Work Text:
“None of that, Law.”
Law ceases his fidgeting with the unchained seastone cuffs that encircle his wrists.
“Good,” Doflamingo croons. “Now will you have your pick of your wardrobe?”
The colorful, luxurious fabrics hanging from a rack pull at the corner of Law’s vision. He refuses to look at them, instead tugs at the threads of the towel wrapped around his waist, eyes trained on the way his freshly filed-down nails can hardly pinch the fabric between them.
Doflamingo’s leather shoes tap softly on the tile as he moves closer. Law can see them, just in his line of sight before Doflamingo’s hand intercepts. His chin is cupped tenderly, and then he’s being guided upward to face Doflamingo.
He screws his eyes shut anyway.
“Law.” Not once since Law was brought in, cuffed and strung up like a trussed turkey, has Doflamingo raised his voice. No howling lecture about the way he dishonored the family by plotting against them, no snide remarks hissed nor spat about his foolishness. Instead, Doflamingo’s voice has been low, a gentle nudge here or there, a soft, approving hum when Law obliges Doflamingo’s requests like eating the meal they finished an hour ago in the quiet privacy of the suite or the shower he’s freshly cleaned from.
It’s making Law seethe inside.
“I’m not wearing any of that crap,” he growls.
“I have little else for you,” Doflamingo responds. “And,” now there’s a hint of amusement coloring his tone, like he’s fighting off a smile, “I doubt you’d be comfortable wandering the estate in the nude.”
Law’s eyes flash open at that, indignant at the non-threat. Still he keeps his face turned away from the rack against the wall.
Doflamingo sighs, even as his lips quirk up faintly in the corner. “Here.” He releases Law’s chin and shrugs off the feathered monstrosity that drapes over his shoulders, laying it on a nearby chair. Next, his shirt, carefully removed and oriented so the sleeves are right side out. Law can only eye it warily as Doflamingo holds it aloft, not unlike a red flag would be brandished at a bull.
He’s ever so patient.
And in the end, Law has no desire to walk amongst his former family unclothed. He slots one arm through each sleeve. Doflamingo tugs him closer by the placket, and he’s surrounded by warm vanilla, sharp mint, and the woodsy notes of vetiver. He fastens each button starting with the one beneath Law’s clavicle, then neatly rolls up the sleeves, until they no longer drape below where the seastone bands rest on his forearms.
The shirt is long enough that Law’s thighs are modestly covered, and Doflamingo doesn’t move to divest himself of his pants next, so Law drops the towel and accepts his current state of dress as decent enough, at least until his clothes are clean once more.
“Young Master,” Trebol’s voice warbles from the hall. The Warlord bids him entry, and Law’s shoulders rise to his ears, like that can hide him from the Club’s eyes. Doflamingo’s audience is requested, and he promises to be there shortly, donning his feathered coat once more. Good, Law hopes. He can scope out the room in the meantime—
“Come, Law.” The cuffs are locked together with a chain in front of him, and he’s being ushered along, bare skin padding behind Doflamingo’s leather-clad steps.
“Wait—” and Law tries to dig his feet in, but they squeak and slide along the tile.
Doflamingo stills, doesn’t move an inch except to tighten his hand into a fist on the small of Law’s back, the loose silk of his loaned shirt furled in his grasp.
“Can I just stay?”
Doflamingo releases the shirt, smoothes the wrinkles in sweeping strokes down the span of Law’s back.
“I need my Corazón, Law.”
♤♢♡♧
The options he’s given are the Heart Seat or the floor.
And Doflamingo’s lap, but that thought isn’t worth entertaining. Neither is the Heart Seat, really. So Law is on the floor, curled up with his knees to the side after stubbornly standing for the first hour of the meeting. He’s cold wearing only the soft silk of Doflamingo’s shirt, nipples pebbling beneath it, but it’s easier to hunch his shoulders and hide them sitting. Easier too, to hide the outline of his dick, once he realized the officers could see the soft bulge from under the fabric.
