Writer

[an-autumn-maple-leaf]

Spring Court Tithe:

The tithe is better than the taxation system in the night court. So Rhys says they don’t do a tithe they instead do their taxes differently, meaning it can be income, sales, or property, or all 3 like we do here in America. It’s seems misunderstood though, because a tithe is just 10% of whatever you produce, whether that be income or food or products. And again it’s only 10%.

So if you have 10 goats you only have pay your tithe with 1 goat. If you had 1 hen that laid 100 eggs then you have to pay your tithe with 10 eggs. If you made $10,000 you only have to pay $100 to the tithe. I currently pay $100 in grocery sales tax in 1-2 months.

So truthfully the tithe is the best taxation. It’s just hated because it is so heavily associated with the Catholic/Christian religion. And because it’s in the Spring Court which the majority of the fandom hates because of reasons 🙄🙄🙄.

Also by Tamlin doing a tithe, that allows his court citizens to pay with “unconventional” products and produce, it allows Tamlin to assess his kingdoms needs. He can see what areas of his kingdom is struggling and which parts are thriving which allows him to redirect/redistribute the items to help to the areas that need it. He can take a lot of the produce or products like food, seeds, animals, etc, that he receives in the tithe, to the areas in need of help to maintain their ability to survive while also giving them the items they need to start cultivated their town and lands. So if one area is lacking seeds for wheat or corn and Tamlin has an area of spring thriving in their farming of wheat and corn he can redistribute the seeds to the other part of his court that needs helps.

[sarafeyjp]

Nesta draped herself in Night Court black as she strode into the ballroom, trailing behind her sister and her mate. She had wanted to wear something else—something in deep crimson that would have made the Autumn Court's heir look twice. But Mor had intercepted her choice with a sharp smile that didn’t reach her eyes, insisting on Night Court colors.

"Tradition," Mor had called it. But there had been something else in her voice. Something brittle.

Nesta had caught the flicker of emotion when Mor had seen the red gown—the wariness, the flash of something too raw to be mere distaste. It took her a moment to understand.

Mor had been meant to marry Eris once. She had fought her way out of it, had shattered that fate before it could claim her. But the idea of Nesta wearing Autumn’s color, of her stepping into the ballroom in a dress that might make people wonder, had been too much.

Mor had never said it aloud, but Nesta knew she hadn’t truly escaped untouched. And Nesta knew, too, that her role here was not to make Eris fall in love.

Just to toy with his heart.

So she had let the red gown go. Let Mor win that battle.

For now.

She barely spared Elain a glance. They hadn’t spoken in months—not since that night in the House of Wind, when Nesta had finally let her fury spill over. Never before had she spoken to Elain like that. But the way they had all stared at her—like she was some untamed creature in need of a leash—had set her blood ablaze.

Silver embroidery wove glimmering patterns across the fitted velvet bodice, its delicate straps barely more than whispers against her pale skin. The neckline plunged boldly, stopping just above her navel, where silver threads converged around a deep sapphire—the same hue as the jewels adorning her crown. She hadn’t planned to wear it, but Feyre had insisted. A lingering ghost of her human life, of their mother’s expectations that she would marry a prince.

That dream had long since withered. There would be no fairy-tale prince, no gilded future.

Only Feyre had been granted a throne.

With each step, the full skirts of her gown whispered against the polished floor, the only sound in the charged silence. She and Elain stood behind Feyre and Rhysand, though Nesta barely registered the words being spoken. This—this was the battlefield she understood. Making a prince fall in line.

She had barely noticed him before. A presence lingering at the edges of her awareness.

But in the woods, when Tamlin had come upon them—when she had chosen to stand her ground instead of retreating—her blood had roared in her ears, loud and unrelenting. Even as fear had coiled in her gut, she had refused to give in to it. Refused to let her body betray her.

And now, here, with the heat of the room pressing against her skin, it still hadn’t settled. It had to be Cassian’s scent in the air, the way it always made something bristle inside her. Or maybe it was just the remnants of that moment with Tamlin, still rattling through her veins, refusing to be silenced.

Then there was that smirk.

Not Cassian’s.

Not a hungry look, not admiration, not desire.

Just a flicker of something too unreadable to bother deciphering.

It barely registered before she turned away. He was nothing. Like every other male who had ever tried to control her.

If her blood still roared, it wasn’t because of him.

Rhysand’s voice pulled her back. “Before you join the festivities, Eris.”

With a flick of his wrist, a long black box appeared, tied neatly with an equally black ribbon—Night Court colors, as always. Nesta fought the urge to roll her eyes. Even in their gifts, they had to remind everyone where power lay.

“We got you a Solstice gift,” Rhysand continued smoothly, floating the box toward Eris’s outstretched hand.

Nesta barely spared Eris a glance as he tugged the ribbon loose, his sharp eyes narrowing before widening—just a fraction, but enough. A flicker of something deeper, something she knew all too well.

Nesta followed his gaze.

And saw her dagger.

Rage slashed through her, sharp and unrelenting.

Her dagger.

Not Rhysand’s to give. Not Feyre’s to offer. The weapon she had forged with her own hands, before she had even understood what she was capable of. The dagger that had been hers in a way nothing else had ever been.

And Rhysand had gifted it away. As if it were nothing more than a trinket.

Eris’s fingers hovered over the blade, his expression unreadable. “What’s this?” His voice dropped lower, edged with something that sent a ripple of heat through the space between them.

He was looking at it—really looking at it.

Nesta clenched her fists at her sides, forcing herself to stay silent.

Feyre answered for her. “You sense its power?”

Eris’s gaze flicked to Feyre before returning to the weapon. “There’s a flame in it.” His fingers twitched, almost touching the blade—but he hesitated, as if something in his magic warned him of what lay within.

As if he knew, without even touching it, that it could burn.

Nesta tore her eyes away from him, from the dagger, before the fury consuming her broke free.

