Doflamingo isn't the worst boss; there’s a small chance that they were simply enticed by decent wages, or willing to throw away their morals for the chance to stay alive and human. Isn't that what you did? Can you really judge them?  They cooperate, but they stare at you with naked hatred. You’re an easier target than your boss, after all, and won’t kill them for looking at you wrong.

Doflamingo seems to find their discontent amusing. Well, princess? he asks, just to rile them up even further. Shall we kill them for their insolence?  

You wake up one night with hands closing around your neck and regret having said no.

You scatter reflexively, dizzy from how quickly you rose to wakefulness. Not that many people had seen you use your devil fruit, so maybe they didn’t think to bring seastone; it’s simple to reverse your positions as you tackle your assailant to the ground with a loud thump.

“You couldn’t have just picked someone else?” you hiss. The soldier beneath you groans and you pull his arm further back as punishment. “Shut up before—”

The bedroom door creaks on its hinges.

Feeling defeated, you turn your head to see Doflamingo skulking in the doorway. He smiles, teeth gleaming in the dim light, and you can’t help but think he looks hungry.

What have we here, he asks. A part of you had hoped that he wouldn’t hear anything. Another part of you is happy that he came to check.

At first you think to concoct some lie about sparring, or perhaps to try and convey that you’ve already punished this man enough. Maybe you should’ve actually broken his arm. It’s too late, with Doflamingo looking like that.

You stand up, feeling resigned.

“You know how this goes, don’t you, darling?” he asks. “We can’t let people who aim to cut your throat remain in the castle, can we? That’s just an insult. If he wanted to stay...He should have succeeded.” 

He looks sinister just waiting in the doorway like that; Doflamingo is so tall that he takes up the entire frame and more, having ducked under it to enter the room. His coat blocks any glimpse of whether others came to see what was happening.

(It’s unlikely. The only other two in this part of the wing are Diamante and Trebol, neither of whom care if you live or die.)

You reluctantly feel for the pistol beneath your pillow, flicking the safety off. Your eyes search for Doflamingo’s in the gloom and find only a pinprick of light reflecting from where you expect his head is.  He's scented blood and he's eager now, waiting to see you make the kill. 

“The weak don’t have the right to choose,” Doflamingo says. The words are aimed at you and come out sympathetic, perhaps even conciliatory. You’ve placed yourself above these soldiers, but Doflamingo still stands above you. “Who they kill, or how they die. It’s all the same when you’re weak. You bow to the whims of those above you.”

You aim the gun, gut churning with guilt at how relieved you feel that Doflamingo is acting the villain and taking the blame for your sins. This time your hands don’t shake.

The rest of the remaining soldiers are executed that morning. For your safety, apparently. Doflamingo laughs, as always, when their heads roll.

He isn't satisfied even after Dressrosa has been conquered, because he never is. Even with the streets freshly scrubbed clean of blood and debris, he looks for the next problem he can cause.

No rest for the wicked, as they say.

But it’s too early to start another war, or to expand his territory, and so Doflamingo’s attention briefly turns from conquering to appearances. You’ve never known him to take a strong interest in spoiling those around him, nor in his own wardrobe, but he proclaims that the new royal family should look the part now that he’s king. He experiments briefly with a blood red cape, but proclaims it bothersome and discards it in favour of his regular feathered attire; instead, his ideas of appropriate fashion are projected onto you.

Monet bursts into your room with Sugar in tow, directing a procession of boxes filled with taffeta and chiffon. They exclaim about how wonderful your new wardrobe is—and just like that, your things are all summarily replaced with expensive gifts. You don’t have much of a say in it, as most of your old clothes disappear during the transition.

You’re forced to search the palace for Doflamingo. You find him on the second floor balcony surveying his stolen kingdom. He smiles upon seeing you dressed in layered skirts and delicate strings of pearls, ribbons tied in your hair by the palace maids. Aren’t you looking cute, Doflamingo says, as if you’re a pet wrestled into a funny costume.

You are looking cute, but that’s besides the point. Your chest burns with annoyance at his disregard. “Are you happy now? What’s next? I can’t even carry my pistols in this outfit. Breathing is harder in a corset, did you know?”

