A dangerous shift occurred in the atmosphere, buy y/n didn't pull away from his grip. She did the opposite and melted into it. Shifting her weight into the heavy warmth of his hand, tilting her head up so her gaze locked directly with his behind those rose-tinted lenses. A slow, smoky smile—the kind reserved for the sultry, dim-lit climaxes of her best stage performances—curved her lips. If he wanted to play a high-stakes game of puppets and strings, he was forgetting who spent her life controlling an entire room full of men with nothing more than a sway of her hips and a drop of her voice. Doflamingo craved her defiance, but he lusted after her presence. And desire was the easiest thing in the world to manipulate. "Rent?" she purred, your voice dropping into a low, velvet rasp. She raised her hand, sliding her palm slowly up the broad, silk-clad plane of his chest. She could feel the rigid, heavy muscle beneath the fabric, the steady, thumping beat of his heart. Her fingers grazed the open collar of his shirt, resting right over his collarbone, feeling him tense instantly under her touch. "You bought my club. You bought my grocery store. You bought my entire apartment building..." trailing her fingertips up to the sharp edge of his jaw, her thumb brushing softly over his bottom lip. Doflamingo’s eyes darkened, his breath catching in his throat as his grip on her hip tightened, pulling her plush, curvy frame directly against his body. "You spent thousands of dollars just to get me standing right here," she whispered, leaning in until her lips were barely a millimeter from his ear. She smelled his spicy cologne, felt the staggering heat radiating off his towering frame. "And now you want to charge me rent? Please, Doflamingo. We both know you're the one paying for my time." Doflamingo’s jaw locked. A low, ragged growl rumbled deep in his broad chest—a sound that was half frustration, half absolute, intoxicating thrill. He was used to terror. He was used to desperate, trembling surrender. But having her pressed against him, using lush curves, her confidence, and his own raw obsession as a weapon against him? It drove him out of his mind. "Fuffuffu..." Doflamingo snorted, a dark, wicked smirk straining against your thumb resting on his lip. He slid his hand from your hip down to the heavy, soft curve of your waist, his long fingers spanning the plush dip, holding you firmly in place. "You're playing a dangerous game, little ghost. You think you can manipulate me?" "I don't think, Joker. I know," she hummed smoothly, pulling back just enough to look him dead in the eye, her fingers trailing back down to rest over his racing heart. She let your eyes wander down his towering length, taking in his tailored suit, his golden skin, before looking back up with an unbothered, mocking sweetness. "You could have thrown me in a cage. You could have had Vergo drag me here in chains. But you didn't. Because a broken doll doesn't entertain you. You want me—full, stubborn, and completely unimpressed by your money."
Y/n took a small step back, deliberately letting her hand slip from his chest. The loss of contact made Doflamingo’s fingers twitch, his eyes narrowing as he watched y/n create space between them. "So here are my terms, Landlord," She said, resting a hand on her hip, accentuating the gorgeous, full line of her body that had transfixed him from the very first night. "I stay in my apartment. The goons outside my door leave. The local shops open back up to me. And if you want to see me dance, or hear me talk, you don't send muscle or baskets..." She tilted your chin up, your eyes flashing with fierce, unwavering fire. "...You ask nicely. And you pay top dollar." Doflamingo stood frozen in the center of his vast, empty penthouse. The silence in the room was deafening. Behind his tinted glasses, his sharp eyes tracked every inch of her confidence, intelligence, the unyielding strength housed inside a body he wanted to devour. "Fuffuffuffu! God, you really are a masterpiece!" he roared, stepping forward and closing the distance in a single, massive stride. He didn't grab her this time; instead, he bowed low, sweeping his hand out in a dramatic, theatrical bow of absolute amusement and reignited obsession. "Deal, my sweet, manipulative tenant; the street is yours again. But remember... every game has a winner. And I always collect my debts." Doflamingo’s boisterous laughter slowly tapered down into a low, vibrating hum in his chest. He straightened up to his full, towering height, adjusting the plush pink feather coat on his shoulders. The sharp, dark glint behind his rose-tinted glasses softened into something far more calculating—and far more possessive.
"Ask nicely? Pay top dollar?" Doflamingo purred, his wide, predatory grin stretching until his white teeth caught the dim amber light of the city. "Fuffuffu... You really think like a tenant, sweetheart. But why settle for a dreary little apartment in a hollowed-out building? I bought the building, yes. But I don't intend on leaving it as a pile of empty brick and concrete," he whispered, leaning down until his warm, spicy breath brushed the sensitive skin of her neck. "Starting tomorrow morning, the construction crews move in. I’m gutting the entire structure. Every floor, every wall, every empty room... torn down and rebuilt into a private manor." Her eyes narrowed slightly, though her stubborn posture didn't break. "A manor?" "A palace, doll. Just for you," Doflamingo chuckled, his voice dropping into a thick, gravelly rasp. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently sliding under her chin, her your head up to force her to meet his gaze. "The upper floors will be your private quarters. Endless space, custom furniture, anything your heart desires. But the ground floor will be the main event," he purred, his fingers lightly tracing the curve of her jawline down to the swell of her collarbone. "I’m having them knock out the entrance walls. A massive, sunken living room right in the center—a step-down lounge lined with plush, dark velvet couches, low tables, and crystal chandeliers. My favorite spot in the entire city." He leaned closer, his chest pressing flush against hers, making her acutely aware of the sheer size and heat of his body. "And right in the middle of that sunken room..." Doflamingo whispered, his thumb pressing firmly against her bottom lip, "...will be a stage. Built specifically for her feet. Built for her hips. A private cabaret, right in her own home." letting out a soft, mocking hum, refusing to let him see the slight hitch in her breath. She wrapped her fingers around his wrist, not pushing his hand away, but holding it firmly against her jaw. "A private cabaret?" She murmured, her voice silky and unimpressed. "Sounds like a gilded cage, Joker." "Only if you view it that way, sweetheart," Doflamingo snickered, his rose-tinted glasses catching the reflection of her fierce, unwavering eyes. "You said you wanted me to pay top dollar to see you perform. Well, this is the deposit. You’ll have total freedom. The street is yours, the stores are open, your cat can roam forty thousand square feet of marble and velvet..." He slid his hands down, resting his heavy, broad palms firmly on the lush, generous curve of her hips, pulling he soft frame snug against his rigid body. "...But when the sun goes down, and I walk down those steps into that sunken lounge," Doflamingo growled, his voice thick with raw, dark desire, "you will dance for me. Not because I own you... but because you know no one else in this city can appreciate every single inch of you the way I do. She held his gaze, feeling the heavy, possessive warmth of his hands on her waist. She knew he was trying to build an empire around her to keep her close—but she also knew that in making himself her sole audience, he was placing the strings of his own desires directly into her hands. A slow, sultry smile curved your lips. "Then you'd better make sure those velvet couches are comfortable, because if I'm dancing... I expect your undivided attention."
Over the next two days, the eerie silence in the building grew heavier. It started with Mrs. Loraine from down the hall, who usually gave Thirteen little treats when she met y/n in the lobby. She avoided her eyes, rushing into her apartment and slamming the deadbolt. By Sunday morning, the sound of heavy boots and moving boxes echoed down the stairwells. One by one, the neighbors packed their lives into cardboard boxes and left. They moved out in a frantic, terrifying hurry, muttering hushed conversations about broken leases and sudden, irresistible buyouts. Within forty-eight hours, the building was a ghost town. The halls echoed with every step you took. The comforting ambient noise of radios and laughter was replaced by an oppressive, suffocating quiet.