Because she understood now.

Rhysand hadn’t given it away because he valued Eris. He had done it to control him.

To mark him as theirs.

And like everything else in her life, her power—her very self—had been used as the price.

She tuned out the conversation again. She was here to play a part—nothing more. Whatever they discussed was none of her concern. It never was.

Just as she hadn’t been important enough to be included in the talks about her own dagger. Just as no one had thought to tell her that she had forged those cursed weapons. They only deemed her useful when it suited them. A tool to wield, a power to contain.

Would she ever be anything more than shackled? Since the moment she became Fae, that feeling had never left her.

Her sister’s voice cut through her thoughts.

"Originally, as High Lady, I would ask you to dance, but my condition makes that impossible," Feyre said, resting a hand on her swollen belly. "So my sister will take my place. I hope you don’t mind." A glance toward the male before she added, "She’s quite the dancer, but I hope you don’t push her too much."

There it was again. Her cue. Another decision made for her. Another reminder of how they always underestimated her—how she was nothing but a piece to move across their board. As if she wouldn't be able to keep up with the Fae prince. As if all those lessons with Mor had been for nothing.

Why teach her at all if they never meant to let her use what she had learned?

But Eris said nothing as he extended his arm, waiting.

Nesta stepped forward, slipping her hand into his, her movements as effortless as if the dance had already begun. The box containing her dagger was gone—vanished, no doubt whisked away by his magic, much like Rhysand’s tricks.

The music swelled, the first notes cascading through the air. At the very first sound, she placed her hand in his—precisely on beat.

Eris noticed.

Not even the most disciplined Fae princess could time her movements so flawlessly, as if she were part of the melody itself.

A slow grin curved his lips.

"Let's see what you can do, Nesta Archeron.".”Eris glanced at the female on his arm, curiosity flickering beneath his composed mask. Nesta Archeron. Feyre's sister. A supposed gift from the High Lord of Night.

What game was Rhysand playing? First, the Made dagger—now Feyre’s sister?

She looked bored, like a creature bound in golden chains, going through the motions of duty rather than desire. Obligated. Contained. It struck something in him—something unwelcome.

If he had ever had a sister, perhaps she would have looked like this before their father had sold her off in a cold, calculated transaction.

But Nesta Archeron was not his sister. She was Feyre’s. Feyre, who had been granted a throne. Feyre, who had been raised up, cherished, and crowned.

So why did this sister look like she had been left in a cage?

There was power in her. He had sensed it the moment they met. He could feel it now, simmering beneath her skin, sharp and unrefined.

And yet, the court that so proudly proclaimed itself built on freedom had left her shackled.

She should be an equal to Feyre in the Night Court.

So why did she look like she had spent her life being told where to stand, what to wear, when to dance?

Unless…

Unless that power wasn’t meant to serve the Night Court at all.

As the first notes of one of the most difficult waltzes began, Eris’s lips curled slightly. Let’s see if this female can keep up.

He had danced with queens and courtiers, with noble-born females trained from birth to master the art. But Nesta Archeron was neither a queen nor a courtier—at least, not in the way she should have been.

Would she falter? Would she hesitate?

Or would she prove that the cage they had built around her had never been enough to hold her at all?

He placed his hand on her waist, and they danced into the swell of the waltz.

The music burned through the room, wild and unrelenting. And the female in his arms—Nesta Archeron—moved as if it had been made for her. As if she had been forged in it.

He had danced with queens before. With noble-born females trained to follow, to flutter their lashes and execute every step with perfect, delicate precision. But this—this was something else entirely.

Nesta didn't just dance—she devoured the music, let it sink into her bones. She moved with intent, with control, like the melody was a weapon in her hands.

He matched her step for step, adjusting to her rhythm with ease. She held his gaze through each movement, her body supple yet unyielding, bending to the music without ever truly surrendering to it. When she arched into a cluster of notes, the movement seamless, deliberate, he let his grip tighten at her waist, fingers pressing into the elegant curve of her spine. A test.

A slow, knowing smile curved her painted lips, red as blood and twice as dangerous. A queen's lips.

The realization struck him like a blade between the ribs. Not the sister of a High Lady. Not a soldier or a noblewoman. Something colder. Sharper. Something like him.

She had power—that much, he had suspected from the moment they met. But now he saw it for what it truly was. Not raw magic alone, but something even rarer in a court like this. She knew how to wield it.

He released her waist to spin her, and she moved perfectly in time with the music, her steps precise yet effortless. When she snapped back toward him, eyes locking onto his, he saw it again—that defiance, that simmering, leashed power.

So he spun her again. A move that was not part of the dance, not part of the carefully crafted steps taught to daughters of great houses. But she followed through as if she had expected it. As if she had known he would test her.

Her skirts flared around her, and when she turned back to him, the challenge was unmistakable. Flame burned in her eyes, not like his own fire, but something just as dangerous. As hungry. And gleaming with something else. Excitement. Like no one had ever pushed her like this before.

His lips curled with approval. She had passed.

Nesta smirked back, her gaze glittering with something wicked.

Eris had spent years perfecting the game of courtly maneuvering, knowing when to play the fox and when to play the wolf. But this dance was not his game. Not tonight. Nesta Archeron wasn't playing at all. She was proving something.

And for the first time in a long while, Eris found himself looking forward to losing.

Rhysand had seen countless waltzes, danced them himself for centuries, but this—this was something else entirely.

The music swelled, a perfect storm of rising strings and pounding drums, but it was the two figures on the floor who held the room captive.

Nesta and Eris moved like forces of nature, like two creatures who had known this dance for lifetimes. But Nesta—she wasn't just dancing. She was transforming.

Rhysand had never seen her like this. She didn't just follow the music—she consumed it, let it course through her veins until it seemed as if the very room breathed with her. And Eris, for all his cunning, all his arrogance, matched her step for step. His eyes blazed with something close to revelation, as if he had discovered something unexpected—something dangerous.