“I’m a little bored, actually,” he says with a dramatic sigh, ignoring your complaints. As if this much harassment isn’t enough. “I thought this whole takeover might last a bit longer. Look at them, they have no idea what's happening. They sing our praises!"

You’d think he would be happy about that, but you’ve been around Doflamingo for long enough to tell from the slant of his mouth that he’s already thinking up some new plan you won’t like. It’s never enough for him. If anything, the people of Dressrosa dancing in the palm of his hand just disgusts him more.

“So? Let them,” you scoff, perching on the arm of his chair. The balcony is devoid of anywhere else to sit, and your new shoes hurt. “Surely it’s not that awful to—”

Your lungs seize suddenly with a cough. It’s horribly familiar when you wheeze and spit out a few petals into your hands. You stare down at them, dumbfounded.

“Ah? What’s wrong,” Doflamingo asks; he pulls your hands away from your face, perhaps expecting blood, and his expression turns terrible when he sees what you’re holding.

It was supposed to be gone. You were supposed to be over this.

"I—" the oxygen disappears from your lungs when you realize he seems genuinely angry. You cough again and again, something blocking your airways from too far down—maybe the flowers have grown too big. How did they come back? How didn't you realize they were back?

Doflamingo's hand lands heavily on your back, just hard enough to dislodge whatever was stuck there, and you gasp and choke as the air floods back into your aching lungs. A second later his hand is wrapped around your throat, taut with restrained force. You use your devil fruit instinctively to escape his grasp, scattering towards the other end of the balcony before another wrenching sensation in your chest makes you fall to the floor as you forcibly regain human form.

"You're stupid, huh?" he says, mouth twisted with rage. "You're a helpless fool who keeps falling in love with people out of your reach. You can't stop your delusions even though you know what will happen?"

"Stop," you whisper. 

"I've kept you away from nearly everybody and you still persist in—"

"It's you," you say, tears finally pushing past your defenses, weakened by frayed nerves. You hadn’t expected him to get so angry. You turn your face away because crying in front of Doflamingo is like bleeding in front of a predator; he just gets even crueler. "It's the same flowers, it's still you."

There's a brief moment of silence. You don't want to know what kind of face he's making now. 

I'll arrange another surgeon, he says flatly. 

You don't want to die. You agree to another surgery.

Because it's treated early this time, the surgery goes more smoothly. You're discharged the following day into an unhappy Doflamingo's care. 

It happens rarely , the surgeon says, that people develop incurable cases. Those who have a repeat episode of Hanahaki are more likely to continue having them. Another surgery… may not be possible, so it would be good to look into alternative treatment such as couples’ counseling—

You walk away as soon as he starts talking about therapy. Donquixote Doflamingo does many things on a whim, but that won't be one of them.

Besides, you’re not a couple.

You can’t even imagine Doflamingo dating. What could you hope for there, exactly?

He catches up to you with a handful of long strides, his mouth still turned down as he asks after your condition. You're… not okay, really, but you're stable. You don't feel much difference this time. 

That's a little scary. There's no absence of feeling this time. You're not sure if it's because you hadn't started feeling conscious affection again, or because you haven't stopped.

You ask him what happens if it really is incurable. Doflamingo frowns a little harder and doesn’t answer.

For a few months after that, things are mostly normal. August sweeps into Dressrosa, bringing with it a severe heat that’s only slightly alleviated by the brightly painted buildings and plentiful awnings providing shade.

Doflamingo lounges, indolent upon a hideous and furry-looking couch (it's comfortable , he says, without a hint of pique at your judgement) beside the pool. The day is hot and dry, typical of Dressrosa in summer. Buffalo floats leisurely in the water, while you opt to sit at the edge and soak your legs. The heat of the day is not quite unbearable yet, just shy of searing in a t-shirt and shorts—which you fought for, by the way, claiming you’d get heat stroke in any of those dresses hanging in your wardrobe—and you've no wish to disrobe and blend in with the many women flitting here and there around Doflamingo.

