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Cosmic Joke: Donquixote Doflamingo (2/3)

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2/3: Doflamingo x Reader Length: 12k+ Rating: 18+(This one's not a joke) Warnings: mature audience, 18+, Mdni, Strong Language and Sarcasm, Psychological manipulation, Dubious consent (emotional & telepathic), Stalking/obsessive behavior, Power imbalance, Violence & threat of violence, Telepathic intimacy, Mild coercion elements, Sexual content (18+)

For too long, you've been telepathically tethered to one of the most dangerous, flamboyant, and emotionally unstable men alive: Donquixote Doflamingo. What began as a childhood psychic bond rapidly devolved into a war of soup-based passive aggression, sarcasm, and sexy psychological warfare.

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-X-The War-X-

A Sample of Your Childhood Psychic Transcript – Extended Cut cont.

Age 15:

You’d been unusually quiet that week.

Not because you were afraid.

But because you were furious.

It wasn’t one specific offense this time. Just… everything. The constant psychic lurking. The sound of his voice in your head at all hours. His smug little commentary during thunderstorms. The time he made you hear him getting laid twice in the same night with two different women, just to “remind you who had options.”

It happened on a particularly miserable afternoon. You were rain-soaked, sleep-deprived, and eating what could only be described as emotional broth. Again.

The fourth bowl this week.

It was lukewarm. You were lukewarm. Life was lukewarm.

And then, like mildew in your brain: Doflamingo.

You eat soup for the fourth day in a row, and I’m the unstable one? Sweetheart, if I have to hear you describe another broth like it’s erotic poetry, I will drown us both in consomme.”

And you, without hesitation, replied:

“If you’re going to hijack my brain, at least try not to sound like a hedge fund with abandonment issues and whores on speedial.”

That did it. You felt the bond sputter. Offended. Insulted. And, worse: flustered. Silence. For two whole seconds. You continued with the intensity of a caffeinated raccoon on the verge of violence.

“Your name sounds like a failed cologne brand. Donquixote Doflamingo? That’s not a name, it’s a Scrabble accident. And your coat? Oh my god, your coat looks like it crawled out of a Muppet and asked to die with dignity. You once monologued about world domination while drinking something pink and frothy out of a coconut.”

You had never felt more alive.

“You dress like a fashion crime scene. It’s like every piece of clothing you wear got into a bar fight with taste and lost. Every time I sense you’re happy, I get a sudden allergic reaction to silk and narcissism.”

You imagined he was somewhere, blinking at a wall, horrified. He didn’t reply for days.

Which only made you cockier.

You thought maybe, just maybe, you’d finally shut him up for good.

You were wrong.

So very, very wrong.

It happened at a port town. You were just walking along the dock. Normal day. Fresh bread. Overcast sky.

And then you mentally saw him.

Or rather, you mentally saw it.

In Doflamingo's head.

A flash of pink.

He was standing before a mirror..

It was the exact hue you liked. Your favorite color. A shade you only ever admitted to loving internally, quietly, selfishly. A soft, flushed, rose quartz warmth that made your stomach flutter when you saw it on ribbon, on cloth, on dusk-lit skies.

And he was drenched in it.

Pants, shirt, lapel flower, boots. A full outfit. It wasn’t garish. It wasn’t loud. It was tailored. Fitted. Subtle. Expensive.

He turned slowly and let his mirror do the insulting.

Smirking. Sunglasses glinting. A smug, calculating flame in silk and restraint.

“Something wrong, soup goblin?” he asked, voice smooth as a blade in velvet. “You feel upset. Must be the lighting. Or the fact that I’m wearing your favorite color.”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He mentally tilted his head. Listen to you unravel with polite interest. And then, the insult of all insults.

A coat. He shrugs on a pink feathered coat.

“This shade suits me,” he added. “I think I’ll make it permanent.”

That pastel bird-bitch figured out your favorite color and was now using it like emotional napalm.

You had previously mocked him. Many a time. You called him a Muppet. Said his fashion sense looked like a bird got drunk at a textile market and exploded.

You were mad.

You even said—offhand, buried in sarcasm—“Not that it matters, but if you really wanted to get under my skin, you’d wear something in rose quartz or sunset blush.”

You said it like a joke.