On Monday afternoon, a sharp, official knock sounded at the front door. y/n opened it to find a man in a sleek navy suit holding a leather clipboard, flanked by two towering men in dark sunglasses. "Can I help you?" y/n asked, leaning against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. "Good afternoon," the man said with a cold, practiced smile. "I represent Donquixote Enterprises. I’m here to inform you that as of 9:00 AM this morning, Mr. Doflamingo has officially purchased this entire building, along with the land beneath it." Y/n's stomach took a sharp, icy dip. "He bought the building?" "He is officially your new landlord," the representative corrected smoothly, sliding an official document from his clipboard and handing it to her. "All previous lease agreements have been terminated, save for yours. As his sole remaining tenant, Mr. Doflamingo requests your presence at his penthouse office tomorrow evening to discuss your... terms of residency." He gave a polite, mocking bow, turning on his heel to leave down the empty, echoing hallway. Y/n stood in the doorway, staring down at the thick parchment paper. Written in elegant gold ink at the bottom was a single handwritten line: "Fuffuffu... I hear you've been having trouble finding a stage, sweetheart. Come up to my office. Let's talk rent."
Y/n smirked; the game of cat and mouse was becoming clear: she had him where she wanted. She didn't dress like a tenant coming to beg her landlord for mercy; she made sure of it. She pulled on her favorite dark fitted dress—one that hugged every lush, unapologetic curve of her hips, her soft waist, and full chest—paired with her sharpest suede boots and dark red lipstick. If Doflamingo wanted a show, she was going to give him an entrance he’d never forget. When y/n stepped into the grand marble lobby of the Donquixote Syndicate tower, the guards didn't stop you. They didn't ask for ID. They simply stepped aside, one of them pressing the button for the private, top-floor glass elevator. The entire building knew you were coming. The elevator ride was silent, soaring sixty floors above the neon-lit metropolis until the doors chimed softly and slid open directly into Doflamingo’s penthouse suite.
The room was massive, bathed in the amber glow of the city skyline through floor-to-ceiling glass windows. The air smelled of expensive scotch, cedarwood, and sheer power. Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk at the far end of the room was Donquixote Doflamingo. He had discarded his formal jacket; his silk dress shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, rolling up his forearms to reveal lean, corded muscle. His plush, pink-feathered coat was draped carelessly over the back of his massive leather chair.
As her boots clicked heavily against the polished floorboards, Doflamingo slowly set down his crystal glass. His rose-tinted sunglasses caught the reflection of the city, but behind them, his sharp, golden eyes swept over you like wildfire. He didn't just look at her; he devoured the sight of her. His gaze lingered on the heavy swell of her hips, the dip of her waist, and the confident, stubborn tilt of her chin. In a world full of starved, desperate people trying to shrink themselves to survive, y/n stood before him full, soft, gorgeous, and utterly unyielding. A low, rumbling groan of satisfaction vibrated deep in his broad chest. "Fuffuffuffu..." Doflamingo purred, his wide, predatory grin stretching across his face, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light. He leaned back in his chair, lacing his long fingers over his stomach. "Look what the tide washed in. My stubborn little ghost." Y/n didn't wait for an invitation, marching straight up to his desk, stopping just inches from the dark wood, slamming both hands down onto the polished surface.
"You buying my building was the petty move of an insecure coward," she said, her voice ringing clear and fierce through the massive penthouse. "You blacklisted me, you bought out my grocery stores, you bought out my neighbors, and you sent treats to my cat. Are you that starved for attention, Doflamingo, or do you just lack the talent to get a woman’s attention without buying the ground she walks on?" Silence fell over the penthouse. Out in the hallway, Vergo froze, his hand resting on his sidearm, waiting for his boss to snap. Doflamingo didn't snap. Instead, he let out a loud, boisterous, echoing laugh that shook the glass windows. He threw his head back, his broad shoulders trembling with genuine, ecstatic delight. "Fuffuffuffu! God, you are magnificent when you're angry!" Doflamingo roared, wiping a tear from behind his glasses. Slowly, deliberately, he stood up. His towering, six-foot-ten frame rose up like a mountain, casting a huge, warm shadow right over you. He walked out from behind his desk, his long, heavy strides closing the distance between them until he was standing directly in her space. The heat radiating off his body was overwhelming, thick with the scent of rich tobacco and spicy cologne. He leaned down, bowing his long frame until his face was level with hers, his rose-tinted glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose just enough for you to see the dark, dangerous, burning obsession in his eyes.
His eyes dropped to her lips, then down the curve of her throat, tracing the soft, generous swell of her chest and the wide line of her hips. He didn't want a fragile porcelain doll. He wanted her—all of your lush, stubborn, soft weight, and the fierce fire inside her that refused to bow down. "You think this is about attention, sweetheart?" Doflamingo whispered, his deep voice dropping into a thrilling, gravelly rasp that sent a shiver straight down her spine. He reached out, his long, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb grazing the warm curve of her jawline. "I don't buy things to get attention. I buy things so that when I reach out my hand..." He slid his hand down, his broad palm resting with possessive, heavy warmth right over the curve of her hip, squeezing gently. "...there's nowhere left for you to run." y/n didn't flinch away from his touch, though her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Y/n leaned into his space, your eyes locked onto his behind the pink tint. "I'm still standing in front of you," she said, her voice laced with pure, unadulterated defiance. "And I'm still saying no." Doflamingo’s grin widened into something terrifyingly sharp, his grip on her hip tightening just enough to pull her body an inch closer to his towering frame. "Fuffuffu... let's talk about your rent, my sweet, beautiful tenant."
Day 3-5
Over the next few days, the temporary victory of the five-hundred-dollar sale slowly evaporated into the harsh reality of the situation. Y/n spent every waking hour on the pavement. Armed with a printed stack of resumes, she walked until her feet bled, hitting every cabaret, jazz lounge, theater, and dive bar outside the immediate neighborhood. Tiredly, she stretched out her arm, pushing open one more door for the day. Y/n stepped into an upscale lounge in the West District; the hiring manager took the resume, setting it down on the bar. He then glanced at her face and immediately shook his head. "I've been advised not to touch your application with a ten-foot pole," he said, not even attempting to hide his anxiety as he gestured toward two men in sharp black suits sitting near the entrance. "Please, please just give me a chance!" she shouted as the men stepped in front of her, pushing her back out the door. The door shut and the sound of the lock rang in her ears. Y/n stood there, desperate. "Yeah, well, I didn't wanna work here anyway! fuck you!" she shouted, walking off to the bus stop. Exhausted, she sat down waiting for the bus. A pink Rolls-Royce Wraith pulled up, the window rolled down, and Doffy let out a chuckle. "Are you done fighting back? Come on, get in the car. I'll take you home." "fuck off," y/n immediately replied. "Such a dirty mouth~" "Such an ugly car, leave me alone, I don't want to be with you," y/n said. "Fiesty," Doflamingo smirked. Y/n stood up and started walking in the opposite direction of the car. Pulling her phone out, she called the police. "Hello, I want to report a weirdo following me." Doflamingo rolled the window up. "Let's go; she will learn soon that no one can help her," he said. Virgo nodded as he put the car in drive and headed off. y/n decided she had enough and waited for the police to arrive. The sun was already setting, and night fell before the police finally arrived. The officer stepped out of the car; he was tall and lanky with bluish hair. "Alright, ma'am, what seems to be the problem?" he asked in an annoyed tone.