(After your last surgery you went out and found a tattoo parlor. You asked for flowers, everywhere, spilling over the scars under your breasts, stretching towards your back. They were pretty, so you got some more trailing down an arm and leg; it would be overly conspicuous in a swimsuit. Doflamingo's grin shrank a little when he saw them, and the petty sense of satisfaction you felt was worth the pain.)

He calls for you. C’mere, princess. So many other people look up hopefully—but it's you, this time, and most times as of late. A woman in a white bikini drapes herself over the side of the couch, pressing herself up against a broad shoulder and cooing in his ear. Doflamingo doesn't react, training an expectant stare on you until you reluctantly stand and pad over to him, leaving dark footprints on the concrete.

"What is it?"

He gestures for you to sit despite the utter lack of room; each of his long legs are practically the length of your body, making you scoff at the idea of trying to move them. You walk around and perch yourself on the back of the sofa instead, vengefully pressing your wet feet against his bare shin. Doflamingo just grins at you.

What, you ask again, propping your chin up on one hand and digging your elbows into your thighs. It's a little bit strange to look down at him like this, but not bad at all.

He shakes his head bemusedly. His hand brushes against your hair and oh, that tickles, and then you realize that most of it is shedding in a mess of soft violet petals down the back of the sofa. You bite your lip as you collect yourself again, wondering what the odds are off playing it off like that didn’t just happen.

It’s been happening a lot lately, actually. Losing control of your devil fruit, that is. When you’re not paying attention you’ll lose bits of your hair or legs. Sometimes your arms will dissolve while you’re struggling with a shirt. 

Once, you woke up in a neat little person-shaped pile on your bed. It took longer than you’d be comfortable admitting to force your body back into human flesh and bone.

“I-I was just distracted,” you say defensively.

“What kind of moron can’t use their devil fruit properly after this long?” Gladius asks, clicking his tongue at you. “I’ve never seen something so shameful.”

You scowl at that but have no retort. Truthfully it is unusual. Your body follows what shape you expect it to be, and with Hanahaki plaguing you so often, flowers are always on your mind; but not everyone knows that. It would threaten your position if too many people found out.

“You’re hopeless,” Doflamingo says without malice. Your heart throbs traitorously at the fond note in his voice and you feel an uncomfortable sensation in your chest, another flower opening up.

It’s fine, you tell him, you can still work like this. As long as it doesn’t interfere with your tasks, he won’t care what form you’re in. You’re okay.

A cough rises in your throat. You try to suppress it, fail, and cover your mouth with your hands as you make an awkward choking noise. Gladius leaves, irritated beyond his thin level of tolerance regarding you, and Doflamingo waves away the nearby girls to check what’s wrong with you.

You look at him, face flushed with the exertion of coughing and mouth full of petals, and his head falls back against the couch.

“Again?” he asks, sounding thoroughly done.

Again. Yes, again. This is the third time now. Your patience, worn to shreds, finally breaks with how exasperated he is.

“I’m the one dying,” you snap. “Sorry for inconveniencing you by caring about you.”

He lifts his head and then pulls you down on top of him. Surprised, you try to catch yourself as you fall; your forearm collides painfully with the arm of the couch and you land against his solid chest, heart hammering with a mixture of adrenaline and nerves. Doflamingo presses his forehead to yours for a moment and then lets you scramble away from him.

You have a fever again, apparently. He arranges another doctor’s appointment.

Señor Pink and Doflamingo accompany you, as the members of the Family who already know about your condition.

The doctor’s face turns grim at the x-ray and test results. He advises against another surgery, and at this point you’d rather not pretend it would work. Seeds upon seeds upon seeds, maybe you’re just made of earth and seeds, and they’d have to cut away the whole of you to stop flowers from growing. Your lungs are damaged beyond repair. Further operation would compromise your ability to breathe. 

So what are your options, then? Just lie down and die? You take in a slow, shuddering breath, trying not to aggravate the mess inside you; if you breathe too harshly you’ll start coughing again, and that’s a whole ordeal.

The surgeon looks hesitant. He tries explaining to Doflamingo that symptoms can be mitigated.

In abnormal cases, gestures of intentional affection can help, he says, especially sexual in—

He's dead before he can finish the sentence. Doflamingo's chest heaves with fury, a vein throbbing in his forehead. You can only think it's a pity the doctor died so needlessly. 