He heard it like a command.

And now?

He wears it. Constantly.

Not the same coat, not exactly. He has variations.

A dusky pink with gold-threaded lining for formal executions. A softer, almost pastel version for tea with underworld contacts. A rose-petal embroidered lining inside his cloak is just subtle enough to make your stomach turn every time the wind catches it.

You tried not to react.

You failed.

He saw it.

You looked at him across the mental bond. Another assassination done, blood still cooling under his boots, and he tilted his head with a smirk so slow and sharp it might as well have carved his initials into your spine.

“You like the coat?” he said aloud, too casually, “I had it made. Inspired by someone special.”

Age 16:

This was your foundation year. The broth years.

You trained your brain like a monk with a ladle, cycling through every soup imaginable: alphabetically, regionally, and emotionally. You endured stews. Conquered purees. Survived bone broth. You catalogued cream-based betrayals, whispered to dashi like it was scripture, and gave Pho the reverence of a war hymn.

Bisque was a breakdown in velvet form. Bone broth. Cream-based betrayals. Dashi..

Once, close after his brother's death, you had tried to be the bigger person. You thought, maybe this could be a turning point for him. He had been much quieter and thoughtful.

That was a tactical misstep.

“Sometimes I feel—”

Him: “—like a feral soup goblin hoarding trauma and lentils… You can admit it.”

You don’t. Instead, you begin narrating fake soap opera plotlines in your head like it’s your divine calling. Elaborate affairs. Secret twins. Tearful betrayals over stolen heirlooms.

You cast him in every villain role.

Donquixote Doflamingo, Duke of Deceit, tragically torn between his fiancée and his evil clone. Donquixote Doflamingo, heir to the Flamingo Fortune, weeping as his mother’s ghost reveals she faked her death to become a competitive ballroom dancer. Donquixote Doflamingo, betrayed by his long-lost identical triplet, also named Donquixote Doflamingo.

The man once threatened to drown an island for disrespecting his wine pairing.

Now he’s being mentally reimagined as the mustache-twirling father of three dramatic bastards and one sentient chandelier named Chandré, who speaks only in riddles and falls in love with the gardener every third Tuesday.

You:...and then the evil count said, ‘I only married your sister for the paprika inheritance.

Him, with the weariness of a man betrayed by his own neurons: You are so lucky I’m not bored enough to take that seriously.

You: I already designed your wig.

You cast him in increasingly absurd mental soap operas. Sometimes, as the estranged twin who faked his death to start a spice empire. Other times, as the morally ambiguous cardinal who seduces people with soup recipes and unresolved trauma.

And when you get bored with plots?

You just chant.

“Slurp.”

Until, inevitably—

“SLURP? SLURP?! I swear to GOD if you say slurp one more time I will LEVEL a village. Who even ARE you??”

“Hi, I’m Donquixote Doflamingo, my hobbies include string-based homicide and traumatizing orphans.”

He doesn’t respond. Which only emboldens you.

Because by now, your inner monologue has become a psychic casserole of passive aggression, fictional drama, and a truly alarming obsession with soup. You’re mentally making stock with dreams and disrespect, stirring emotional bouillon with a ladle carved from spite.

But then?

You make a mistake.

A bad one.

You try dating.

It starts innocently. A boy smiles at you in the market. He says something charming about leeks. You flirt back. Lightly. Barely. A flutter, really.

That’s when you learn a critical rule of the bond:

Strong emotions are a direct line to your personal insane asylum.

You barely feel the blush crawl up your neck before it’s hijacked.

His voice—sharp, silk-snarled, and deeply offended—cuts through the bond like broken glass wrapped in velvet.

“Who is he?”

You flinch. Literally flinch. In public.

The boy is still smiling.

You are not.

Because the devil incarnate has decided to open a commentary track in your frontal lobe.

“Does he know you eat instant ramen with chopsticks and a spoon? Does he know you alphabetize soup by mouthfeel? You’re flirting with that sort of attitude?”

You try to pull away, focus, and laugh it off. The boy asks if you’re okay.

You lie.

Meanwhile, Doflamingo is pacing in your psyche like a furious flamingo in couture.