The final minute of the waltz was a test of skill, a risk few dared to take. Most couples would retreat into safety for the finale, content with elegant but forgettable closing steps. But there were always those rare few—those with fire in their blood—who dared the legendary twelve spins. The female would surrender to vertigo, arm extended skyward, placing her fate entirely in her partner's hands as she turned with eyes that could no longer distinguish ceiling from floor.

Nesta didn't hesitate. And Eris followed her lead.

Rhysand barely breathed as the music thundered into its crashing finale. Across the ballroom, every eye locked onto them. Cassian sat rigid at his side, so still it was unnatural for a warrior like him. Not watching—witnessing.

Rhysand felt something then, watching Cassian's face. The way he looked at her. At Nesta, spinning like a tempest given flesh, like she had been born for this exact moment. It was written all over his face. What Rhysand interpreted as undeniable. Inescapable.

Cassian and Nesta must be mates, he thought. It made perfect sense. And Rhysand couldn't have been happier at the possibility for him.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Eris lifted Nesta's arm and whipped her around so fast her heels rose from the ground. She barely finished the rotation before he spun her again, her head snapping around with such precision that even Rhysand—who had seen Feyre move with flawless grace—had to admit it was breathtaking.

And her feet—gods, her feet. One spin after another after another, Nesta twirled across the floor like she was weightless, like the air itself bent to her will. Even with Eris guiding her arm, it was Nesta who held the power in that dance. It was she who led, she who demanded more.

On the seventh spin, she rose onto her toes. On the ninth, Eris let go. And Nesta, arm still stretched above her head, continued to spin—three more times, her sapphire-studded crown catching the light, scattering blue fire across the walls.

A collective gasp echoed through the chamber. Next to him, Feyre sucked in a breath.

Nesta smiled. Not a courtier's polite grin. Not the smirk of someone playing a game. But pure, wild joy. It was like watching someone being reborn. Like seeing a star ignite after eons of darkness.

The Hewn City murmured, but Rhysand barely heard them. Because Cassian—Cassian looked undone. Not with jealousy, nor with anger. With something far deeper, far more ancient.

Nesta's mother had wanted her to marry a prince. Rhysand realized now, as Cassian's knuckles turned white at his sides, as Eris devoured the sight of her with that gleaming, predatory stare—he had thought it was nothing more than a human mother's shallow wish.

A prince was never going to be enough for her. Only a king or an emperor would do. Or perhaps—a general who commanded legions and held the loyalty of immortals.

Rhysand had no doubt that Eris saw it, too. That Eris was calculating what Nesta could become—with ambition, with guidance, with someone who truly saw her for what she was. If Eris ever learned the truth—that the Dread Trove answered to her, that she had Made the very dagger in his possession—

It was a mistake to bring her here. To let Eris see her. To let the world see her. Nesta Archeron was emerging from her cocoon of grief and rage, and the being taking her place could very well bring entire courts to their knees.

The music rose, climbing faster and faster until it exploded into its final, breathtaking note. Eris released her. Nesta spun one last time, the room spinning with her, and as she completed her final turn, Eris dropped to a knee before her—and lifted his hand.

The final note held, ringing through the stone halls, and Nesta came to a perfect, preternatural stop. With one seamless movement, she took Eris's offered hand, her back arching as she flung up her other arm, a portrait of triumph.

A queen without a crown. A female who had never needed one in the first place.

Cassian let out a slow, unsteady breath. Rhysand turned his head slightly, taking in the raw, unguarded way his brother watched her. The way he had never looked at another female in his five centuries of life.

Yes, Rhysand decided. They had to be mates, even if neither realized it yet. And for Cassian's sake, Rhysand hoped Nesta would see what he thought he saw before Eris sensed any connection between them.

And another thing dawned on him—they had underestimated Nesta Archeron. 

They should not have kept things from her. Should not have tried to contain her. Because as he looked at her now, bathed in the aftermath of her triumph,something was coming. Not fate, not prophecy—but a storm of their own making.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63390082/chapters/162408340

[sarafeyjp]

When Nesta dances with Eris, she discovers something unexpected in his calculating gaze—recognition. Unlike Cassian who seeks to fix her or the Night Court that treats her as a burden, Eris sees her true nature: a queen without a crown. In his arms, political obligation transforms into something dangerous. When he proposes marriage, offering not just escape from her gilded cage but a throne of her own, Nesta faces her most crucial decision. The Autumn Court runs dark with blood and Beron Vanserra casts a shadow more terrible than his son's burning eyes. Would accepting mean trading one prison for another? Or could their alliance forge something revolutionary—two equals who refuse to kneel, even to each other? For the first time, Nesta might not just stand on her own, but rise with a crown upon her head.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63390082/chapters/162408340

https://archiveofourown.org/works/63390082/chapters/162408340

[lesbianpoetess]

ao3 turns 15 today

reblog if youre older than ao3

(there's a lot of people asking about this, but the legal age to use social media is 13, except in few countries. so yes, there are people here under 15)

[sarafeyjp]

Doflamingo's Forgotten Daughter

Summary :On a frozen island in the North Blue, Vesper has spent years waiting for the father who never came. When Doflamingo finally appears, he doesn’t recognize her—his memories of her and her mother erased. All he sees is a girl with a power he wants.

Taken into his crew, Vesper seethes with hatred, believing he abandoned them. But as she navigates the brutal world of pirates and secrets unravel, one question lingers—if Doflamingo ever remembers the truth, will it change anything?

--------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1: Frozen Echoes

"You were not born to be forgotten, my little storm. The world will try to bury you beneath ice and silence, but you must never let it. Remember this: the cold can freeze flesh, but it cannot touch the fire in your blood."