Your captain storms out of the room, leaving you and Señor Pink standing in silence. It’s a relief to be around someone who doesn’t offer their opinion. 

A nurse pokes her head in, stifling a horrified gasp at the condition of the room. At your request, she tells you the doctor estimated you have three months left (perhaps a little longer if your symptoms are managed) before fleeing the room.

They're lucky Doflamingo isn't around to hear it. You'll have to tell him yourself when you get back. 

🎕

He’s quiet when you relay the prognosis, staring at you with a distant air about him as if he’s reliving some old memory again. You throw yourself into the chair across from him; your head is fuzzy and throbbing from the drugs they prescribed you at the hospital. The silence is welcome as you close your eyes and try to pretend you feel less sick than you actually do.

“Hey.”

You open your eyes effortfully, having almost drifted off. Doflamingo is looking at you with a peculiar air about him, wide mouth soft at the edges, his body slumped and lax in his chair. He beckons you close and tugs you onto his lap. This time, with his movements slow and gentle, you feel like you can breathe a little easier.

He asks if this actually helps with a note of skepticism. You lean into him and feel the words vibrate through his chest.

“Yeah, I guess. It does.”

“Then you can just stick close to me for now.”

What about work? You can’t—

“Think about work later,” he says, “when you get better.”

“What if I don’t get better?” Your tone borders on challenging. Now that you’re expected to die soon, it feels like a waste to spend your remaining lifespan tiptoeing around Doflamingo, humouring him. If he kills you, he’ll just be putting you out of your misery sooner.

He smiles, and it’s the sharp smile you’re used to. “I’m not out of options yet. That was just one idiot doctor’s opinion. We’ll keep searching.”

You ignore the painful warmth in your chest as he says so. You can’t seem to muster up whatever conviction he has that you can be saved.

"So where's the line?" you ask him. 

Doflamingo tilts his head in askance, and you clarify: where's the limit, what's the maximum that he's going to spend on you, how many resources will he expend before it's too much? Is it how many doctors you need to see? Is there a time limit until you're supposed to be cured?

He thinks about it for a little while. Your lungs constrict a bit; you’ve always liked this about him. He always listens, even if he dismisses what he's hearing nine times out of ten. He thinks about it with his mouth curving down into a little pout, like the answer isn't readily available to him. 

"When I get tired of helping you," he says after a lengthy silence. “And at worst, you can just stick close to me until you die. You’ve earned that much.”

It’s a Doflamingo-like answer. You can’t say you expected anything more than that.

“So I have to earn not being evicted on my deathbed? Have I earned a coffin yet, or will that come out of my pay?”

He frowns harder. “No,” Doflamingo says. It sounds honest enough, and that much is satisfying in its own way.

In light of the doctor’s advice, you move into Doflamingo’s room. You would be worried about the Family’s reactions if most of them didn’t already ignore you. As it is, Monet and Sugar express some envy at your closeness with the boss, Gladius makes some unsavory remarks, and you settle into a role as Doflamingo’s accessory.

He’s outside for much of the day, preferring to spend the tail end of summer basking in the sun’s warmth. Most of the time, you go with him; it’s worth it to endure Trebol’s, well, everything, for some relief from the persistent shivering that plagues you.

You huddle against his side as he listens to reports and makes phone calls. Doflamingo has never been secretive with the rest of the Family about what he’s doing. He drapes an arm around you and goes about his business like normal, and for a while that suits you just fine, but then you wonder; why is he just allowed to live his normal life while you suffer right next to him? This is at least partially his fault, after all.

Thinking about it suffuses you with a hot, sharp resentment. That you’re in this position after everything you’ve done to stay alive, that you fell for Donquixote Doflamingo of all people. 

When he directs Trebol to check on Sugar and receives a cheerful got it, Doffy in response, you say pointedly—

“Any progress on the whole ‘preventing my death’ thing, Doffy?”

His smile slips a little. For a second you think he’ll punish you for using the nickname reserved for his executives, but instead he just pulls you into his lap, his hand settling over your hip as you perch on his thigh.

“Why are you asking now? Were you expecting something in particular?”