“Who is this worm? Who is this mouth-breathing peasant? I’ll staple his face to the back of his own neck. Tell him you’re taken. Tell him you’re MINE to torment.”

You ran. Full sprint. Half because of Doflamingo’s snarling possessiveness, half because the poor guy had the misfortune of giving you a flower while the world’s most dramatic war criminal was loitering inside your frontal lobe.

Silence followed. Three blessed, golden minutes.

“Smart. You’d die in two weeks without me. Also, he looked like he smelled like mayonnaise.”

You could see it. Not literally, but close enough. The glint of his ridiculous rose-tinted sunglasses, worn indoors purely out of spite. He’d bought them, you were convinced, just to annoy you.

“I hope your sunglasses fog up every time you monologue.”

After that, you developed a series of new psychological conditions. Trust issues. Chronic stress. IBS. A mild soup addiction.

You tried everything: meditation, journaling, white noise playlists. You filled your head with innocuous trivia; What’s the capital of Wano? How many teeth does a sea king have? Do clouds have feelings?

He did not like that.

"Did you just compare me to a cumulonimbus?! I am a divine force of nature, you little brat, not moist sky fluff! Stop thinking about flamingos!"

That, ironically, only made you think of flamingos more.

You began to suspect he could sometimes sense your general aura, not your exact thoughts, but the emotional weather system you carried with you. He never said it outright, but every time you moved cities, his mood spiked. Sometimes it was laughter. Sometimes it was violence. Either way, it was a red flag. Not a romantic one. A get-a-panic-room-and-move-into-the-sewers kind of red flag.

You knew better than to egg him on.

But you tried. You really, really did.

You meditated until your spine locked up. You imagined puppies, clouds, and serene fruit baskets. You learned the entire taxonomy of soup for mental armor.

And then—one day—you slipped.

A single sarcastic thought. Dry. Thoughtless. Petty.

“Wow. That’s healthy, Mr. Flaming-No.

And he hears you.

You feel the shift before the words even come, like a psychic heatwave rolling across your brainstem. Static crackling with smug glee. A sudden, unbearable presence in the part of your mind you usually reserve for private suffering and bad decisions.

"I thought you had joined a convent."

You don’t reply, immediately knowing that to retain sanity, you must not answer the goblin man.

This does not deter him.

"Playing hard to get, huh? Fine. I love a challenge. A pause. Then, more horrifyingly, "Also, those pants you were thinking about? They do nothing for your calves. You have warrior thighs and sad ankles. Balance the silhouette."

You develop migraines. And rage. And a black belt in emotionally repressing everything. He is in your walls. He is in your thoughts. He is in your fashion critique.

And worst of all, he’s kind of right about the pants.

Age 17:

You’re seventeen now. Nearly a decade of resistance. Several years of soup-based psychological warfare. You are battle-hardened. Cunning. Emotionally fortified.

It’s a windy afternoon. You’re tired, mildly dehydrated, and emotionally detached from your alleged soulmate, who has been suspiciously quiet lately (read: plotting, brooding, probably doing unspeakable things with string and charisma).

You're just walking back from the market. Minding your own business, trying to decide if cabbage has a soul or just very boring anxiety, when your eyes drift. A new poster, slapped unevenly onto a corkboard, the corners still curling from damp. The ink hasn’t even dried all the way, smudged slightly where the print was rushed.

It’s background noise. Paper clutter. At best, a passing glance.

Until you see the name.

Donquixote Doflamingo

Bold. Black. Centered like a dare.

You think there’s no way two people are cursed enough for that name.

Underworld freakshow. Flamingo warlord. Thread-Thread Fruit user. Your long-suffering psychic parasite.

Yep, definitely him.

His bounty is astronomical. The numbers alone are enough to make your eyebrows try to retreat into your hairline. But that’s not even the worst part.

He seems tall. Dangerous. The kind of man that feels like a trick, like the kind of mirage that looks better the worse your judgment gets. If you squint too long, something behind your eyes might snap.

And your stomach sinks.

And of course, like a cryptid with the world’s worst timing and a god complex, he noticed.

“Didn’t know what I looked like until now? Tch.”

That voice. The one that had haunted your quiet moments for nearly a decade. The one who once threatened to puppet your kindergarten teacher because you dared to think her socks looked cowardly. The one that had berated your soup choices, hijacked your dreams, and turned emotional stability into a luxury you could no longer afford.