Law’s filing away every morsel of information he can, eyes darting across Trebol, Diamante, and Pica as they share their reports. If the officers were concerned about Law’s presence, they don’t speak of it. Information flows freely between the men, and Law can only stew about how much he missed, how little he knew, how ill-prepared they all were to face this enemy.
He hears Doflamingo speak his name, but he’s not being addressed. When he perks up to face him, a glower locked and loaded like a weapon, Doflamingo’s hand lands soft, but firm in his tousled waves. He itches to shake off the touch, but Doflamingo holds steady and only scratches the pads of his fingertips against Law’s scalp as he continues speaking.
And Law would bite and snark and rage, but what he’s hearing feels so much bigger than standing his ground on something so meaningless as pride. Pride that won’t win him any favors if he can find Straw Hat and the others, not nearly as much goodwill as this intel would buy him after his colossal failure.
So he sits on the floor at Doflamingo’s feet, and listens diligently while the Young Master pets at his head like a dog.
♤♢♡♧
Mealtime becomes a problem after Law unsuccessfully flings a knife across the table at Dellinger’s face.
Doflamingo can’t have him attacking the others, not during something so sacred as family dinner. His seating options remain the same, and the Heart Seat isn’t in the dining room, so on the floor he kneels, adamantly opposed to sitting on Doflamingo’s thighs and properly chided for his behavior as his dishes are taken from him.
“Here, Law.” Doflamingo has a bite-sized cut of his steak held out between his index and thumb.
Law had expected to go hungry. Hell, he’d practically provoked Dellinger so Doflamingo would have an excuse to punish Law, strike him and string him up in a cell. He had expected torture, unimaginable pain. Anger that had curdled and festered over time poured down his throat until he drowned.
Instead, the Warlord is offering to feed Law by his own hand.
This saccharine suffocation is nothing he could have prepared for; the shame of being reduced to a pet, a doll, a belonging under Doflamingo’s care.
He doesn’t know how to be .
Humiliation heats him to his core, but his stomach rumbles right at that moment and Doflamingo offers the steak closer to Law’s mouth, under the table and away from the prying eyes of the family.
“I know, but you must eat.” Doflamingo almost sounds sympathetic. Then, “It’s this or your plate on the floor.”
Law considers the weight of the seastone cuffs, now strung behind his back after his earlier outburst, and the pang of hunger gnawing eagerly at his stomach. He swallows the lump in his throat, resolves to make the indignity worth Doflamingo’s mercy.
He must persevere at all costs if it means getting even a fraction of the information he’s gleaned thus far back to his alliance.
When he leans in, he’s careful to pry the steak away with his teeth only, lips peeled back like a snarling mutt. After cutting a new bite for himself, Doflamingo prepares another for Law and presents it again from his own hands; they take turns eating that way as dinner goes on.
Soon the steak is gone though; Doflamingo is offering rice pinched between his fingers, and Law can no longer avoid the touch of Doflamingo’s skin to his lips. He tries on the first bite, and grains either fall to the floor or stick to the hair coating his chin, causing Doflamingo to tut at the mess.
“My mistake, Law,” he murmurs. And Law can’t help but drop his jaw in shock at the admission. Doflamingo holds his hand out again, underhanded this time and lower than Law’s chin. “Try this?”
Law stares at the small pile of rice cupped at the edge of Doflamingo’s fingertips, tries to calculate whether teeth or lips would be worse. More intimate.
Decision made, he steels himself and scrapes the rice into his mouth using his teeth. Their bluntness drags along Doflamingo’s skin, only leaving behind a few missed grains.
Doflamingo is silent the rest of the meal, even as the rest of the family is lively all around them, attending to Law’s hunger while he sates his own.
♤♢♡♧
The shackles stay on outside of their quarters. Their quarters, because Law can’t be trusted to leave Doflamingo’s sight, it seems. So the Warlord’s suite is the only place where the chains drop and his arms are free—as free as can be surrounded by seastone cuffs and the Joker’s ever-present puppet strings. The only place where Doflamingo’s undivided attention is fixated on Law, no matter what book is in his hands at present.