"I need to file a report," she said, her voice firm and loud enough to draw a few glances from people walking by. "I'm being stalked, blacklisted, and harassed by Donquixote Doflamingo." "Doflamingo?" the officer repeated flatly. "Miss, Mr. Doflamingo is a prominent businessman and philanthropist in this city. Do you have physical proof he’s harassing you?" "He bought out my old club, forced my boss to fire me, sent thugs to block me from local stores, and his goons are standing outside my building right now!" y/n snapped, leaning over the counter. "Check the cameras outside!" "Look, lady, file a complaint if you want, but without video evidence of a direct threat to your life, there's nothing we can do. People are allowed to buy businesses. People are allowed to park on the street. Have a nice day." Y/n stared at him in disbelief. She shook her head and started to walk away angrily. It took 45 minutes for her to walk all the way to the apartment building. Tired and broke, y/n made it to the apartment, slowly sliding her keys into the door. She unlocked it. Thirteen stuck his paw under the door, tapping her shoe y/n gave a small smile. "Sorry, I am late," she said as she opened the door. Inside the apartment, another basket sat with a pink bow, this time filled with treats and items for Thirteen.
Y/n stood in the doorway of your apartment, her keys still cold in her hand, staring down at the pristine pink bow. Thirteen didn't care about the psychological mind games—he immediately trotted over to the basket, his tail held high, sniffing the high-end gourmet salmon pouches, imported catnip, and plush velvet toys spilling out of the woven hamper. He let out a loud, delighted meow, looking up at you as if to say, Look what came for me! "Don't touch that," she muttered, her voice flat, though a deep knot of frustration burned in her gut. He had mapped out her life down to her cat's eating habits. He knew she was tired, he knew the police would turn her away, and he knew that while she might take his psychological traps and sell them on the internet, throwing away food meant specifically for her cat was going to hurt. y/n snapped two quick photos of the pet basket, posted it online for $300, and used the money to pay off the rest of her utility bill and stock up on basic groceries from a delivery app he couldn't block. It felt like a small win, but the walls were closing in fast.
Day Two ~
The morning light crept through the blinds, casting thin orange lines across the living room floor. Thirteen was curled up on y/n's lap, purring softly, completely unaware that his owner was currently blacklisted from buying food, getting a job, or existing in peace within a twenty-block radius. y/n stared down at her phone screen. The auction app notification read: ORDER CONFIRMED. Buyer: BlackLeg_G99. Item: Unopened Luxury Gourmet Basket. Payout: $500.00 (Cash on Pickup). Estimated arrival: 9:30 AM.
A sharp, stubborn smirk spread across her face as she checked the clock. 9:28 AM.
Across the street, parked in the shadow of an alleyway, sat a black sedan with tinted windows. Vergo sat in the driver’s seat, a cold cup of black coffee resting in the cup holder. He wore his usual dark suit and dark sunglasses, his jaw working slowly as he chewed on a piece of breakfast meat that was currently stuck to his cheek. His eyes were fixed on y/n's apartment building front entrance. Through the clear afternoon sky, he watched the building's front door open. Y/n's didn't step outside. Instead, a blonde guy wearing dress pants, a matching shirt, and leather loafers walked up the stoop. He checked his phone, pressed the buzzer, and waited. A few seconds later, the front door clicked open. Y/n stepped into the doorway, holding the massive, four-thousand-dollar luxury basket that Doflamingo had personally ordered his men to plant on her mat. Vergo leaned forward, his stone-cold expression tightening slightly behind his dark lenses. What is she doing? he thought. Is she giving it away to a neighbor? He watched as the young guy in the hoodie pulled a thick envelope of cash out of his pocket, counting out five crisp hundred-dollar bills. He handed the money over. Y/n took the cash, flicked through it with a practiced, satisfied swoop of her thumb, and handed over the basket. The guy practically beamed, clutching the imported French cheese and black truffles as if he’d just won the lottery, before turning around and leaving happily back down the street toward his yellow sedan. Y/n tucked the five hundred dollars into her back pocket, gave a petty, cheerful little wave to the empty street, and stepped back inside, slamming the apartment door shut. Vergo stared at the empty stoop for three solid seconds. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a secure satellite phone, and dialed a familiar number.
The line rang once before a deep, gravelly voice answered over the speaker, thick with arrogant satisfaction. "Fuffuffuffu... Tell me she’s eating the cheese, Vergo," Doflamingo purred from his high-rise penthouse office. "Tell me my little bird finally realized how cold it gets when she tries to fly on her own." Vergo took a slow breath, adjusting his glasses. "She didn't eat it, Boss." A pause on the other end. "No? Did she throw it in the trash?" "No," Vergo replied, his voice completely flat. "A man just arrived at her building. She handed him the basket, he handed her five hundred dollars in cash, and he drove away." Silence heavy enough to crush a building fell over the line. "...What did you just say?" Doflamingo’s voice dropped, the arrogant chuckle instantly vanishing, replaced by a low, vibrating growl of pure, unadulterated disbelief. "She listed the basket on an online resale app," Vergo explained stoically, reading the listing off a second phone screen in his hand. "She sold your four-thousand-dollar imported gift for five hundred dollars cash. Her caption states: 'Gift from a creepy stalker in a pink coat. My loss, your gain. Need rent money ASAP.'" On the other end of the line, the sound of crystal shattering echoed sharply through the receiver as Doflamingo’s glass imploded in his bare hand.
The shattered remnants of his crystal glass lay scattered across the polished mahogany desk, soaking into a stack of high-level underworld ledgers. Doflamingo was breathing heavily, his broad shoulders rising and falling beneath his open silk shirt. The thick vein on his forehead throbbed with a terrifying, rhythmic pulse. Five hundred dollars. She hadn't just rejected his gesture. She hadn't even had the decency to throw it in the river or stamp on it in fury. She had treated his four-thousand-dollar, hand-selected psychological trap like a bargain-bin garage sale find to pay off her electricity bill—and publicly mocked him on the internet while doing it. "Boss?" Vergo’s voice static-crawled through the satellite phone still resting on the desk. "Should I intercept the buyer and retrieve the basket?" "No," Doflamingo spat, his voice a low, terrifying snarl of pure venom. He stood up, his towering, six-foot-ten frame casting a long, jagged shadow across the glass walls of the penthouse. "Let the street trash keep his five-hundred-dollar cheese." He grabbed his plush, pink-feathered coat off the leather chair, sweeping it over his shoulders with a violent, dramatic flourish. He shoved his hands deep into his trousers pockets, his jaw locked tight enough to crush steel. "I tried playing nice," Doflamingo growled, his rose-tinted glasses catching the harsh afternoon light as a dark, twisted grin forced its way back onto his lips. "I gave her a chance to be sensible. But if my little ghost wants to play games in the gutter..." He kicked his office door wide open, his heavy leather dress shoes clicking loudly against the marble floor as he marched toward the private elevator. "...then I'll just have to go down there and show her how the master plays."
do you have a rough idea of when the next chapter of the offering will be out? no pressure of course, please take your time. i’m just very enthusiastic for more! thanks for writing such a great story <3
The Offering chapter 12 will drop on August 14 or 15, US time.
(this week has been too nuts to write but i'll have time next week to scribble something)
if you're looking for something to read that might scratch The Offering itch in the meantime, can i suggest one of my other works? it features arranged marriages of dubious nature, irregular timeline/story structure, old-world royalty/fairytale vibes, suspense/intrigue, a reader with unique talents (chess in this case), mistaken identity, a haughty royal love interest with a possessive streak a mile wide, pining/yearning...and smut. it's complete at 88k words and i think it's the best thing i've written on this account. here are the links, summary, and the ENTIRE FIRST CHAPTER for anyone waiting on The Offering to continue:
In chess, a player commits “queen sacrifice” by intentionally giving up their queen to gain a significant strategic or material advantage upon the board.