And now it belonged to that.

Tall. Tanned. Ripped within an inch of obscenity. Muscles like he’d been sculpted by someone deeply unwell. Blonde hair tousled like the aftermath of something sinful, and a smirk that didn’t just flirt with danger. It promised it, wrapped in silk and razor wire. A man who looked like a statue lost a bet, fell into organized crime, and liked it there.

He looked like every bad decision you hadn’t made yet.

No mistake. No hallucination. No soup-induced delusion. That ridiculous bastard in pink is real. He’s real, and—worse—he’s hot.

The glasses. The grin. The coat that screams midlife crisis, king of crime. The smile like tax evasion got a face. Golden-blond hair in wild tufts, tousled like he rolled out of someone else’s bed and never looked back. Tanned skin like sun-drenched sin. Broad shoulders, ripped muscles wrapped in silken arrogance. A torso built like it bench-pressed war crimes and did it shirtless.

And that smirk. That deadly, self-satisfied smirk. Like, he knows things. Like he wins them.

He looked like violence, money, and seduction had formed a committee: an exclusive, corrupt, and devastatingly attractive committee. The kind that held secret meetings in cigar smoke and blood-red velvet, made decisions with knives, and always got what it wanted.

You blink.

You look away.

You mentally repeat the phrase ‘he’s probably 80% cartilage and trauma and is hiding a bald spot’ just to recover your dignity. It doesn’t help. Your face burns. Your stomach coils with shame. You scoff at yourself, an internal slap of reality.

Unfortunately, another thought slips through before you can stop it.

His collarbones could start a religion.

The bond goes silent. Not quiet—silent. Like the air before a storm, thick with pressure and the weight of something inbound. You feel it: that split-second pulse behind your eyes. Like thunder curling in your skull. A sharp, electric pause.

And then, like a god waking up from a thousand-year nap, stretching out with far too much interest:

“…Oh?”

You sit down. Right there. On the damn floor. The market bustles around you, but your brain has exited the building. He feels your panic like a shark senses blood in the water, and oh, he revels in it.

You bolt. Not physically. No, your body is frozen in public humiliation. But mentally? Emotionally? You retreat behind every available defense.

Soup. Obscure barnacle trivia. An emergency wall of potato-based imagery. You imagine peeling tubers under enemy fire. Chanting “yam” like a mantra.

But it’s too late. You slipped. He heard everything.

And worst of all, he is thrilled.

“Collarbones, huh?”

The word echoes with amusement, low and sharp like the strike of a match.

“You finally looked at me. Five years of miso and mockery, and one peek at my chest takes you down?”

You consider dying on the spot. But knowing your luck, he’d narrate the whole thing like it was erotica.

You try to lie. To salvage some form of dignity.

“It was a neutral observation. Biological analysis. Very scientific.”

His voice purrs through the bond, velvet and victorious.

“Sweetheart, you mentally described the way my shirt dipped below my clavicle with metaphor. You thought it looked lickable.”

Shame hits you like a blunt object. You nearly walk straight into a civilian holding a cabbage.

Somewhere in the ether of your mind, he laughs. Loud. Gleeful. Unapologetically delighted.

“And here I thought I was the obsessed one.”

You scoff. Loudly. Like he’s blowing hot air straight into your synapses.

Because, sure. You’re soulmates. Allegedly. Sure, he’s been squatting in your psyche like a haunted Den Den with a god complex for years. But you’re… you.

A broke nobody with six fake identities, a fugitive ex, and a dependency on pantry soups. He’s the de facto mafia king of the New World. A Warlord of midlife crisis fashion and felony flirtation.

You try to recover. You raise walls. You conjure a protective mental beetle named Gerald, whose entire job is to eat inappropriate thoughts on sight.

He eats Gerald.

You panic. You stammer mentally into your fallback plan: complete gibberish.

“Soup. Rainbows. Shoe sizes. Frog taxonomies—”

But it’s too late.

“I’ve got your frequency now, cariño. I heard thirst. Real, honest-to-god horniness. You finally blinked.”

And you did.

You blinked.

You cracked.

You thought about his stupid neck, and now this deranged flamingo with a god complex has leverage for eternity.