The bed doesn’t seem to count as an off-limits seat, too easy to sink into and lounge rather than sit upright, even when propped against the headboard. Probably because it’s Doflamingo’s bed, Law sulks, staring at his reflection in the mirror framed overhead the four poster. He wonders whether lying here is worse than sitting on his lap.
“Law,” Doflamingo’s voice is quiet as it breaks the silence of the massive room, “would you like me to read to you?”
“Why, ‘cause you don’t think your new mutt can read by himself?” he smarts back, goading. His teeth are aching, near-rotted from the sweetness Doflamingo has surrounded him with all day. Law’s self-loathing aches for flaggelation.
“I thought it might help you relax. It’s been a stressful day.”
“Gee, I wonder why.”
Law doesn’t bother to watch when he hears Doflamingo stir; just listens to the soft thud of the book landing on the desk, the screech of the chair legs against the flooring, and Doflamingo’s muffled steps as he wanders over.
“No one more than me wishes that it didn’t have to be like this.”
Law’s hackles raise, and disbelief spills from his lips in the form of laughter. “‘No one’?” he barks. “C’mon, not even one? I’ll give you a hint: he’s right in front of you.”
Later that night, as Doflamingo gets into the bed, Law crawls out and drags a pillow and a throw blanket with him. He curls up, back to a wall and sleeps on the floor.
♤♢♡♧
Law gets his clothes back that first week, wears the jeans and the jacket like armor for three days straight before Doflamingo strong arms him out of them for washing.
That in itself is a whole affair, much like the bath he’d endured earlier in the week.
The Warlord’s bathroom is ostentatious. The bath is nearly the size of a small pool, and the shower adjacent to it is sizable enough for three Doflamingos, with showerheads spraying in all directions. Law gets to be in the shower alone, but Doflamingo is waiting in the room, perched on a gilded bench as he grooms his nails.
Law scrubs himself raw, his only weapon a soft rag that can’t even exfoliate his skin. He shoves the cloth between the cuff and the suffocating skin it’s strapped around, tries to rid himself of the stink of it. He turns the faucet to scalding and lets the heat pour into him from all sides, endures the pain until Doflamingo notices.
When he does, he shuts off the water without lifting more than a finger; the light catches onto the droplets of water beading on the thread he used.
A towel is presented, and Law is wrapped in it after he exits the foggy glass door, long enough to be escorted over to the bath, where Doflamingo joins him. He cleans under Law’s nails, files down the growth from the last week, and tidies the hangnails with cloying, earnest care: he brushes his thumb over the nail when he deems it suitable, drags his fingers along the skin of Law’s as he moves from one to the next, presses a kiss to Law’s knuckles when the hand is complete.
Law learns to loathe the feeling of cleanliness, knowing that in its wake comes attentiveness he can hardly stomach and days spent wearing only Doflamingo’s body-warmed shirt.
♤♢♡♧
Weeks have passed like this when Dressrosa receives a delegate from the Navy.
Relief floods him—his own clothes were freshly laundered for him to wear that morning; Doflamingo’s shirt left for the staff to wash—before he’s chilled to the bone at the familiar silhouette gracing the entry of the hall.
Law jolts to his feet, legs numb from how he’d sat with his knees folded underneath him, and leans his hip against the armrest of the Warlord’s throne rather than the nearby Heart Seat for support until the prickling of his nerves in his legs subsides.
Tobacco wafts into the room with every step Smoker takes, and the nostalgia of the scent nearly knocks Law off his already unsteady feet. The vice admiral looks just as shaken, Tabakan cigars slipping from between his teeth, eyes wide at the sight of Law, retrained and postitioned at Doflamingo’s side.