— The Lost Letters of Lylithia

----------------------------------------------------------

The vision took her without warning, reality bleeding away like watercolors in the rain. One moment, Vesper was curled on her thin cot in the cave's damp darkness, and the next—cold crept through the palace's opulent halls like death's own breath, wrapping around her in tendrils of frost. Polished marble walls stretched skyward, their gilded columns and ornate tapestries a mockery of warmth as shadows danced across them with each flash of lightning. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead, their frozen prisms casting fractured light across the scattered figures below.

Doflamingo's laughter rolled through the corridors like distant thunder, a sound that should have terrified her but instead left her hollow. Fear wasn't what gnawed at her anymore; that emotion had frozen solid long ago, replaced by something colder, sharper. The question that had carved itself into her heart: Why hadn't he come for them?

Before her stood Violet, caught mid-scream, her terror preserved in crystalline perfection. Ice crawled up her arms like living frost, each crack and spread bringing a sound like breaking glass. Vesper wanted to reach out, to stop the inevitable, but her body remained still, forced to watch as history repeated itself.

"Fufufu... Everything is under control," Doflamingo's voice sliced through the stillness. His crimson glasses caught the lightning's glare, masking eyes that had once sailed past their island without a second glance. The same man who had left them—her and her mother—to weather their own storms.

The ice around Violet began to splinter, hairline fractures spreading like a web across her frozen form. The sound of cracking grew louder, drowning out even Doflamingo's laughter, until finally—

She shattered.

Ice shards scattered across the polished marble floor, each blood-stained piece catching the light like spilled rubies against the darkness. Doflamingo's laughter swelled, filling every corner of the palace, but Vesper didn't flinch. Her legs trembled, threatening to buckle, but she forced herself to stand tall. The flame of anger in her chest burned hotter than any ice, fed by years of abandonment and unanswered questions.

Lightning flashed again, illuminating the lavish surroundings with brutal clarity. Her mother's voice whispered through her memories, steady and sure: "He will come for us, my love. He always finds what belongs to him." The words twisted like knives now, bitter reminders of childhood faith misplaced. He was supposed to be their sun, their protector, their salvation. But the sun had never come, and the shadows had only grown longer with each passing year.

The vision began to fade, reality seeping back in at the edges, but the hollow ache in her chest remained constant—a wound that had scarred over but never truly healed. Standing in this frozen nightmare, Vesper felt the last remnants of her childhood faith crack and fall away, leaving behind something harder, colder—a determination forged in ice and tempered by betrayal.

She saw him clearly now: not the savior from her mother's stories, but a man who had forgotten them so completely that even now, with her standing before him, he didn't recognize what he had lost. Each time these visions came, the same question burned: Why hadn't he come for them? But perhaps the real question, the one that truly haunted her, was simpler and far more painful: Had he ever cared at all?

Vesper jolted awake, her small frame shaking as the vision released its hold. The opulent palace halls faded, replaced by the stark reality of the frozen forest. But the man's image lingered - tall and commanding, his pink feathered coat a stark contrast to the marble pillars that had surrounded him. His laugh still echoed in her mind, sharp and dangerous, yet somehow familiar.

She pressed her hands against her temples, trying to hold onto the details before they slipped away. The vision had shown her more than just a man in a palace - it had shown her someone important. Someone her mother used to whisper about in the dark. The vision felt immediate, present, yet there was something off about it - like looking at a reflection in troubled water. She couldn't tell if she was seeing something happening now, or something yet to come. The uncertainty made her head spin, adding to the gnawing ache in her empty stomach.

The frozen forest around her offered no comfort, its unnatural silence pressing in like a physical weight. Her rags did little against the biting cold that had claimed Spring Haven, turning what was once a peaceful island into an endless winter. She couldn't remember the last time she'd felt the warmth she'd glimpsed in that vision.

"Why did I see him?" she whispered, her voice rough from disuse. The sound seemed to disappear into the frost-laden air, swallowed by the emptiness around her. She'd never had a vision like this before - so vivid, so real. The man's presence had filled every corner of that marble hall, his power tangible even in her dreams.

Her stomach cramped sharply, pulling her from her thoughts. Days had passed since she'd last eaten - the strange, bitter roots from the shipwreck her only sustenance. Their taste still lingered on her tongue, along with a dull ache that seemed to spread through her whole body.

Forcing herself to stand on trembling legs, Vesper made her way to the cliff's edge. It was her sanctuary, the one place where the jagged rocks remained mysteriously warm beneath her bare feet, defying the ice that had consumed everything else on the island. The sea, however, stretched endlessly before her, dark and shifting, untouched by the frost that gripped the land.

A small body of water lay nearby, its surface reflecting her disheveled face. The ice covering it was slowly melting, cracks forming as droplets trickled into the pool below. She was just shy of eight years old but appeared even younger—dirty, frail, and unkempt. Her most striking feature was her emerald-green eyes, identical to her mother’s. 

Her mother had once told her they were special. A key to something important. But what that meant had always eluded her.

She turned her gaze back to the sea. Its endless, restless expanse usually calmed her frayed nerves.

Then she saw it.

A ship.

Her breath caught in her throat as her wide eyes focused on the vibrant vessel cutting through the water. Its hull was painted a vivid pink from bow to stern, a flamboyant display that stood out against the dark sea. Black sails billowed in the wind, and a figurehead shaped like a flamingo jutted forward, wings spread wide.

Her heart thudded painfully against her ribs as her gaze locked onto the name emblazoned across the largest sail: DONQUIXOTE.

Then, her eyes found him.

A figure stood at the railing, tall and unmissable. Wild blond hair caught the sunlight, unruly and untamed. His pink feathered coat flared dramatically in the breeze, the unmistakable symbol of a man who thrived on command. But it was his crimson-tinted glasses that sent a shiver through her. They reflected the light like fire, concealing his eyes but not his power.

It was him.

“Daddy?” The word slipped from her lips, so soft she barely heard it herself. It carried an ache she didn’t understand, a yearning that twisted uncomfortably in her chest.