You take that as a no.

“I don’t know,” you huff, “it’s kind of important to me either way.”

“If you’re feeling impatient, maybe I should try a little harder. It’ll be on you if this doesn’t work.”

He watches you with a heavy-lidded gaze and a lopsided little smile playing about his lips, his head tilted just so in an invitation. Like this, you can almost pretend that he's in love with you—

—he isn't though. You don't think he can be—

—but he's too forceful when he tugs you closer, his hand gripping too hard at your waist. He pulls you into him and he's all teeth as he scrapes at the junction of your neck and shoulders, and this is familiar (scores of women surrounding him; and why shouldn't they? He's a king, and they're his adoring subjects) in an unpleasant way.

Your thoughts are too loud, he told you once; he mumbles something against your neck that could be a repetition of those words, and your chest heaves with a suppressed cough when you attempt to relax.

Doflamingo releases you with a sigh, the air skittering over your collarbone. "Not this either."

It's not—It's not a matter of finding the right button to press, you tell him, trying to suppress the trembling frustration welling up inside you again. You feel like a geyser preparing to erupt. It's cruel that even like this, you want him. Want him to finish what he started, to follow through on his little act. It wouldn't cure you, but maybe you'd have some satisfaction before you die.

You shove him hard, but his arm is like steel around you. It takes a few seconds of furious squirming and cursing before you use your devil fruit to escape his grasp. Doflamingo lets you go, looking dissatisfied. You barely make it inside before you start to cry.

In the hush of night, with only the sounds of small insects chirping and the thin whistle of wind through the balcony door that Doflamingo always leaves slightly ajar (like he needs an escape route, in case they decide to burn the castle down. He frowns when you speculate on it), you stare up at the slate-grey ceiling and feel the flowers curling in your chest. 

They feed off of moments like this—maybe some chemical your body releases without you knowing, in moments where it feels like it could be you and Doflamingo. How could a flower know whether someone else loves you or not?—growing fuller and larger as you imagine suffocating on your love.

Doflamingo shifts beside you, lurching just that little bit closer. You can feel his breath on your skin and a tremor in your lungs, the threat of a cough that will wake him up and give rise to some new scheme to fool you into thinking he loves you.

As quietly as you can (not quiet enough. you know he wakes up with any little flinch or turn that you make, except for those nights he spends locked in night terrors), you slide off the bed and make your way to the balcony. He stays motionless where you leave him, but when you turn back to look over your shoulder, a shard of moonlight reflects off his eyes.

“Sorry,” you say quietly. The sound carries in the large and empty room. “Go back to sleep. I just need some air.”

His eyes close again without a word. You open the door and slip outside, trying and failing to take a deep breath. The air stirs the petals in your lungs and turns into a violent coughing fit that goes on for so long, you worry you might just choke to death then and there.

Damn it, you hear somewhere above you. He carelessly tosses a thin sheet over you, making you realize that your entire body is trembling from the force of the fit; he must have mistaken it for your usual chill. Doflamingo sits down on the balcony floor beside you, a glass of water in hand, and tips your head back to force you to drink. You choke on the liquid at first but he doesn’t stop even with your hand fluttering over his, tapping and pulling—you’re going to drown somehow, between the pressure in your throat and his forceful hand holding your head in place—and then the water loosens the clog of petals and flows down, and you can breathe enough to cough and sputter again until you regain your breath.

You go back to bed when you feel a little more stable. Doflamingo doesn’t join you, staring out into the darkness until well after you’ve fallen asleep.

🎕

Your sleep is plagued by nightmares. They’re an ordinary sort, the kind that leaves a lingering malaise well into your day; a half-remembered sequence of events you didn’t want to revisit, soaked in blood and echoing with laughter. You wake up to darkness again, disoriented and fearful, heart hammering in your chest. Instinctively, you burrow into the sturdy warmth at your side.

Doflamingo’s arms wrap around you before you can muster the will to pull away again. The slow rise and fall of his chest is like a gently bobbing lifesaver.

“You’re against the concept of a good night’s rest, aren’t you?” he says; his voice is husky with sleep. Your movement must have woken him...again.