Taking full advantage of Law’s instability, Doflamingo hauls him over the arm of his chair, hand wrapped over Law’s ribcage to pin his shoulders and restrained arms against Doflamingo’s torso. The rumble of his voice vibrates through Law when he speaks. Law’s dizzied by the sudden movement, the echo of Doflamingo’s voice above him and through him, the sudden forced proximity and the possessive way Doflamingo’s fingers span over his bare chest. By the time he’s gotten his bearings, settled with legs strewn on either side of Doflamingo’s thigh, Smoker’s attention is politely fixed on Doflamingo’s face where it sits above Law’s head, though Law catches the way his jaw ticks, teeth significantly denting the cigars between them.
The conversation is quick, and Smoker leaves without a second glance. Law doesn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed at the gesture.
Law doesn’t remember he’s on Doflamingo’s lap until Baby 5 calls them for dinner, and Doflamingo’s hold gives easily as Law scrambles away.
♤♢♡♧
That night, the air in their room is stifling.
Law can feel Doflamingo’s eyes burning into his back as he moves his pillow and blanket to the section of the floor that he’s claimed as his bed.
His sleep is restless.
♤♢♡♧
Very few hours are spent with Law’s arms free from being shackled behind his back. Even with his efforts to keep up the strength during the scant hours they are free each night in the suite, Law can feel his muscles withering as days go by. A busy day for Doflamingo becomes a busy day for Law, his presence expected at the Warlord’s side.
“I’ll set aside time for training,” Doflamingo responds when Law broaches the issue with him, even moves his pen away from the document he’s been writing on to make a note on a clean scrap of paper.
“I don’t need training,” Law hisses. “I need to be able to move .”
Doflamingo’s pen hovers over the paper, and Law can just see the faintest peek of his eyes over the rim of his rosy shades, his dissent plain to see.
“Law,” his tone is infuriatingly condescending with pity. “You can’t expect me to let your hands loose when you still mean to attack family at the slightest provocation.”
A scream dies in his throat, muffled out of pure desperation.
“Please,” his voice cracks instead. “Even if they’re just shackled in front?”
Doflamingo gives him a searching look, sets down his pen and waves Law closer. “Come, Law,” he sighs.
The urge to scream and kick is a tempting one, but Law snuffs it out swiftly. Such antics aren’t punished with lashes or time locked away from the family; they only garner more of Doflamingo’s overbearing doting, like the Warlord thinks he can quell all of Law’s rage with his affections.
He shuffles his feet over to Doflamingo’s side of the desk where he turns in his seat to face Law, hand outstretched to cup Law’s elbow and thumb in soothing circles.
“I’ll think about it,” he promises, “But in the meantime, I’ll reserve time to train with you.”
♤♢♡♧
He won’t admit it to Doflamingo’s gleeful grin, but the freedom to fight with his arms unencumbered from chains makes a difference, even weakened from the seastone cuffs.
♤♢♡♧
…which might be the reason his stomach drops like a rock at the item sitting on Doflamingo’s desk.
“What is that.” He knows what it is. His mouth is dry anyway.
“Hear me out, Law,” Doflamingo starts.
A fucking collar. Solid seastone, with a latch and a ring welded to the front.
“What’s next,” Law spits, seeing red even as his vision is narrowing from his rage, “walking on all fours? Barking? Sick fuck.”
“Law.” He wonders if he’ll ever hear anything other than unyielding softness directed at him in Doflamingo’s voice. “I’ll only loop the middle of your chains through it. You’ll still have a limited range of motion, but—”
“This wasn’t enough for you?” he tugs at the silk shirt, Doflamingo’s silk shirt, that he’s wearing again today, on a warpath as his hands shake and itch to break something, to Room and Shambles away, or slice Doflamingo from the inside out with Gamma Knife. “You feed me like a dog, got me sitting on the fucking floor, and wearing your clothes—” He can do none of these things with the seastone around his wrists, so he settles for raising his fists to pummel them into Doflamingo’s chest as hard as he can.
They’re caught—of course, they’re caught—by Doflamingo’s hands.
“You have alternatives, Law.”