The man’s body stiffened. Even from this distance, she saw it—the subtle shift in his posture as his head turned slightly in her direction. For one brief, breathless moment, their eyes met. Or at least, it felt that way.

But then, just as quickly, he turned away.

Her heart plummeted. He said something to a crewmate beside him, his attention already elsewhere. Without a second glance, he leaned back against the railing, exuding a casual, unbothered confidence.

He didn’t stop.

He didn’t call out to her.

The ship continued its steady journey across the waves, its garish pink sails shrinking against the horizon.

Vesper stood frozen, confusion and anger tangling together in her chest. He had seen her. She knew he had. His body language had betrayed it, if only for a second. But he’d chosen to ignore her, to keep moving as if she were nothing more than another piece of ice on this cursed island.

Her mother’s words echoed in her mind, each syllable cutting like a blade: “He’ll come for us one day, my love. He always finds what belongs to him.”

But that wasn’t true.

She sank to her knees, the warm rocks beneath her doing nothing to ease the bitter chill spreading through her bones. He had seen her, and he had left her here to die.

Not a savior. Not a father. Just another figure in the endless winter.

The silence of Spider Miles consumed the room, thick and oppressive, pressing against the walls like a living thing. It coiled in the corners, folding into the shadows that stretched long and deep. Doflamingo lounged in an armchair that seemed more throne than furniture, the pink feathers of his coat rustling softly with his every movement. His fingers, long and deliberate, tapped against the carved wood of the armrest—a rhythmic beat that spoke of restless thoughts churning beneath his sharp grin.

The frozen island lingered in his mind like a specter. He had altered his route to see it, unable to ignore the rumors of a place trapped in ice despite the summer’s sun. The moment his ship neared its jagged cliffs, he’d felt it—the unnatural chill in the air, the eerie stillness that hung over the land like a curse. And then there was the child.

She had stood on the cliff’s edge, small and fragile, her wild green eyes meeting his across the impossible distance. Even now, he could see her clearly—her hair whipping in the wind, her frame dwarfed by the frozen expanse surrounding her. She wasn’t just a child. No, there had been something in her gaze, something fierce and untamed. Something familiar yet unknown.

His thoughts were interrupted by the sharp buzz of the Den Den Mushi. He reached for the receiver with a languid motion, his grin sharpening as he answered.

“Speak,” he said, his voice smooth as silk but carrying the weight of command.

“Doffy,” Vergo’s voice crackled through, steady and professional. “I looked into the frozen island you mentioned. It’s called Frozen Hell now, but it was once known as Spring Haven.”

Doflamingo leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his sharp grin never faltering. “Go on.”

“There’s no official word on what caused the island to freeze,” Vergo continued. “But the Marines suspect the Hie Hie no Mi. Aokiji’s disappearance left a void they’ve been desperate to fill.”

Doflamingo’s laugh was low, a sound more akin to the growl of a predator than amusement. “Always chasing what they can’t control,” he murmured, his tone laced with disdain. But his thoughts didn’t linger on the fruit. Instead, his mind returned to her.

The girl.

Small, unyielding, standing against the ice as if it had been made for her. Their eyes had locked for only a moment, but in that fleeting second, he had felt something stir—a pull he hadn’t experienced in years. Untamed power. Not a child. Never just a child. A possibility. A weapon waiting to be forged.

“The girl,” he said, his voice soft but edged with steel. “What do you know about her?”

“Nothing yet,” Vergo replied immediately. “No records. No trace. It’s as if she doesn’t exist. Whoever she is, someone went to great lengths to hide her. Even the Marines have no leads.”

A slow smile curled across Doflamingo’s lips, predatory and deliberate. “Hidden things,” he said softly, “are meant to be found. Especially when they don’t want to be.”

The shadows in the room seemed to shift as he leaned back, drumming his fingers against the receiver in a calculated rhythm. Power, he knew, wasn’t just about control. It was about seeing the raw, unshaped potential in someone—or something—and knowing exactly how to mold it.

Her potential was wild and volatile, like a flame waiting for the right touch to become a blaze. He could still see the defiance burning in her green eyes, a fire that dared the world to extinguish it. But in the right hands, even fire could be directed.

His hands.

“Keep digging,” he commanded, his voice low but unyielding. Then, without waiting for a response, he slammed the receiver back into place.

The room fell silent once more, save for the faint hum of Spider Miles beyond the walls. Rising from his seat with a deliberate motion, Doflamingo swept his feathered coat over his shoulders. The garish plumage stood out against the dim light like blood against snow, a vivid declaration of his unapologetic presence.

He stood there for a moment, staring into the middle distance, the grin on his face sharp enough to cut. His thoughts drifted back to the girl on the cliff, to the raw, unshaped power that had stood before him.

“She’ll be mine,” he murmured, his voice a quiet promise.

Some weapons, he mused, chose their wielder long before they were ever held. And this girl—this ghost with emerald eyes—would become his most exquisite creation yet.

The feathers of his coat rustled softly as he turned, the shadows shifting around him like an extension of his will. Outside, the port town’s restless energy buzzed on, but within these walls, Doflamingo’s ambition loomed larger than life.

The girl would be found. And when she was, there would be no question of her place.

She belonged to him.

She just didn’t know it yet.

The strings extended from Doflamingo's fingers like gossamer threads of fate, anchoring him to the clouds as he descended into the bitter sky. Below him, Frozen Hell sprawled like a broken mirror, its ice-glazed terrain reflecting the harsh sunlight in fragments of crystalline despair. His coat billowed in the biting wind, pink feathers stark against the endless white, but the cold barely registered against his skin. If anything, the chill only sharpened his focus, his crimson-tinted glasses scanning the frozen wasteland with predatory intensity.

The village revealed itself gradually—a masterpiece of frozen horror that drew his lips into a razor-sharp grin. People stood like macabre sculptures, their bodies encased in thick layers of ice, faces contorted in expressions of pure terror. Not the work of nature, he knew. This level of instantaneous freezing spoke of power—raw, uncontrolled, and deliciously rare.