It’s not like you meant to, but you apologize anyway. He shrugs the words off. His outline is fuzzy and soft even after your eyes have adjusted, unlike the normal danger he projects. His head dips as you continue to stare at him, until you’re nose to nose and looking directly into his eyes. They’re pitch black like this, all pupils as he tries to see you.

“Make it up to me, then,” he says, before kissing you.

Doflamingo is gentle at first, perhaps cautious from your earlier suffocation; his lips press lightly until he’s sure you aren’t choking, and then he becomes greedy. He kisses you fiercely until your lips are bruised and swollen, and then trails his mouth across your cheek to tug at your ear, making you shudder. A pleased sound rumbles from somewhere deep in his chest as he explores downwards, further and further until he’s tugging at the neck of your pajamas. The cool touch of your buttons as they’re undone brings you back to reality just enough to push lightly at his arm, a quiet plea to stop.

He obeys. Mostly. Doflamingo kisses you again and pulls back with a languid smirk, flashing a hint of teeth.

“I don’t do slow and sweet, darling,” he says.

You know.

He doesn’t look put off by the admission, suggesting courses of action so vulgar that a blush crawls up your throat; and that, too, interests him. He chases it with lips and tongue and you’re so close to giving in with him spread out over you like that. 

“Doing this won’t prove that you love me,” you breathe, as much a question as a reminder to ground yourself.

“It might,” Doflamingo hums against your skin. His fingers splay over the scars at your sides. “You won’t find out if you keep stopping me.”

This doesn’t mean love, you think to yourself; but you’re tired of being cold, and hungry enough for it that you submit.

🎕

He’s the same the morning after, when you wake up cocooned in warm sheets with quiet breathing beside you. Your eyes roam the expanse of his tanned flesh for several moments, contemplative.

He doesn’t wake this time when you stir and slip out of bed. You pull his feathered coat over your bare shoulders and sit outside on the balcony. Doflamingo finds you there some time later, looking ruffled but well rested.

It’s a sight he could get used to, he says with a laugh. Neither of you mention the purple petals being swept away by the breeze.

Thursday is wet with rain, pattering in moody little races across the castle windows, soaking through the cracks until Gladius is in an even fouler mood than usual. The early autumn storm sloughs dust off of whitewashed Dressrosa, cleansing it under a pale veil of water and leaving an uncomfortable humidity in the air. The castle, as always, is cold. Drafts wind their way through the hallways, between stone and under doors.

Doflamingo lurks silent and brooding in the cool, grey light of late afternoon. It’s worse, you think, when he’s quiet and serious; buried deep in his memories, he’ll be more volatile than ever if disturbed. 

You wonder what his plans are for the day; maybe a nap, instead of going outside? No, he rarely does naps. Perhaps a book, then? You could search the library if he’d like (could read to him, if he’d like. you’ve done it before, and you’re just as trapped here with him as he is with you—no, way more so than he is, but at some point he did start tying himself to you).

He doesn’t respond, instead sinking deeper into his feathers and nursing a glass of wine by himself. You leave him to it.

Thursday is wet with your blood and clumps of moist, sticky petals clumping in globs as you hack and choke over the toilet. You’ve become unfortunately familiar with this position, hands bracketing your face against the porcelain as your airway constricts and your lungs swarm with love.

This is it, you think. You wonder if next you’ll be spitting out whole flowers, envisioning the full blooms in your chest coming up whole, stems and roots crawling up your airways. You stagger to your feet, flushing away the evidence and then rinsing your mouth with hurried handfuls from the sink. The purple petals unstick from the sides and roof of your mouth, and for a moment you pretend that nothing happened.

When you emerge from the bathroom, swaying unsteadily on your feet, Doflamingo looks up and examines your poor complexion, his brows knitted with frustration. There are very few problems he can’t solve with either money, blackmail, or murder; and while the last of those is an option, he doesn’t seem inclined to take it just yet.

“You can’t fix this,” you say. It’s less of a taunt and more of a fact, but his jaw tightens anyway.

“There’s very little I’m incapable of,” he says tightly, “and curing some pathetic disease is not among those things. These insects recover from it all the time.”