“The fuck I do!”
“You do,” and it’s here and now that Doflamingo’s voice sharpens, finally , still no more dangerous than a butter knife. ”Law, I’m keeping you here, but your decisions are shaping how you’re kept. You can wear other clothes; I’ve a seamstress who can make you anything your heart desires. You can behave and refrain from attacking your family; as trust returns, the cuffs can be removed. And you need not sit on the floor when all I’ve ever wanted for you is to take the seat that rightfully belongs to my Corazón.”
Doflamingo shifts both of Law’s wrists to be held in one hand, and with the other he frames Law’s jawline. His thumb strokes at Law’s cheekbone, and the rest of his fingers scratch pleasantly behind his ear. His eyelids reflexively flutter at the sensation, and he immediately huffs in irritation.
“If my Corazón wants to be kept like a pup,” Doflamingo murmurs, low and even with the pace of his scritching fingers, “then I will not deny him.”
♤♢♡♧
The collar stays on, just like the cuffs.
Before leaving their suite, Doflamingo beckons Law close, clips a chain link to the collar, then to each cuff on his wrist; arm movement limited to 90 degree angles or less when both sides pull the chain taut.
It’s a means to an end.
The seastone drains him enough as it is; at least now he can stretch throughout the day, do half push-ups, and get a fuller range of motion by letting out the chain to one side with the other hand at his neck. And, when Machvise checks him in the hall as he trails behind Doflamingo, Law can now catch his balance before falling.
It’s not like Law was holding out hope for his crew and allies to be mounting efforts to retrieve him by any means; his crew at least have always had strict orders to continue on without him at the first sign of that slashed, smiling Roger. The Straw Hats are another story entirely, but with their half-cocked captain flinging himself into trouble without a thought, Law doesn’t have much faith in a successful rescue.
All that remains are escape attempts, of which Law has mounted none.
How can he, when Doflamingo never lets him out of sight nor off the invisible leash of his ever-present strings?
His only chance is rebuilding trust. With Doflamingo, with the officers.
So the end blurs.
♤♢♡♧
Doflamingo retires to their room early in the afternoon, afflicted with a migraine that carves an aggravated scowl into his face. He’s been in the shower for ages with steam seeping out from the crack under the door. Law is lost between wakefulness and dozing; stirring only to adjust his pillow to better support his collared neck.
He’s warm, much warmer, and even as he rouses, the foggy embrace of sleep holds him firmly, threatening to pull him right back under.
Spindly fingers dance over his torso.
His eyes shoot open.
Not a movement nor a breath escapes him before Doflamingo’s hand splays across his chest, pressing Law’s back to his front. He can feel the dampness soaking into his hair from where Doflamingo has his forehead pressed to Law’s skull.
“Law.” His voice cracks, apologetic.
His muscles are still strung tight, like the coat of tension could put distance between them.
When their breathing syncs for a cycle, Law focuses on matching the depth of Doflamingo’s inhale—his larger lungs coax fuller breaths from Law. Between the warmth of his hold, the steadiness of the heartbeat at his back, and the breathwork, sleep claims Law once more, swiftly and deeply.
♤♢♡♧
Nights spent in Doflamingo’s bed proliferate after that; first as a way to assuage his migraines when the medicines fail.
“It helps,” Doflamingo murmurs once, thumb stroking over Law’s hipbone under that damned silk shirt, “having my Corazón near.”
Law spent the rest of the night convincing himself that the flutter in his chest was a reminder of Cora’s comforting presence, the way he had held Law tight when he was young and sick and fatigued with pain.
Tonight he watches Doflamingo’s reflection crawl into bed next to him, miles of milky skin shifting with the movements of his lean muscles. It’s another silk shirt night for Law—he swears the help is stretching out his laundry days, but he can’t convince himself it’s entirely the Warlord’s doing—which means part of Doflamingo’s routine settling into the mattress involves running a hand along Law’s bared thigh from knee to hip where it comes to rest and his fingers tap methodically.