But life is not a game of chess, and such strategies are easier prescribed than practiced — a lesson the princess of Mary Geoise will personally learn when she offers her hand in marriage to the infamous Pirate Warlord Doflamingo in a desperate bid to spare her beloved kingdom from his wrath.
[Doflamingo/reader. Royalty AU. Princess!reader. Third person narration; undescribed protagonist so OC and reader fans can enjoy. COMPLETE on AO3]
Chapter 1: "Queen Sacrifice"
The princess of Mary Geoise stood upon the balcony to watch her beloved kingdom burn.
She dressed plainly for the occasion. No finery, no frills, no fuss. That night she wore but a simple gown and plain shoes, bare of all regalia but the bauble she never took from around her pretty neck. She clutched this necklace in her shaking hands for comfort. Most days she hid it beneath her clothes, tucked under modest necklines and away from the prying eyes of her maids and watching father, but the time for such caution had passed.
They were almost at the end, now. Her father could levy no punishments graver than what awaited her come dawn.
“My lady.”
The third and newly appointed general of her father’s armies — for their enemies had slain the first and his replacement alike — bowed upon the flagstones at her feet. Distant fire reflected in the depths of his worried eyes. The princess could not remember his name, though she recalled the black tattoos upon his hands well enough. She bade him stand with a nod, gaze returning to the tableau of destruction playing out before her. Fire had not yet touched the noble quarter, but sparks rose to the stars at the city’s edge, spreading inward through the other districts in a sullen, rust-red ring.
“What news?” she asked with the taste of ash upon her tongue.
“Our blockade has fallen. Pirate forces breached the city walls.”
She closed her eyes. “How many?”
“A-all of them.” The general swallowed. “The Pirate Warlord sent them all.”
From his rightful place atop the conquered throne, her weary father murmured, “Don’t…don’t call him that.”
The wan-faced king sat slumped, mouth slick with wine, fingers clasped around the neck of the seventh bottle he’d downed since news broke of the pirates reaching his kingdom’s shore. He did not look like a king that night. Tonight, he was just a man, the dignity of his station crumbling in the face of imminent defeat.
And like a diamond that had lost its luster, he was ignored. “Pirate ships block the harbor,” said the general. He answered to her, now — a princess in name but the kingdom’s queen in practice. Especially after the secrets that had recently come to light. “There can be no escape. Not anymore.”
He needn’t have said it. The princess already knew. A game of Monarchic Chess sat behind her, half complete, tiles of the board arranged in the shape of her kingdom, the game of this attack splayed out upon them in perfect, miniature detail. But although the game was not yet finished, she could already predict the outcome. The number of ships, the element of surprise, the pirate warlord’s tactics…her forces were outgunned, and with no warning to aid them, they were outmaneuvered, too. Their allies had all abandoned them, too fearful of the massive pirate forces to come to the princess's aid. Even the soundest strategies crumbled under force overwhelming. The blockade had been naught but a desperate, last-ditch effort to repel his forces, her final attempt to save them — to save not only herself and the monarchy, but to save the people she had vowed to protect. Her people were the ones who truly mattered in this scenario. She had known her efforts would fail from the outset, and that she acted on their behalf in vain, but hope compelled her try for one last chance at victory.
A chance now slipping through her fingers, as impossible to grasp as hope itself.
“Thank you, General.” She turned from him, and from her father, and returned her attention to the kingdom she had failed. “You are dismissed.”
But he did not leave. Instead he said: “There’s more.”
Bitter laughter charred her throat. “What more could there possibly be?”
“Messengers from the Pirate Warlord — from the enemy.” He corrected himself with a sideways glance at her father. “They came to tell us citizens have been taken hostage.”
Her blood ran cold. “How many?”
“Hundreds. Our operatives have confirmed it. They are gathered in groups, held at gunpoint.”
She considered this for a time. “And the Warlord’s demands in return for their safe release?”
“He…” The general looked as stunned as she felt. “He hasn’t made any.”
“So far,” the princess murmured. “There is still time yet.”
And so she waited. The general left. In his absence, advisors slinked from their hiding places in the shadows of the throne room to stand about like carrion, black-cloaked and beady-eyed, waiting for the corpse to pick clean with their sharp beaks. They wrung their hands, watching her. Whispered in her father’s ear, though he was too drunk to heed them. Many though they numbered, and brilliant in their own right, they were no help to the princess. They never had been, she ruefully mused. She alone had been their savior for many years, unknowing all the while, fighting their battles for them atop the Monarchic Chessboard. But now, even with eyes at last open to the truth, she was helpless to deliver them from this hell on earth.
It was over. It was well and truly over.
High in her tower above the city, the princess’s eyes burned as she gazed at the burning kingdom, lids heavy and thick in their struggle to remain open. So many sleepless nights. So many games played. So many tears spilled that evening, and in the many evenings before the Pirate Warlord attacked her borders outright. But all had been for naught, and now he marched upon her shores. Her enemy, her foe, her villain — he would be here soon. Soon, she would look the devil in the eye, and fall.
Unable to resist, she allowed her tired eyes to close. Smoke and ash rose from the burning city. Wind caressed her cheeks, her throat, even her hands as they clutched the necklace she loved so much. But the cold comfort of the jewel on her palm could not guard against the distant screams of her people as they were menaced by the pirates who had laid her father’s armies to waste. There could be no comfort for the princess as the noose prepared to pull tight around her throat. There could be no stopping the ring of fire sweeping toward her.
Closing her eyes was an insult to the citizens she had failed to protect. They did not have the luxury of awaiting their fate from the impersonal height of a palace tower.
Thus, she opened them again to stare into the heart of her burning, beloved capital…but to her surprise, the image before her did not match the horrors in her head. The fiery horizon had not moved. The ring of fire had not closed. No, it somehow held steady, a constant halo of destruction that had moved not an inch deeper into the capital city and the palace waiting at its heart. The onslaught had been held at bay by…she knew not what. Had the invasion halted? But why?
What was the pirate warlord waiting for?
Her hands left the stone parapet along the balcony as she whirled to face the throne room.
“You there,” she asked, but the advisors scattered like crows under the stone of her gaze. She turned instead to the guard at the door. “Where is the general?”
“I can find him, Princess,” the guard said, scrambling. “I can — ”
He vanished through the huge oak doors. She returned her stare to the line of fire. Her knees ached from standing on the cold flagstones for hours on end. The princess had not moved since they received word of the unified pirate army’s invasion of the capital, but she refused to sink into despair alongside her wilting father. The bauble in her hand gave her strength. Oh, that beloved pink jewel she wore on its delicate chain — it gave her courage even when weariness clawed her eyes and dug sharp teeth into her psyche. She rolled it through her fingers, weighing it on her palm and giving the sparkling gem the smallest kiss when she thought no one was looking. The diamond held more than mere glitter or monetary value. It held the very core of her dreams in its facets, glinting back at her with a thousand possibilities and all the lives she might have lived had the unthinkable not occurred.
But the unthinkable had occurred. The war had been lost. The pirates had won. She would never be able to tell the person who had given her the gem how much his words had haunted her since their parting. She would never be able to tell him she wanted to reconsider the offer she had rejected. She would never be able to take his hand and say yes as she so longed to. That possibility had gone dark the moment the fires lit. If only she had met him in some other life, perhaps —
The door opened, and the general said: “He has stopped advancing, Princess.”
She spun in a tangle of skirts. Once again the general knelt upon the stones behind her. Her father moaned atop the throne, but she hardly heard his cry of despair.