“They recover because the object of their affection loves them back,” you say. “How did you put it? We’re as different as heaven and earth. Have you changed your mind?”

His irritated silence is answer enough.

"Damn," he mutters after another few minutes of contemplation, chewing at his thumb. "If that damned Law hadn't gotten the Ope-Ope fruit—"

"That's a lot of trouble to go to just for me," you say.

Doflamingo stills. His head tilts just slightly towards you. "You're right," he says. 

That stings. The discussion is abandoned there. 

He runs out of options. It’s abundantly clear from his behaviour, even if he refuses to admit it.

Despite your less-than-receptive attitude, Doflamingo attempts to mimic a lover’s behaviour. It’s unnerving more than anything, how much he tries to take care of you. He makes you tea (and then pours rum in it, claiming it’s good for your health). He faithfully takes his meals with you, despite your lack of appetite. He starts bringing you trinkets, things like paper fans and jewelry, which you later discover are just belongings he’s taken from people without asking. He shrugs when you confront him about this, claiming nobody stopped him.

It’s smothering and unnatural from him, but he doesn’t seem to care about your opinion. That part, at least, seems like his usual self.

In November he hosts a ball, claiming it’s his duty as king or some such nonsense; you’re forced to play the part of his date for the evening, and he schmoozes with the rich citizenry as you sip a cocktail and wonder what this is supposed to achieve.

A bright eyed nouveau riche asks if you’re his fiancee and he laughs. Something like that, Doflamingo says, and he leans down to press his lips to your temple as part of the act.

Your throat constricts. Suddenly, you feel that you’ve hit your limit. Putting on an act like you’re in a normal relationship is the last straw; you can’t endure this pretense any longer. You’re afraid of what he’ll say next—this must be your punishment for the attitude you’ve been taking with him. Doflamingo always repays the insults he’s given with interest.

You excuse yourself to get some air and flee to a nearby balcony, retching until petals finally trickle over the railing. You hear the glass door click shut behind you and turn to see him moving towards you. Doflamingo drapes his coat over your shoulders, blocking out the cool night air; the feathers smell like expensive perfume and spilled champagne.

“It’s bad manners to abandon your lover during a party,” he says.

“Wow. You’re really committed to this act, huh? Is this fun for you?”

“That’s right.”

It’s not like you didn’t know it was a game, but it still incenses you to hear him confirm it so casually.

“It’s bad manners to make a dying person dance for your amusement,” you say angrily.

He looks puzzled for a moment, like he didn’t expect you to be upset with him. “Which part of this has been unsatisfactory? I’ve done damn near everything for you.”

"Do you love me now?" you ask him, bordering on hysteria, leaning against the balcony railing. Dressrosa unfolds below, bright and bustling with activity. If only it knew how large of a shadow was cast over it. 

Of course he does, Doflamingo says, ever congenial. 

Liar. Your lungs are still heavy with flowers; you laugh, and the breath rattles slightly in your chest. “That part.”

"That's hurtful, you know? I would never lie to my family.“

Okay, then. You scramble atop the stone to sit facing him, heedless of your dress creasing, and kick your heels against the bars. "You love me. As family." You start counting on your fingers, ignoring the slowly fading mirth on his face. "As a pet. As a tool. As an accessory—"

He tells you not to mock him. 

You're only telling the truth. His eyebrow twitches briefly when you say so. 

"You’re still alive because of me. Do you think I would put this much effort in for just anybody?"

You’re dying because of him, too. It’s mortifying how much influence he has over your entire life. You keep pushing. What's it to anyone if you die right now, as opposed to in a month or two? "But you aren't in love with me."

The smile returns to his face, nasty and angry. "I see you presume to know what I feel."

"You're saying I'm your equal, then? For you to fall in love with me, I'm worthy of your affections?"

He guffaws. "Sweetheart, nobody on this filthy, disgusting earth could possibly be my equal."

You thought so.

Suddenly you feel very, very calm, the kind of calm when you can’t figure out how to be angrier. You need space, you want to leave. You tip backwards, off the rail; for a split second you're falling, down towards the tourists thronging the streets, and then you're jerked into painful stillness by strings cutting tightly against every limb. Doflamingo reels you back up onto solid ground and dumps you there in a heap, grinding his teeth. The cheer is gone from his face, now. 