Except he doesn’t.
Doflamingo falls onto his back and silently throws his arm over his eyes. Law glares at the reflection of them both, eyes running over the silk of Doflamingo’s sleep pants, slung low on his hips, and his dewy, fresh-washed skin, lightly pink from a hot shower.
“How’s your head?” His bitterness seeps through unintentionally, and he scowls at his own face in the mirror in reprimand.
“It’s been better,” croaks Doflamingo.
And he’s done it twice before at Doflamingo’s request, dug his thumbs and the bony tips of his fingers into the tender flesh around his sinuses to alleviate the pain; Doflamingo had always asked and Law had never offered, but now—
“I can…” and he rolls to face the Warlord and raises a hand.
Doflamingo lifts his arm, peering at Law with a solitary crimson eye, free from his sunglasses. He wets his lips, quick and utilitarian, and replies with terrible fondness, “Only if you want to.”
It’s the worst thing Doflamingo has ever said to him.
He shifts in bed, sits upright with the pillows cushioning his back and motions for Doflamingo. The Warlord rests his head in Law’s lap, legs dangling off the side of the bed, head turned toward Law’s lower belly. Eventually, Doflamingo sleeps, face relaxing fully under Law’s precise movements, his lower lip falling open so that Law can feel the hot puff of his exhales through his shirt.
Law gentles his touch. Cards his fingers through Doflamingo’s hair, just a shade more flaxen than Cora’s was. Maps out the shape of Doflamingo’s nose, how it’s identical to Cora’s in structure, except Doflamingo’s nostrils flare when he grins and the tip of it hooks just a bit sharper than Cora’s did.
He falls asleep with Doflamingo’s head cradled in his arms, and he dreams of eyes that are warm and carmine and heartachingly tender.
♤♢♡♧
It happens when he least expects it. Or maybe it had always been building up to this, and he had elected to ignore it.
“You’ve been quiet,” Doflamingo mentions, and it’s true.
Law hasn’t had much to say lately, too caught up in the conflicting emotions clouding his mind and tugging at his chest beneath the ink of his tattoo. Law glances up from where he’s perched on the windowseat with one of Doflamingo’s books.
“Reminds me of Rosinante, that’s all.”
The way Doflamingo utters Rosinante’s name, like his strings have curled around every syllable in delicate embrace, has Law frozen in place. They’re nearly eye-level for once, with Doflamingo sat at his desk chair, turned away from the paperwork to face Law as he speaks to him.
He moves without thinking, curls his fists up to wield them like clubs and swings. Doflamingo stops him, a single twitch of his finger catching his wrists in impenetrable string, and Law is so filled with vitriol that he spits in Doflamingo’s face. It lands, spittle smattered across his cheek.
“Keep his name out of your mouth,” Law hisses.
Doflamingo’s expression is impassive, but Law knows he’s being examined beneath the rose-colored glasses resting on Doflamingo’s face. The thickest glob drips down his cheekbone, and Doflamingo catches it on his thumb and unceremoniously, but deliberately tucks it between his lips. Tasting Law’s spite.
“Law,” he says after he removes his thumb; too patient, too soft.
No, he doesn’t get to be unaffected while Law fumes; so Law lurches forward, teeth bared while he’s otherwise disarmed, aiming for whatever he can make bleed with the dull edges of his incisors. Doflamingo’s lips fall victim—he doesn’t stop Law from biting and pulling at his flesh, just moves with him when Law pulls and resists when Law pushes. Their teeth click together when Doflamingo opens his mouth for Law to plunder with his tongue, and Law growls, straining against the threads holding him back from choking Doflamingo with the muscle.
It’s more like kissing than he’d like to grapple with at this moment.
Never once though does Doflamingo return the fervor, the frenzied anger that Law is dishing out. He isn’t completely docile, but neither does he retaliate; just takes and absorbs and holds fast and steady for Law to sink all of his rage into. Always one level below Law’s intensity, patiently keeping pace even as Law starts to lose steam.