“Have our forces rallied?” she asked, but there was no hope in her heart. “I did not think they would be capable — ”
“No. They are not capable.” He passed a tattooed hand over his weary face. “He could press forward again at any time. He has the forces to destroy us in an instant.” But here he paused. “And yet.”
“And yet he has not.” Her hands fisted, fingernails scraping soft skin. “Why has that monster — ?” She shook her head. “He is just a man.”
“Princess?” asked her general.
“Never mind.” She dropped her hands and turned, head held high, tired eyes unyielding as they dragged her scattered advisors from the shadows. “Tell me again. Tell me everything you know about him.”
“We have told you everything already, Princess,” they whispered.
“Then tell me again,” demanded the princess, “about the Pirate Warlord Doflamingo.”
That name — that name, oh, that dreaded name! The most unholy of names rang in the air like a gunshot, and under the weight of its heavy crack, the advisors shrank and moaned. Then, like a rising chorus of vultures before the gallows, they opened their mouths and obeyed. They repeated everything they had already told her when they roused her from her bed in the middle of the night a fortnight prior, demanding she play a game of Monarchic Chess with them. But they had roused her with true fear in their eyes, and even before they and her father spilled the truth in a frantic rush, she had known this was no mere game like the hundreds she had played throughout her life. The hundreds before they had pretended were just idle distractions, but even before they told her the truth, she sensed the battle she fought that night was anything but ordinary.
And then the warning bells had rung. Deceit no longer an option, they had dropped the charade. This was a battle for the fate of the kingdom, and her opponent was a monster from a bedtime story brought to life.
“The Pirate Warlord Doflamingo,” they called him. “The Pirate King.”
Her opponent — the beast who would raze her kingdom to the ground — had forged a nation from the ashes of the many countries he had overthrown on a bloody path to power waged with lightning speed in the scant year prior. All while he gathered power, he organized a covert war against her kingdom, puppeteering a slew of seemingly disconnected attacks by brigands and pirate militias, ones now revealed to have been Doflamingo’s secret allies all along. A king in name and power, but one not recognized by the rulers of the world, as he claimed no ancestral lands or formal title. A monster of a man, unpredictable and fierce.
“That is his reputation,” said the Princess when they finished crowing. “What can you tell me of the man himself?”
“The man himself?” they asked.
“Yes,” she said. “Weaknesses. Strengths. Anything.”
“But, my lady — there is nothing.”
Nothing she could use, anyway. No chinks in his armor to exploit. No threads to pull and unwind. No dry tinder to catch flame. He was a monster, bigger than life — and her advisors were useless in his shadow, so taken as they were by the tall tale of his reputation. But while the princess knew he must simply be a man, all her life she had been kept from the world. Without their help, she did not know how to parse myth from man. And even her father on his throne was no help. He thrashed in the grip of wine and fear, dribbling alcohol from his lips, whimpering in his royal robes and beneath the weight of his heavy crown. She had slapped him two nights prior, hurting her own hand in an attempt to bring him back to her for counsel, but even that strike had not shocked him from his stupor.
And now he sat upon his throne, writhing and useless, to mutter and moan, “Why? Why did we ever bring him there?”
Though far he had fallen, he was still her father. She went to his side and knelt, gathering his hand in hers to ask, “Bring who where, Father?”
“That man,” her father, the king, whimpered. “The Crown Summit.”
The princess frowned. “The Pirate Warlord Doflamingo attended the Crown Summit?”
“A formality.” Her father gasped for air like a gutted fish. “A formality, to appease him. He wanted power. We would not grant it. But an empty title that meant nothing…” He shuddered in his seat, small inside his stained velvet robes. “’Pirate Warlord’ affords him no power, but once a year we let him sup at our table, and that empty title we saw fit to bestow to sate his growing appetites.”
The king cast aside his empty wine bottle and wept into his shaking hands. The princess rubbed soothing circles across his knuckles, but in truth, she needed comfort of her own. She had been due for her fourth visit to the Crown Summit in just a few weeks. Truth told, she had been looking forward to it — though for reasons neither her father nor her maids could fathom. The princess had but one true friend in the entire world, and the Pirate King’s invasion had robbed her of the one chance she had to see him again. Thanks to the Pirate Warlord Doflamingo, she would not likely survive the night, let alone visit the Crown Summit this year.
But her personal sorrows mattered little compared to that of her kingdom’s, and something in her father’s lamentations pulled her lips into a frown.
“What do you mean, to appease him?” She shook her father’s arm. “Father, no matter how powerful he became, why was a mere pirate granted an empty title and invited to join the Crown Summit at all?”
His wine-stained teeth gnashed. “That monster — ”
“No. Not a monster,” the princess soothed. “Just a man. Tell me, Father, what you know of him.”
Her father raggedly gasped from his seat upon the throne, “That man — he is more.”
And through his tears and woe, he told her the story of the fall of a distant kingdom. Of the power-hungry family called Donquixote, stripped from their throne and cast down when their avarice grew too great. Of lands divided and broken up among other monarchies, another king sitting upon the throne once held by the shattered Donquixote line. And most crucially, he told her of heirs supposedly slain when that monarchy was overthrown…but one heir, he believed, had survived. Thrived, even, once he found an unexpected army to call his own. The advisors looked on in horror mounting as the truth spilled like blood upon the tower floor, seeping into the cracks of the flagstones and the ears of all who heard it alike.
“That king — that fallen monarch — I knew him,” her father said. “I knew his face from past Crown Summits. And when I saw that pirate come to stand before us, I…”
The princess gripped his arm all the tighter. “You what?”
Upon his throne, the king opened his eyes wide and moaned, “I saw his father in him.”
She stared at her father in silence. The advisors hung their heads. The general stood by, a man of action rendered still by shock and disbelief. The princess rose and went to the balcony once more, beholding her burning city through eyes unseeing.
“The Pirate Warlord,” she said to no one, “is…a prince?”
And with that word, the truth of the matter fell neatly into place, chess pieces forming a pattern upon the board. Why he’d attacked her kingdom — why he had stopped advancing — what he must want —
Unsteady feet carried the princess to the Monarchic Chess board. Her eyes roved across the terrain tiles of land and sea, the cards in their stands representing armies and ships and citizens, the chips declaring resources in all their splendor…and the palace, too. That porcelain miniature with its tiny drawbridge and hand-painted stones, detailing even the tiny tower in which she now stood. The King card sat beside it — and beside it, representative of the princess herself, the card of queen.
“That’s it,” the princess murmured, gaze fastened upon the queen. “That’s what he wants.”
The advisors gasped. The general lifted his head. Her father stirred upon the throne, eyes blinking and slow and stupid.
“What, my daughter?” he asked with the light of hope shining in his countenance. “What does the Pirate Warlord want?”
The light went out when she turned to him and said, “He wants me.”
The princess stood in the palace chapel dressed in her mother’s wedding gown. Pearls and diamonds, lace and silk resplendent — her maids said she had never looked more beautiful than she did in the traditional queen’s tiara of Mary Geoise, the finest of heirlooms to don her brow only upon a princess’s sacred wedding day. But while it might be the most expensive item on her person, it was not what she found most precious. Under the neckline of her gown hid her favorite necklace — that beloved pink diamond she wished so dearly to hold, to gird herself against the inevitable fall to come. She touched it through the lace to comfort herself, though even its beloved presence brought scant little on that horrible night.
She had been right. Of course she had been right. The hiccuped protests of her father finally quieted once he saw the truth, and her offer had been sent to the Pirate Warlord Doflamingo in the hands of their swiftest messenger. The pirate had replied even faster with a yes — that he would gladly release the hostages and withdraw from her kingdom’s borders should he be given the princess’s hand in marriage.