“You little soup-slinging, mind-muting, emotionally constipated goblin—you like me.”

You internally shriek, “NO I DON’T—”

“Yes, you do. You had a whole thought about my neck. And my shirt. You zoomed in.”

You curl up on the ground, metaphorically. Maybe literally. You consider setting your brain on fire. Deleting yourself from your own consciousness. Ejecting your soul like bad software.

“Ten years of lentils and psychological warfare. Ten years of pretending I was some cosmic fungus infecting your thoughts. But guess what—You. Like. Me.”

There’s pressure behind your eyes. Not pain. Something worse, his attention. Focused. Hungry. Triumphant.

You squeeze your eyes shut and summon the blandest image you can: beige wallpaper. The kind you’d find in a forgotten waiting room or a discount dentist's office.

He barrels through it like a tank through a bakery.

“You like the sunglasses. Say it.”

You grunt. Out loud. A merchant passing by flinches and steers his cart sharply away.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, soup girl. You gave me material. I’m never letting it go. This is my birthday now.”

You let out a pitiful whimper. He eats it up like dessert.

“You gonna cry about it? Gonna doodle ‘Mrs. Doflamingo’ in the margins of your little soup journal? I bet you’re mad I found out I’m more than just talk. You picked the worst day to realize I’m hot. You’ve given me leverage for life. You’re stuck in my brain, and now—now I live rent-free in yours.”

You scramble for mental footing. You need a defense. Any defense. Something—anything—before he starts monologuing about his abs.

“It was an accident. A brief psychotic episode. The sunlight hit your collarbones at a deceptive angle.”

He gasps. Mocking. Gleeful.

“Your horny little brain betrayed you again. God, I love your unstable little puberty arc. That’s all it took. I’m gonna get this etched into my sunglasses,” he continues, absolutely basking. “Maybe my coat. Right across the fluff. ‘My soulmate thinks I’m hot.’ Should I get it embroidered in soup alphabet letters? For the brand.”

You bite down on the inside of your cheek like it might detonate a failsafe.

It does not. He’s still smiling inside your skull.

You attempt emotional flatlining. Dead eyes. No thoughts. Just the faint buzzing sound of shame vibrating in your teeth.

“I hate you,” you mutter under your breath, unsure if it’s psychic or spoken.

“Mmm. No, you don’t. You simmer. Like broth. Slow and steady. You’ve been cooking in this tension for years, mi amor. Admit it.”

You inhale. Deep. Holy. The kind of breath one takes before committing a crime or hurling oneself off a cliff. Preferably both.

“You are—without question—the worst creature I have ever known.”

“And yet,” he purrs, smug leaking through every word, “you like what you see.”

-X-Emotional Fallout-X-

Age 18:

You’re eighteen. You’re alone. It’s nighttime. You’re somewhere safe. Warm.

The kind of warmth that makes your shoulders loosen. That rare, golden hush where no one’s calling your name, no one’s watching. Maybe—just maybe—you let your guard down.

You were letting off steam. A long week. A longer year. You’ve been running, surviving, soup-warring your way through life with a telepathic menace in your head.

But tonight? He’s quiet. Finally, no insults. No commentary. No phantom sunglasses fogging up your thoughts.

So you let go.

Just a little.

A flicker of indulgence. One breath softer than the rest. Just a moment, you tell yourself. A harmless thing.

You’re having a little me time.

Which would be fine. Private. Normal. Human.

Except you forgot one minor, universe-breaking detail. The soulmate bond has a trigger—one liable to activate under very specific, very inconvenient circumstances. Namely: when the universe discovers you are, in fact, attracted to warlord pirates with blond hair and bad manners.

Not hypothetically. Not in a dream journal sort of way. No. Physically. Emotionally. Stupidly.

Far from you, in a bar that stank of sweat, smoke, and the slow rot of ambition, Donquixote Doflamingo lounged across a velvet-backed booth with all the restless menace of a lion in a too-small cage. His coat spilled over the side like a bloodied flag, pink feathers catching the dim glow of the overhead lights.

One long leg stretched out beneath the table, the other bent. His posture said boredom. His eyes—half-lidded behind those ever-present sunglasses—said boredom.