His feet touched the frost-covered ground with deliberate grace, each step a silent declaration of authority. The crunch of ice beneath his shoes carried through the dead air as he approached the village's center, where an iron cage stood mounted on a crude platform. Unlike its surroundings, the cage remained unfrozen, its door hanging ajar with an almost mocking emptiness, squeaking faintly as the bitter wind pushed it back and forth.

"Fuffuffu..." The sound curled through the frigid air like smoke as he studied the empty cage. Curious, he thought.

His sharp gaze caught on a frozen figure nearby—a man locked mid-stride, his hand still gripping what appeared to be a rope. But the material's distinctive dark sheen betrayed its true nature. Doflamingo's smirk tightened as he recognized the distinct gleam of Kairoseki.

"Sea-Prism Stone," he murmured, voice dropping to a dangerous pitch. "Now that's interesting." His fingers twitched, sending invisible strings slicing through the air. The frozen figures shattered instantly, fragments of ice scattering across the ground like broken dreams. "Very interesting indeed."

The presence of Kairoseki in such a remote village raised questions that made his blood sing with anticipation. Such a heavily controlled substance didn't find its way to backwater islands by chance. Someone had been pulling strings in his territory—strings that weren't his own.

A sudden gasp shattered the deathly silence.

Doflamingo's head turned with serpentine grace, his grin widening as he caught a flash of movement at the village's edge. A small figure darting into the frozen forest, their footsteps desperate and uneven on the slick ice.

"Now, now," he purred, his voice carrying an edge of dark amusement. "Running only makes this more entertaining."

He moved unhurriedly, each step measured and precise. The ice-laden branches above him trembled, disturbed by the invisible network of strings he wove through the air. The forest itself seemed to hold its breath as he pursued his prey, the only sounds the faint scrape of bare feet on ice and his quiet laughter.

The girl was quick, he’d give her that. But in this frozen wasteland, every scuff of her bare feet against the ice left a mark—a faint skid, a fleeting trace. The ice itself betrayed her, cracking faintly under her weight and echoing her every move. Her path wound through the trees like a wounded animal’s, desperate but ultimately futile.

"Little Bird," he called, his voice dripping with mock tenderness, though the predatory edge beneath it remained sharp. "Did you think you could fly away?"

The scrape of her hurried footsteps faltered for just a moment—a hesitation that made his smirk sharpen. Fear was such a reliable tool, especially in one so young. He could practically taste her terror on the sharp, icy wind.

This hunt was already over, though his prey didn’t know it yet. His strings had been spreading since he first touched down, creating an invisible web that grew with every step she took. Soon, she would run right into his trap, and then...

"Fuffuffu..." His laughter echoed through the frozen trees, a sound that promised both salvation and damnation. "Let's see what kind of treasure you really are."

The hunt continued through the silent forest, predator and prey locked in a dance where every step had been choreographed long before the music began. After all, Doflamingo mused, the best games were the ones where he’d already won before they started.

The forest loomed like a twisted cathedral, its ice-laden branches reaching toward the colorless sky like gnarled fingers. Every tree seemed to lean inward, their frozen limbs creaking and groaning under the weight of endless ice. The dense maze of slick bark and jutting branches made each step treacherous, but Vesper pushed forward, her breath coming in desperate bursts that crystallized in the frigid air.

He wasn’t supposed to come back.

The thought pounded in her head with each frantic heartbeat. No one ever came back to Spring Haven—not after what had happened. The isolation had been her shield, her certainty. Until now.

The frozen ground bit into her bare feet as she stumbled through the undergrowth, but she barely felt it. Fear had a way of numbing everything else. Her foot caught on something—or nothing at all—and she pitched forward, catching herself just before her face hit the ice. She twisted around, looking for what had tripped her, but saw only smooth, unbroken ground. Must not have been paying attention, she thought, her heart hammering as she scrambled back to her feet. Her mind raced with questions she couldn’t answer: Why now? What changed? What does he want?

When she finally broke through to the familiar clearing—her makeshift home—she allowed herself only seconds to grab what mattered most. The books and letters lay where she’d left them on the old tree stump, their weathered edges a testament to how many times she’d flipped through their pages. She clutched them to her chest like armor, the paper crinkling against her racing heart as she darted toward the cave.

The sanctuary hadn’t been discovered by accident. Her mother had carved it into the rocky hillside long ago, wielding magic Vesper still couldn’t comprehend. She remembered her mother’s soft voice, words spoken as though they were a sacred truth: "Only me and your father can find this sanctuary. If it ever gets too tough, just come here when you want to be alone."

Those words had always been a lifeline, a promise that this place would be hers and hers alone. No one else could reach it, no one else could touch it. Or so she had believed.

But now, Doflamingo was here. The man her mother had whispered about in both awe and fear, the one from her visions. Her father. His presence shattered every ounce of security the sanctuary once held. If only he and her mother could find this place, then what did that mean? Had he always known where she was? Had he been waiting all this time?

She ducked inside, pressing her back against the cold stone walls, her breath hitching in sharp bursts. The books trembled in her hands as panic clawed at her chest. The sound of his footsteps crunching through the ice grew closer, each step measured and unhurried. He knew he had her cornered. There was no need to rush.

When he reached the clearing, his movements were almost casual. He surveyed the space with the air of someone admiring a painting, his head tilted slightly as though appreciating the desolation. Then, with deliberate grace, he settled onto the remains of a fallen tree near the cave’s entrance.

For a moment, disappointment flickered across his sharp features, so fleeting it was almost imperceptible. He had hoped she would bolt straight into the carefully crafted web he’d woven through the forest—strings spread like an intricate trap just waiting to ensnare her. But instead, she had gone to ground here, in this hollowed-out cave, denying him the satisfaction of watching his prey fall into his snare.