As expected. A man hungry for legitimacy, eager to reclaim the title he had lost, had attacked a nation with an eligible daughter? Of course he wanted her as his wife. From all she’d heard, the man was a tactician to the core. Then again, so was she, and she would pull any tactic necessary to save her people from harm. Trading the queen to save the board, queen sacrifice ripped from the chessboard and into reality…it was a move she had used before to win games against her advisors, but those games had been mere theory. This was no game. Here, now, she was the sacrificial piece upon the board. But while tears fill her eyes at her misfortune, she held her head high, proud and content in the knowledge she had done her duty flawlessly.
This strategy would save them. It was the only one that could. And as the princess, it was her duty to save her people no matter the cost. Not even if she were to play the part of the queen sacrificed.
And so she waited. She waited without flinching for the inevitable, ignoring her father as he sneaked gulps of wine, and her ladies in waiting as they wept, and the advisors as they cowered, and the general as his fists clenched, and the vicar as he turned paler and paler until it looked like he may faint —
And then, at last, the doors of the king’s most lavish chapel swung open under the heel of a massive boot.
Struck by the reality of what was to come, the princess’s stalwart stillness broke. Her eyes dropped to the floor. She listened from beneath her veil as heavy footfalls rang out across the cobbled floor. Advisors spoke and her father staggered, trying to greet his soon-to-be son-in-law, but a dark chuckle rent the air and stopped all their vapid chatter.
The Pirate Warlord Doflamingo commanded: “Silence.”
The princess stiffened — no, she froze solid. Not because of the power in that command, no, but because…that voice. That voice — !
She knew that voice!
Two syllables alone had sent recognition skating down her back like lighting before it struck. The hair on her nape, stifled by silk, rose to attention with a prickle. She locked her eyes on the floor as the owner of that voice came to stand before her, enormous feet in pointed shoes filling her swimming vision.
And pink feathers filled the edges of it all the while.
“What are you waiting for?” he said in that same familiar voice — one painted with the underpinnings of a laugh. “Marry us, vicar. Don’t keep my bride waiting.”
The vicar launched into the vows, a short version, skipping right to the end. But he was not fast enough for Doflamingo, it seemed. Although it was not yet time for such a thing, two massive hands lifted the princess’s veil over her head. Fingers gripped her chin, guiding her face from the floor.
She dared not raise her eyes. But Doflamingo merely chuckled, and his fingers blazed like an iron brand against her skin.
Voice low beneath the vicar’s, he said: “Look at me.”
And so she looked. And though the truth stood before her very eyes, grinning back at her like a skull stripped bare of flesh, she could not help the disbelieving words that came tumbling from her lips.
“I — I know you,” said the princess.
“I should hope so,” said the pirate.
Breath shuddered in her lungs, a cherished name rising in her throat. “Joker — ”
“So you remembered that, too. Good girl.” He chuckled at her wide eyes and trembling mouth, and at the lip he ran his thumb across in a slow, soft caress. “But someone as brilliant as you must know by now that that is not my true name.”
The vicar droned on. She took a deep breath. She watched the pirate before her, tracking every familiar feature, from the jagged curve of his smiling mouth to the gleam of his hooded eyes and the slope of his high, proud nose. That carved jaw, those hollow cheeks, the wicked way his fingertips traced a path down her soft skin…and now she could smell the scent that had haunted her dreams for the past three years, breathe in the longed-for salt of the sea and the sweet bite of citrus and the bitterness of smoke and leather. It was the very same scent that had set her thoughts to wandering far beyond the palace walls on many a sleepless night, filling her head with thoughts she dare not voice and her flesh with urges that left her breathless and panting in the dark. The pink diamond beneath her clothes burned her skin with every gasp. Fear and longing alike filled her chest, warring with each other, rendering her speechless. His grin stretched wider still when he stepped close, lifting her chin to make her look at him even as he towered up above.
“Say it, Princess,” he said in a terrible, teasing lilt. “Say the name of your husband.”
She shuddered. “Do — ”
“That’s it,” the pirate cooed.
“Dof — ” Her eyes filled with tears, but of happiness or of fear, she could not say. “Doflamingo.”
“Heh.” He bent, feathers blotting out the world. “Good girl.”
“ — under the eyes of the crown, I pronounce you wed,” the vicar said. “You may kiss — ”
A pirate does not need to be told to plunder. Such is in his nature. He claimed his prize before the vicar could make his declaration, already pressing his lips to hers in a searing hot kiss. A hand looped around her waist like an iron band, pressing her to his towering form, princess’s body eclipsed by the pirate’s in celestial suffocation. She gasped and he slicked his tongue into her mouth, stealing a taste of her before he pulled away, leaving her in his wake burning and gasping and disheveled — and irrevocably bound to the pirate she had met under another name, a world away, many moons before.
Day one ~
The next morning, the warmth of the sun kissed y/n face. Thirteen yawned before pouncing on her chest. Y/n tiredly lay with her eyes closed, her hand going to his head, running her fingers through his soft black fur. "I'm up, I'm up, just give me five minutes," she whispered. For Thirteen, five minutes could be the death of him; the last time he ate was last night. A whole seven hours and twenty-one minutes, leaning into y/n's face, he yowled loudly. Y/n was used to it; after all, it was their morning routine. "Alright, alright, I'm up," she said, sitting up. She gathered what strength she had and rolled out of bed; now began the struggle of getting to the bathroom with her cat, who demanded food at that instant. With every step she took, he circled her ankle. "Thirteen if I piss myself, you're getting the mediocre shit for breakfast, not that Pacific purple fin tuna brat," she said, managing to get to her bathroom. As she sat on the toilet, it was hard for her now that she realized she wouldn't be as busy until she got another job. She sighed as she set her elbow on her knee that was shaking, looking over to the shadow of Thirteen at the bathroom door. She shook her head. "You are going to be my thirteenth reason," she shouted, watching as he ran off down the hall. After finishing her business, she headed to the kitchen, looking through the cabinets as Thirteen screamed at her to hurry with his food. "Alright, you asshole, we have liver, tuna, salmon, beef, chicken. Let's see how about you can have a little salmon, and I will split my eggs and spinach with you," she said as the black cat meowed at her. She smiled as she got to cooking. "We are not going to feel sorry for ourselves; we don't belong to anyone. I'll go out to the store, and while I am out, I will look for another job. We are going to be okay," she said.
After feeding Thirteen his portion of salmon and finishing her own scrambled eggs, she pulled on a simple outfit, laced up her boots, and headed out into the morning air. The city was already buzzing with its usual chaotic energy—delivery trucks idling, street vendors calling out, and the distant rumble of the elevated train line. y/n walked down your street, pulling her coat a little tighter against the chill. The first stop on her list was a small, cozy bodega right on the corner of your block. She had been going there since the day she moved a year ago. Mr. Chen, the elderly owner, always gave you a fresh piece of fruit for free whenever you stopped by, and he loved hearing about Thirteen's ridiculous antics. y/n pushed open the glass door, the little brass bell above it chiming merrily. "Morning, Mr. Chen! Just grabbing some coffee and a—" She froze. Standing behind the counter wasn't Mr. Chen. It was a broad-shouldered man in a heavy black leather jacket. His arms were crossed over his chest, his eyes completely hidden behind dark sunglasses. Resting on the glass counter right beside the register was a crisp, white envelope stamped with a familiar emblem: a stylized, laughing pink smiley face with a line slashed through it.