"You dare."

You couldn’t say why he would be angry with you. You both know he’s had control over this situation from the very beginning. He won’t ever let you die as you please. And besides, your devil fruit would have prevented serious injury...Probably. You can’t always rely on it any more. The persistent body aches and cough make you too acutely aware of your human body to change shape.

Don't play games with me, his face expresses with a snarl. He bares his teeth at you briefly, an animalistic warning, before forcefully regaining his composure.

"All right, Joker,” you say, just to wound him; it won’t, but you want it to. You’ve never called him by such a distant title before. “I'll stop, so can you drop the act? I have some pride. If I'm going to die, at least spare me any further humiliation watching you pretend to love me before I do."

“If I don—”

“Have you not figured it out yet?” You cut him off, raising a hand to your pounding head. You can’t think clearly when you’re this upset. “It’s not going to work if I don’t believe you. And no matter how much you act, I can’t believe you. You really think I’m stupid enough to buy this when you don’t even see me as a human?”

“You’re human.” His lip curls. “Unfortunately so.”

“And you couldn’t have less humanity. Great fucking match we make, huh?”

He opens his mouth to respond, but a bout of dizziness distracts you from whatever it is. You faint before he can get the last word in.

You wake up to a storm.

A metaphorical one, to be specific. Doflamingo can also be this; a tornado of a man, unraveled with fury as he shouts into the receiver of his den den mushi and slams it down. He looks upset. For a second he looks almost scared, before he notices you’re awake.

“Hey,” you croak. Your throat is dry and painful. Everything is painful. It hurts so much that you breathe shallowly, shuddering and tense as you try to draw air from a space thick and choked with greenery instead of oxygen.

He doesn’t respond. He just looks at you, lips turned downwards in an uncharacteristic expression of sadness.

There’s not much time left, you can tell. You try to think of something to say, but there’s nothing you haven’t already conveyed. In fear, in anger, in distress. In a painfully hopeless desire to be loved. There aren’t any words left that you think would stick with him.

He tells you that you’ve been unconscious for three days. Two of them were spent in search of doctors who could do something about your condition. The last one has been freed up in the wake of their advice to prepare for your passing.

And you’re tired. You’re so, so tired of continuing on, and surely at this point it’s been enough, right? You’ve done enough, and you’ve lived enough, and you’ve loved more than enough. Maybe you could’ve stood to love a little less, in hindsight.

“Doflamingo,” you breathe. He’s terribly, awfully still beside your bed; a statue of a man towering over you, a feathered guardian angel keeping watch in your last moments.

He appears reluctant to speak. His jaw clenches and then relaxes, again and again, as if he’s chewing on all of the spiteful things he wants to say to you because you’re dying without his permission.

“Do—” Your throat constricts as a cough seizes you without warning; your back curves with the force of it, jerking you upright as you bend and wheeze, loose hydrangea petals spilling past your lips with a spattering of hot, metallic blood.

Stop, he finally says in a low voice, as if commanding you will solve the problem. That’s enough.

“T-Trying.” You struggle to regain your breath, feeling a large hand settle itself gently against your back. His hand is searingly warm against your frigid, trembling body. Your ability to generate warmth seems to have deserted you, leaving you clumsy and exhausted, and you all but swoon in his arms as he lays you back down.

You take another careful breath and try cracking a joke. “Can you throw a few blankets in my coffin? I’m freezing, and I bet it’s even colder down under.”

He doesn’t laugh. You had kind of been hoping that, at the end, you would still hear him laugh.

🎕

You aren't around to see it, but the rest goes something like this:

He buries you somewhere quiet, away from Dressrosa, on an island where nobody else will find you. He buries you deep in the forest, in a fine coffin. Doflamingo skips getting a gravestone. To the very end, he had never used your real name and never found out your birthday. He can’t think of something appropriate to put on one. 

He leaves you somewhere lonely to be forgotten as his final punishment, feeling bitterly betrayed; and as he kneels over your unmarked grave, he coughs and hacks until a handful of anemones fight their way free of his throat.