Still, a smirk curled at the edges of his lips. It didn’t matter. In the end, she was his, no matter how the game had played out. His fingers twitched, and the intricate threads he had woven vanished without a trace, dissolving as though they had never existed.His shadow stretched across the ground like a dark promise, reaching toward her hiding place. The way he sat—legs crossed, shoulders relaxed—spoke of absolute confidence. This wasn’t a hunt anymore. It was a game, and he was savoring every moment.

"Fuffuffu..." His laugh curled through the frigid air like poison. "You’re not very good at hiding, are you?"

Vesper pressed herself further into the corner, her fingers digging into the worn covers of her books. How? How did he know exactly where she was?

"I can see you," Doflamingo said softly, his voice carrying an edge that made her blood run cold. "Every breath, every heartbeat—you might as well be standing in front of me."

Her stomach twisted as the truth sank in. There had never been any chance of escape. From the moment he’d appeared in the village, it was clear he had been toying with her, moving with a confidence that suggested he had planned every step of this encounter. She didn’t understand how, but it felt like he had been waiting for her to make exactly this move.

The worst part? Some small, traitorous part of her wondered if being found was better than being forgotten. After all, no one else had ever come back for her. Not even her mother.

And now, standing in the icy clearing with a casual smirk curling his lips, her father—the man who had haunted her visions and her mother’s whispers—had finally come for her.Vesper emerged from the cave’s shadows with careful, measured steps, her small frame trembling—not entirely from the cold. The books and letters clutched against her chest felt like a shield—fragile and ultimately useless, but all she had to protect herself from the towering figure waiting outside. The frozen air bit at her exposed skin, but she barely noticed it over the thundering of her own heart.

He was waiting for her.

Doflamingo sat on the fallen tree near the cave’s entrance, his figure commanding even in stillness. The garish coat draped over his shoulders like a mocking banner, and his crimson-tinted glasses reflected faint glints of light, concealing his eyes but not the sharp intensity behind them. His very presence seemed to consume the clearing, an oppressive force that bent the world around him, as though the air itself had shifted to accommodate his will.

“I wasn’t hiding,” she said, her voice thin but carrying a thread of defiance that startled even her. Her fingers clutched the books and letters tighter, as though they might shield her. “I just… wanted to see the man who’s been in my dreams.”

For a brief moment, surprise flickered across his face, though it vanished quickly beneath his sharp grin. Tilting his head slightly, he studied her with a dark amusement. Rising from the fallen tree with deliberate ease, his pink coat shifted like living fire, a sharp contrast to the icy void around them. Towering over her now, he made the clearing feel impossibly small, the air heavy with his presence.

Taking a slow, deliberate step forward, his movements exuded control, each step measured and purposeful, making her acutely aware of the size and power difference between them.

“Fuffuffu… smart girl,” he said, the sound curling through the frigid air like smoke. His gaze swept over her critically, lingering on her tattered clothes, hollow cheeks, and too-thin arms clutching the books like they could save her from him. There was no pity in his expression, only a spark of curiosity and something darker. His hands hung loosely at his sides, but there was a tension in them—a readiness, coiled and waiting.

“Tell me, little bird,” he drawled, his tone rich with mockery, “what’s your name?”

She hesitated, the tremor in her legs spreading to her hands. The nausea that had plagued her earlier surged, twisting her insides into knots, but she gritted her teeth and forced herself upright. She wouldn’t kneel. Not to him.

“One would think,” she said, her voice tight and uneven, “that it’s polite to give your name first before asking for someone else’s.”

She didn’t know why her words came out sharp, like a blade she didn’t know how to wield. Was it the loneliness? The villagers’ hatred, shaping her as much as the cold had? Or something worse—this aching, traitorous part of her that wanted to collapse into him. To feel the warmth of someone who wasn’t a cruel word or a judging stare.

The father she had waited for, even though he was too late.

Her knuckles whitened around the books, trembling with the effort to stay upright.

Doflamingo chuckled, low and rich, the sound curling through the clearing like smoke. 'Fuffuffu... even half-starved and freezing, you’ve got spirit.'" His grin curved like the blade of a scythe, cruel and cutting, as though her recognition was the punchline to a private joke. “Very well. My name is Doflamingo.”

The name hit her like a physical blow.

She froze, her breath catching as years of whispered stories and desperate prayers crashed over her at once. Her mother’s voice echoed in her mind, warm and full of longing: He’ll come for us one day. Your father will find us.

Her lips parted, but no sound came. She had wanted him to say his name—to prove this was all a dream, that he wasn’t actually here. That she was still alone on the island, and he had sailed past like the time before.

“No...” The word slipped out, fragile and disbelieving. “It can’t—”

“Doflamingo,” he repeated, slower this time, savoring every syllable. His grin sharpened as though her recognition amused him. “You’ve heard of me, haven’t you, little bird?”

Her chest tightened, and the world seemed to tilt beneath her feet. The truth clawed at her chest, suffocating and heavy. The years of isolation had hollowed her out, leaving only questions and faint hopes that someone would find her. But now, standing before him, all that emptiness seemed to press down at once—an avalanche of too many lonely nights and unanswered prayers. Her legs wavered, the dizziness surging until it overwhelmed her.

“No...” The whisper came again, weaker now.

Her vision blurred, and the clearing distorted as nausea surged through her, as she staggered back, reaching for the cave wall for balance. The familiar stone—warm, unmarred by frost thanks to her mother’s magic—was her last anchor. But it wasn’t enough. Her strength gave out, and the books slipped from her trembling fingers, landing with a soft thud on the frost-covered ground.

Her legs buckled, the world tilting dangerously as unconsciousness claimed her. The sting of ice biting into her scraped palms was distant, drowned beneath the crushing weight of his name. It loomed over her, suffocating, as if the frozen air itself had conspired to force her to the ground.