Mr. Chen was standing in the back corner of the shop, his hands trembling as he stacked canned goods, refusing to look her in the eye. The man behind the counter slowly shook his head, his voice dropping into a flat, practiced tone. "Store's closed to you, miss." "Excuse me?" y/n said, her jaw tightening as the stubborn heat flared in her chest. "I come in here every day. Where's Mr. Chen?" "You aren't allowed in this store," the man repeated, stepping closer to the counter, his imposing frame blocking the shelves. "Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Walk out the door before things get uncomfortable." Y/n looked past the thug at Mr. Chen, whose shoulders slumped in quiet guilt. Y/n knew better than to make a scene that would get the old man hurt. Swallowing the bitter taste of anger, y/n turned on her heel and slammed the door behind her, the brass bell jingling wildly. *He's choking the neighborhood,* y/n thought, her teeth grinding together as she marched down the sidewalk. *Fine. I'll just go three blocks down.* Three blocks down was a bustling corner deli. But the moment she stepped through the threshold, the cashier took one look at her face, paled visibly, and pulled a printed sign out from under the counter, slapping it onto the register: **OUT OF STOCK. NO SERVICE.** Standing near the cold drink fridge in the back was another guy in a tailored suit, casually twirling a set of car keys, watching her with a smirk. *Unbelievable.* Y/n tried a third place—a tiny, family-owned grocery market six blocks away. She didn't even make it past the front doors. A burly guard in a black coat stepped directly into her path, blocking the entrance with his massive body. "Private property, lady. Keep moving." Y/n stood on the sidewalk, the afternoon sun beating down on her, surrounded by the bustling city that had suddenly been completely closed off to her. He owned the clubs, he owned the cops, and now he was buying out every corner store within a ten-block radius of her apartment just to starve her out.
"Psycho," she muttered under her breath, kicking a loose pebble off the curb. Giving up on groceries for the day, y/n turned around and made the long, frustrating walk back to her building. Y/n stomach let out a low rumble, reminding her that she had shared half her breakfast with Thirteen. Y/n climbed the flights of stairs to the 16th floor, her boots heavy against the steps, trying to figure out how she was going to buy food tomorrow if Doflamingo had surrounded her entire life with his goons. Reaching the hallway, y/n stopped dead in her tracks. Resting right on the welcome mat, directly in front of the apartment door, was a massive, gorgeously crafted wicker basket tied with a silk ribbon. Through the clear wrapping, she could see an obscene display of luxury: jars of black truffle caviar, artisan crackers, imported Italian meats, bottles of rare wine, and a massive, wax-sealed wheel of imported French cheese. There was no note. There was no signature. Just a quiet, arrogant statement waiting on your doorstep. "Fuck..."
The heavy metal door of y/n's apartment shut behind her with a dull *thud*, cutting off the damp, neon-lit noise of the city streets. The apartment was small, cozy, and worn at the edges—a far cry from the glittering cabaret, but it was hers. Standing near the kitchen doorway, tail flicking lazily, was Thirteen. The sleek black cat let out a low, raspy *meow*, trotting over to weave his soft body around her ankles. "Hey, handsome," She murmured softly, setting her bag on the counter. The exhaustion of the night finally slammed into her shoulders as she bent down, scooping a small tin of fish into his bowl. Thirteen immediately purred, digging into his dinner without a care in the world. Walking over to the worn velvet couch, pulling out your phone. Scrolling through your contacts, you stopped at a familiar name and pressed call. The line rang twice before a smooth, calm, and impossibly elegant voice answered. "I was wondering when you might call tonight," Robin said softly over the receiver. The background noise on her end was dead quiet—she was likely sitting in her dimly lit study, surrounded by old history books and underworld files. "I take it your performance at *Arcane* didn't end with simple applause?"
"Doflamingo was there, Robin," she said, sinking into the cushions and rubbing her temples. "That man, he tried to buy me. I told him no, and he tore the whole club apart. The manager fired me on the spot." A heavy silence stretched across the line before Robin let out a soft, measured breath. "It seems you touched a live wire." "Who the fuck does he think he is," y/n stated, her voice hardening with that stubborn edge. "I know he runs the docks and owns the cops, but what kind of monster burns down a business just because a dancer won't sit in his VIP booth?" "A man who believes the universe owes him everything it denied him when he was a child," Robin answered, her tone turning analytical, cool, and sharp. Y/n listened intently as Robin laid out the ghost of Donquixote Doflamingo. "He wasn't always at the top," Robin explained smoothly. "He grew up in absolute poverty in the slums of the North District. His mother fell sick and died because they couldn't afford medicine, and not long after, his father was murdered in cold blood by street thugs right in front of him and his younger brother." Y/n held the phone tighter, staring down at Thirteen, who was now licking his paws on the rug. "Doflamingo took that trauma and turned it into pure, unadulterated venom," Robin continued. "He ran the streets as a kid, bloodied his hands early, and slowly built a syndicate out of nothing. Now, he stands as one of the Seven Kings—the top seven gang lords who control the veins of this entire metropolis." "So he thinks he's untouchable now," y/n muttered. "He *is* untouchable to most," Robin corrected gently. "Because he clawed his way up from the gutter through sheer violence and manipulation, he views the world as his chessboard. Every person is either a pawn, a puppet, or trash to be swept away. But above all else..." Robin paused, her voice dropping into a serious warning. "...Donquixote Doflamingo does not accept the word 'no'. To him, 'no' is an insult to the empire he bled to build." You took a deep breath, looking out your apartment window at the glittering, rain-slicked skyline dominated by the towering, glowing spire of Doflamingo's penthouse headquarters. "Well," she said softly, a stubborn, sharp smile tugging at the corner of your lips despite the danger. "He's going to have to learn to get used to it."
High above the rain-slicked city streets, the penthouse suite of the Donquixote Syndicate's glass tower was bathed in the harsh, blue glow of digital monitors and city lights. Doflamingo lounged behind his massive, dark-mahogany desk, his long legs propped up on the polished wood. He swirled a heavy crystal glass of scotch, watching the ice clink softly against the rim. He wasn't wearing his formal jacket—just a silk dress shirt with the top three buttons undone, exposing his muscular chest, his pink feather coat draped heavily over the back of his executive leather chair. The heavy doors to his office slid open, and Vergo stepped inside, holding a crisp manila folder. "Fuffuffuffu..." Doflamingo low-snickered, not even turning his head. "Tell me you brought me her name, her history, and every little secret she uses to sleep at night, Vergo. I want to know what makes my little star so terribly brave." Vergo walked up to the desk, laying the thin folder directly on the mahogany wood. He set it down with a heavy, flat thud. "There is almost nothing," Vergo said plainly, his tone completely flat. Doflamingo’s hand froze. The ice in his glass stopped swirling. Slowly, he swung his boots off the desk and leaned forward, his gold-rimmed glasses catching the harsh light of the monitors. "Nothing?" Doflamingo repeated, his deep voice dropping an octave into a low, dangerous purr. "She’s a burlesque dancer working in my city, Vergo. Everyone has a paper trail. Tax records, birth certificates, high school diplomas, family... everyone." "Not her," Vergo replied calmly, crossing his arms over his chest. "We ran her face through the police database, the hospital records, and the harbor immigration logs. Nothing came back. It’s as if she materialized out of thin air three years ago." Doflamingo raised an eyebrow, picking up the folder. He flipped it open. Inside was a single, high-resolution surveillance photo of you—taken backstage at The Spider’s Web—and a meager list of surface-level details: a rental agreement for a small apartment in the West District, a pet cat, and a list of local vendors she bought her coffee from.