His bites become more sparse as he heaves lungfuls of air into Doflamingo’s mouth, receptive and wanting for anything Law has to give. His jaw aches from the ferocity of it so he covers his teeth, lips pressed tightly together before he shoves them at Doflamingo’s face, a blunt weapon that only serves to shove Doflamingo, though he doesn’t go far.
Doflamingo cushions Law’s jaw in his hand, keeps him in place so when he kisses Law’s pursed lips, he has nowhere to retreat to. They’re achingly soft. Law’s knees grow weak, but Doflamingo has him, both in strings and in the appearance of a hand at his waist drawing him in between his bent knees.
He forces himself to remain stiff and tense, a mockery of resistance with Doflamingo’s limbs and thread wrapped around him. His tongue dances along the seam of Law’s mouth and he thumbs over that spot on his hip bone like he can leave a mark by touch alone.
Eventually, he thaws, melts as Doflamingo laves over the chapped skin. Opens them a crack so Doflamingo can capture his lower lip between his teeth and gently worry at it. Lets his arms rest over Doflamingo’s broad shoulders where they’re carefully positioned and leans in until he can feel Doflamingo’s chest with every inhale.
“Young Master,” Giolla’s voice calls, muffled through the door.
Law jolts back, lungs heaving. He catches his reflection in Doflamingo’s lenses—the flush on his skin isn’t from the rosy tint of the glass, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are wide from the shock of the interruption.
“A moment, Giolla,” Doflamingo responds, sounding more winded than expected. Lower, he says as reverential as a prayer, “Law.”
He doesn’t trust himself to speak, doesn’t know what he could even say, so he nods and started to shift his weight back to his own two feet. Before he can get too far, Doflamingo closes the distance between them and presses a chaste kiss to the corner of Law’s mouth.
“Later,” he promises.
The way Law’s heart leaps in his chest is damning.
♤♢♡♧
Later, tangled together in the sheets, they take in each other’s air as Law, flushed and contrarian, refuses to talk about it. Doflamingo runs his palm over Law’s hip and waist, a metronome in time with his breathing. He lingers halfway between them with the patience of a saint until Law finally gives in and their lips meet in the middle.
♤♢♡♧
Later, when Law forfeits his kisses eagerly, Doflamingo lets his wandering fingers roam; over the inky black lines that cover Law’s body, over the patches of skin that are lighter than the rest of him, hovering just a hair away from the seastone he still wears on his neck and wrists. He engulfs Law’s dick in his grasp, then in his mouth. Trails his tongue over the stiff peaks of Law’s nipples after pinching and plucking them until Law is hoarse; wets his fingers and opens Law up while he writhes and pulses around him.
♤♢♡♧
Later, Law is filled to the brim for the first time.
Doflamingo holds him like he’s precious; as if he’s stained glass that could shatter. He leaves a trail of kisses across Law’s skin, light and meandering. Their fingers interlace when he sinks in completely.
Law claws into his skin all the same, overwhelmed with pleasure, hanging on to Doflamingo like a lifeline. He refuses to call it what it is, but he knows what Doflamingo is doing—making love with him. He can hear it in the broken, heartfelt way he calls his name; sees it in how those vivid eyes burn right through him with suffocating heat.
He’s marked, inside and out, several times this evening. Doflamingo’s spend paints over the Jolly Roger on his back, it leaks from his hole, it stains his tongue with the taste.
It’s the point of no return.
♤♢♡♧
Doflamingo holds Law’s forearms, both in one hand, while Law undulates on his dick. It’s easier this way, gives him more leverage to ride when the chain is still clipped from his collar and shackles. He’s not always bound when they fuck; it’s most often reserved for days where Doflamingo’s eager to get inside or indulgent enough to let Law rush him.
Law is the hungry one tonight; he leans into Doflamingo’s hold for support, pants as he chases his release.
“Good, Law,” Doflamingo murmurs. He strokes Law with his other hand, and Law sees stars. “Take it all, it’s yours.”