Doflamingo’s steps were deliberate, each carving through the frost like a predator closing in on its prey. He loomed over her fallen form, his grin fixed and unyielding.

“Fuffuffu...” His laughter curled through the frozen air like a whip. “Looks like the little bird wasn’t ready to leave the nest after all.”

He crouched beside her, his coat flaring out as he studied her unconscious form. Sweat clung to her pale skin despite the bitter cold. Something about her tugged at a long-buried memory—a haunting familiarity he couldn’t quite pin down. It hovered just out of reach, teasing him with the promise of recognition.

“Well then,” he murmured, his voice carrying a note of dark amusement. “Let’s see if you’re worth the wait… or if you’ll break like the rest.Either way, you’ll serve your purpose.”

Doflamingo crouched beside the unconscious girl, his sharp eyes dissecting every detail of her face. Up close, the contradiction of her existence became even more intriguing—a child who had endured the frozen wasteland and survived, yet lay here so small, so seemingly fragile. His gloved fingers brushed a strand of matted golden hair from her face, the motion deliberate and possessive. Her skin burned warm beneath his touch, stark against the bitter cold. Faint sweat glistened on her forehead, a testament to her body’s fight to endure where most would have failed hours ago.

His gaze shifted to the cave behind her. At first glance, it seemed unremarkable—just another hollow in the ice-scarred terrain—but the markings carved into its entrance caught his attention. Jagged lines and spirals etched into the stone pulsed faintly, an unnatural glow barely visible in the dim light. Something about them stirred a flicker of recognition in his mind, an itch he couldn’t scratch. The memory slipped away before he could catch it, leaving behind only an irritating void.

Stepping into the cave’s cramped interior, he took in the signs of desperate survival—a makeshift cot in the corner, its frayed blanket tucked with a precision that reeked of a child’s attempt at control in a chaotic world. Beside it, a rickety table stood uneven on frozen ground, its surface littered with fragments of a life she had clung to. Letters, bundled neatly with a faded ribbon, rested at its center, their edges softened by time but carefully preserved.

Doflamingo’s long fingers closed around the bundle, the delicate crackle of aged paper breaking the silence. A date scrawled on one of the envelopes caught his attention—three years prior. His grin sharpened, cruel understanding blooming behind his crimson-tinted glasses. Someone had left this girl here long before the ice had claimed the island. Abandoned her. Believed her unworthy of saving.

How wrong they’d been.

As he shifted the letters, one slipped free, drifting to the damp ground. The faded ink drew his attention, and he crouched to retrieve it, unfolding the page with an almost mocking curiosity.

"I’m sorry I had to leave and may never return. But you... you are stronger than I am. I will come back for you when it’s safe."

“Fuffuffu…” His laugh curled through the frigid air like smoke. “Empty promises from the weak. Typical.” His thumb brushed the edge of the letter before he folded it back into place and slid it into the bundle. The casual gesture crumpled it slightly, a quiet show of disdain—a reminder that even these precious fragments of her past now belonged to him.

He turned back to the girl. Her body was motionless, but her face told a different story. Even unconscious, there was a stubborn set to her jaw, a tension in her small frame. It spoke of someone who had learned to fight even in sleep. Fascinating.

The books she had clutched so tightly lay near the cave’s entrance, their damp pages curling slightly but otherwise intact. Even in collapse, she had protected them. That desperate grip, the need to hold onto these pieces of her past—it only made her more intriguing.

Doflamingo rose smoothly, his coat flaring out like wings. “Well then,” he murmured, his voice low and laced with amusement. “You’ll make for an interesting puzzle, little bird.”

He leaned down, his hands moving with a predator’s care as he lifted her into his arms. She was almost weightless—like a sparrow with broken wings, too fragile to take flight. His coat settled over her limp form, a deliberate gesture, a silent claim.

As he stepped from the cave, pale sunlight broke through the thinning clouds above, casting a faint glow across the ice. He had to move quickly. His strings shot upward, pulling them into the air as the frozen wasteland shrank below—a monument to power untamed, now his.

On the horizon, a Marine warship cut through the icy waters, its pristine white sails stark against the desolation. Doflamingo’s smirk sharpened, though his crimson glasses concealed the faint annoyance flickering behind them. Of course they’d come sniffing—a frozen island and whispers of the Hie Hie no Mi were bait they couldn’t resist. But the island’s secrets—and this peculiar girl—were already his.

The girl stirred faintly, her head lolling against his chest, but she didn’t wake. His strings pulled taut, lifting them into the air. The land below shrank as they ascended into the thinning clouds, the cold wind tugging at his coat. Let the Marines search the ruins. Let them chase the ghosts he left behind. They would find nothing but ice and echoes.

There was something about her, a faint familiarity he couldn’t quite pin down. It wasn’t just her golden hair tangled against his chest or the stubborn tension in her small frame. It was her power—wild and unshaped—that whispered of something… important. Something his strings could twist into perfection.

The Marine warship vanished into the thinning clouds as Doflamingo ascended, his laughter curling like smoke through the frozen air.

“Let them sift through ruins,” he murmured, his crimson glasses catching the pale sunlight as his gaze dropped to the girl in his arms. A cruel smile tugged at his lips. “By the time they realize what they’ve lost, she’ll already be mine.”

The wind howled as he disappeared into the clouds, leaving nothing but silence below.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60522799/chapters/154510915

[sarafeyjp]

My One Piece AU: Doflamingo's Forgotten Daughter

On a frozen island in the North Blue, Vesper has spent years waiting for the father who never came. When Doflamingo finally appears, he doesn’t recognize her—his memories of her and her mother erased. All he sees is a girl with a power he wants.

Taken into his crew, Vesper seethes with hatred, believing he abandoned them. But as she navigates the brutal world of pirates and secrets unravel, one question lingers—if Doflamingo ever remembers the truth, will it change anything?

https://archiveofourown.org/works/60522799/chapters/154510915