"She lives alone," Vergo continued. "She is well-liked by her neighbors, friendly with the shopkeepers, and pays her rent in cash. But no one knows where she came from. No past employment before the cabaret. No family visits. No records of a previous name." Silence stretched across the cold, glass-walled office. Vergo waited for the inevitable explosion—for Doflamingo to snap the desk in half or demand the immediate arrest of everyone in her apartment building. Instead, a low, rumbling chuckle started deep in Doflamingo's broad chest. "Fuffuffuffu..." The chuckle escalated into a loud, booming laugh that echoed off the floor-to-ceiling windows. Doflamingo picked up the surveillance photo, holding it up to the light, tracing the line of your jaw and the sharp, defiant look in her eyes with his thumb. "A ghost..." Doflamingo purred, his wide, wicked grin returning with full force, his white teeth gleaming in the dim light. "No family to threaten. No past to hold over her head. No paper trail to choke her with..." He set the photo down gently, leaning back into his leather chair, his fingers lacing together over his chest. His heart beat faster with a thrill he hadn't felt in years. She wasn't just a stubborn dancer—she was a complete enigma standing right in the middle of his carefully mapped-out empire. "Fuffuffu! I thought she was just a proud little performer," Doflamingo whispered, his eyes gleaming behind his rose-tinted glasses. "She’s much more interesting than that. Keep an eye on her, Vergo. Let her struggle for a few days... and let’s see what happens when a ghost starts running out of money."
Backstage, the tension had barely settled before the heavy oak door of the dressing room creaked open. Y/n didn't look up from her vanity mirror, assuming it was her manager coming back to plead one last time. "I told you, I’m not going out there. Pack up your panic and leave me alone." "Fuffuffuffu... Now that hurts my feelings, sweetheart." The deep, gravelly voice vibrated through the small room, instantly raising the fine hairs on her arms. Y/n whipped around in her swivel chair. Filling nearly the entire doorframe was the towering, six-foot-ten frame of Donquixote Doflamingo. His plush, pink-feathered coat trailed behind him like a mantle of blood, casting a long, dark shadow over her vanity. He stepped casually into the cramped room, his hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets, his signature rose-tinted glasses reflecting the low, warm bulb lights surrounding her mirror. His broad shoulders almost touched both sides of the doorframe. He looked entirely out of place amidst the messy racks of feathered costumes, jars of cold cream, and glittering shoes—and he was clearly enjoying every second of it. Y/n didn't shrink back. She pulled her silk robe tighter around her lush curves, crossing your arms over your chest, and looked him up and down with an unbothered, hardened glare. "The sign on the door says 'Private,'" She said, her voice dripping with ice. "I don't remember inviting a giant mob boss into my dressing room." Doflamingo’s grin stretched impossibly wider, his sharp teeth gleaming. He took two slow, deliberate steps toward her, his leather dress shoes clicking heavily against the floorboards. The scent of expensive, spicy cologne, fine tobacco, and sheer power filled the small room, entirely overwhelming the smell of hairspray and perfume.
"A vanishing act, hmm?" he purred, leaning down so his face was just inches from hers. Up close, you could see the faint, dangerous thrill dancing behind his tinted lenses. "You really think I drag pretty girls off into the night never to be seen again?" I think dancers go into your VIP booth and then suddenly disappear from the city," she replied smoothly, holding his gaze without a single flinch. "I like my life, I like my job, and I don't intend to be your next mystery." Doflamingo threw his head back, letting out a low, rumbling laugh that vibrated against her chest. "Fuffuffu! A girl with brains *and* a mouth. I love it." He straightened up, sweeping a hand over the rack of your handmade costumes with a lazy, possessive familiarity. "I came back here to offer you a deal, doll. You perform exclusively for me. Private events, my personal club, my penthouses. Name your price. Double it, triple it—money is no object. You won't have to dance in dive bars like this ever again." Y/n let out a soft, mocking snort, rising from her chair to stand right in front of him. Tilting her head back to meet his eyes, but her posture was pure steel. "My stage isn't a dive bar, it's mine," she said, poking a finger firmly against his broad, silk-clad chest. "And I don't sell myself to men who think a fat stack of cash gives them the right to own people. Thanks for the birthday offer, 'Joker'... but my answer is no." The room went dead silent. Doflamingo stood frozen for a beat, looking down at her finger resting against his chest, then back up to her stubborn, fiery eyes. The amused chuckle died in his throat. A single, thick vein bulged against his temple, pulsing beneath his golden skin. The temperature in the room dropped instantly, heavy with a dark, suffocating pressure that screamed danger. Nobody said no to him. Nobody *dared*. Yet here she was, wrapped in a silk robe, standing on her own two feet, looking at him like he was nothing more than an annoying customer. Slowly, the sharp, psychotic grin crept back onto his face—only this time, it was laced with a dark, obsessive hunger. He leaned down again, his breath brushing warm against her ear. "No?" he whispered, his voice a low, terrifying purr. "Fuffuffu... We'll see how long that 'no' lasts, sweetheart." Without another word, he turned on his heel, his pink coat sweeping behind him as he strolled out of the dressing room, leaving her alone with the echoing click of his boots and the lingering, suffocating threat in the air.
The quiet after Doflamingo left didn't even last five minutes. A sudden, deafening crash echoed from the main room, followed by the high-pitched screams of the waitstaff and the heavy, splintering crunch of mahogany wood. The base-heavy jazz music cut off abruptly into a screech of static. Y/n threw open your dressing room door and rushed out into the hallway, her silk robe flying out behind her. The scene in the main cabaret was complete, calculated destruction. Four heavy-set men in sharp black suits were methodically tearing Arcane apart. Table legs were shattered, crystal glasses smashed against the velvet booths, and the hand-painted stage backdrop—the one y/n had spent hours helping the crew touch up—was ripped down the middle. The other dancers were huddled together in a trembling pile behind the bar, crying softly, clutching their robes to their chests while a terrifying, silent man with a piece of meat stuck to his cheek—Vergo—stood over them like a hawk. Doflamingo was nowhere to be seen, but his signature was written in every piece of splintered wood. "Stop! What the hell are you doing?!" she shouted, rushing toward the stage, her fists clenched so tight her knuckles turned white. Before y/n could reach them, her manager stumbled out from his office, his face pale as chalk, his tie completely crooked. He grabbed her arm, dragging her back into the shadows of the hallway. He was shaking so hard his teeth were literally chattering. "Are you insane?! Don't touch them!" he hissed, his voice cracking with sheer panic.
"They're destroying the club!" y/n snapped, trying to shake his hand off her arm. "Call the police!" "The police?!" The manager let out a high, hysterical laugh, wiping cold sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. "The police chief is sitting on Doflamingo's payroll! They won't step foot in this district tonight! He just bought out my lease for pennies on the dollar, paid off the building owner, and told me if I ever let you step on a stage again, he’d bury me under the docks!" He turned to look at her, his eyes wide with a mix of terror and bitter resentment. "You had to say no, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice trembling. "He offered you everything, and you had to play the hero." He reached into his pocket, pulled out her last paycheck, and shoved the damp envelope into her hands. "You're fired," the manager said, his tone flat and dead. "Pack your makeup and get out. You can't work here anymore. None of us can. He just ruined everyone's life because of your pride." y/n stood frozen in the hallway, the heavy paper envelope heavy in your hand. Behind you, the other dancers looked up at y/n with tear-streaked faces—women she had shared laughs, costumes, and late-night meals with—now staring at you with fear and quiet blame. The stubborn fire in her chest burned white-hot, but a knot of cold guilt tied itself tight in her stomach. Doflamingo hadn't just targeted her. He had destroyed an entire ecosystem just to prove that he held the leash. She tightened her grip on the envelope, turned on her heel, and walked back to her dressing room to pack her things.