“F-fuck! Doffy!” he chokes out, hips stuttering as he spills all over Doflamingo’s hand.
Doflamingo hums, wrings everything from Law, then brings the back of his hand up to his mouth to taste. What he caught on his thumb he offers to Law, who sucks down the come and then savors the taste of Doflamingo’s skin. The dick inside him throbs and Law bears down, just to draw a hiss out of Doflamingo.
The world turns; first Law finds himself emptied and on his back, catching a bright flash of white teeth in dangerous smile, then he’s flipped again, face-first into the pillow Doflamingo was lying against moments ago. A concentrated burst of vetiver and vanilla permeates Law’s senses, and he’s so dizzy from the scent alone he hardly registers Doflamingo’s manhandling until he feels his hole being breached once more.
“Ah- ahh ,” he moans into the pillow, then tries so push up to his elbows—as far as the chain from the collar will allow him to move.
Doflamingo’s hand presses him back down, spread wide over his back. The rare sting of nails scratching lights up Law’s insides, has him pushing against the headboard with what little leeway his arms have to meet Doflamingo thrust for thrust.
He’s hoisted back suddenly by the collar; Doflamingo’s strings thread through the space between seastone and skin so he isn’t affected.
“It wounds me every time I see it, Law.” His voice is low and labored, quiet rage bubbling under the surface. “The Roger and that fucking jacket.”
“Thought you liked it,” Law wheezes. “You come on it often enough.”
“To cover it,” Doflamingo replies. His hips slow, then still when he’s sheathed to the hilt within Law. He kisses at Law’s temple, his cheekbone, his ear. “But it’s only temporary.”
“Stop flipping me over then if it pisses you off so much.” There’s no bite, no fire in the retort.
A hand slides up his torso to his sternum. “Then I’m faced with this one.”
The room is quiet. Law wiggles his hips, tries to cajole Doflamingo back into the mood. “You just want yours on me somewhere, too? Feeling left out?”
“Would you?”
He would—for the mission, he insists to himself, to build trust, to escape, to get out—but his voice catches. Still, Doflamingo doesn’t miss the way he tightens around him.
“Law,” he breathes, moving again with fervor. “My Corazón.”
When Doflamingo comes, it’s half inside Law, half splattered over his back. On his stomach again, recuperating from his second orgasm of the night, Law feels Doflamingo’s finger smear a line of his spend through the smiling ink.
♤♢♡♧
These days when Law dutifully walks the estate alongside Doflamingo, it’s in a silk shirt, collar and cuffs on display without the once-mandated chain. The family nods respectfully to them both, neither Machvise nor Dellinger bothering him with more than a wary glare.
Still, when the officers meet, Law sinks to the floor at Doflamingo’s feet instinctually, and is lulled into a drowsy state by Doflamingo’s hand curling into his hair. He leans against the Warlord’s knee, often wrapping an arm around his leg while he traces the bones of his ankle. Some days, Doflamingo tugs him into his lap first; either on display astride one of Doflamingo’s thighs with a hand possessively centered over his chest—a perfect replication of that day Smoker first appeared—or folded against his torso where he can nestle into the crook Doflamingo’s neck while his arms pull him impossibly closer.
Still, he listens, ears only perking up when new voices enter the room or the topics drift from the goings on of Dressrosa, the SMILE fruit factory, and Kaido. He files it away, along with the half-baked plans of escape that cross his mind.
Still, Doflamingo hand feeds him at meals; much like with the debriefing meetings, Law often gets to his knees first where he laps at the food Doflamingo offers him and bites at the pads of his fingers when his attention drifts to the rest of the family. And on the days where Doflamingo’s already had Law in his lap, it’s where he’s kept at meals, too. More easily fed here with silverware at Doflamingo’s discretion, even though Law’s hands are free enough.
Still, Law tells himself this plan is working.
He wouldn’t let fresh black ink mar the Rogers on his skin without good reason after all.
♤♢♡♧