Baby 5 was sulking across from him, arms crossed and pouting hard enough to bend metal. Vergo was mid-monologue, recounting logistics, rebellion rumors, and someone’s suspicious cargo manifest with the droning cadence of a man who believed punctuation was optional.

Doflamingo barely heard him.

He was twirling a toothpick between his fingers, letting it rest between sharp teeth, half-listening until something changed.

A pulse. A flicker. A sharp spike of emotion not his own, but intimately familiar. The bond flared, sudden and hot, as if someone had cracked the seal on a bottle of champagne and all that pressure found a weak spot.

His body jerked.

Just slightly, just enough to make the toothpick snap. He blinked once, slow and reptilian. The glass in his other hand tilted dangerously.

Baby 5 sat up straighter. “What?”

It hit him again like a sniper’s bullet: clean, precise, and devastating.

A white-hot pulse slammed through his skull, down his spine, a psychic lash so intense it stole the air from his lungs. His chair scraped against the floor as he jolted upright, all arrogance gone.

His drink toppled, forgotten. The low murmur of the bar dimmed beneath the ringing in his ears. His sunglasses slid down the bridge of his nose, almost exposing his eyes, wide, startled, disbelieving.

“What the—”

Then he saw you.

Not clearly. Not fully.

Just a flicker.

But that flicker was enough.

You.

Glowing with heat.

Breathless.

You, bathing in the soft radiance of lamplight. Skin flushed, chest rising and falling with breathless urgency. The curve of your throat, the tilt of your hips, the part of your lips as you whispered something meant for no one.

Your expression was raw, unguarded. The kind of thing no one was ever meant to see, let alone feel echoing down a telepathic soul tether.

It was not a memory. It was now.

It was real. And it hit him so hard that the room tilted.

The bond flared, hungry and sharp, like a wire pulled taut between two hearts. His breath hitched. His pulse stuttered.

For a moment—just one—everything stopped.

He forgot the bar, the mission, the kingdom poised for collapse. He forgot Vergo. He forgot Baby 5’s question. He forgot the world.

Because you, the voice that haunted his every quiet moment, had just shattered the final wall. And the sound it made echoed straight through his ribs.

His mind, usually a thundering storm of dominance and calculation, went blank.

Didn’t even have a thought.

Just you—arching in soft light, whispering sin like it was a prayer, and him—wrecked.

For the first time in his life, Donquixote Doflamingo forgot how to speak.

His mouth was open. His breath caught. One hand still hovering mid-air, fingers curled like he meant to grab the table. Or maybe the fabric of reality itself, and shake it.

Trebol leaned in, nose wrinkling. “Uh, boss? You good?”

Doflamingo didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.

Then, with the reverence of a man watching prophecy unfold, he rasped:

“She’s legal... she’s definitely legal now. Oh my god.”

Everyone at the table froze.

Baby 5 made a strangled sound. Vergo’s monologue died in his throat.

Doflamingo just stared into the distance like he’d been shot by Cupid and then hit by a train.

Thirty full seconds passed.

Then, laughter.

Low, slow, unhinged laughter. It started deep in his chest and rolled out like thunder, thick with disbelief and delighted menace.

“Oh, cariño,” he said, voice rough with something unholy, “you’re going to regret this.”

Wherever you were, wherever you had just collapsed back against your pillow in sweet, tired afterglow.

Then you felt it.

A flicker. A shift in the air.

Like the temperature dropped a degree, and the static charge of something watching curled at the edge of your consciousness.

Doflamingo was smiling.

Not passive. Not teasing. Real. Awake. Focused. And turned on.

“Well, well, well,” came the purr through the tether of your bond. “Look who’s finally an adult. And doing such adult activities.”

You scream.

Mentally. Physically. Existentially.

It’s a full-body, soul-level meltdown.

“GET OUT—”

“Too late. Saw everything.”

You die. Emotionally. On the spot. Your soul files a lawsuit. Your dignity packs a suitcase.

“Cute little sounds you make. Didn’t think you had it in you. I knew you’d fold one day, but I didn’t expect to get front-row seats.”

You scramble to recover, to bury the memory under seventeen mental potatoes and a Gregorian chant. You imagine beige wallpaper. Tax codes. That one time you stubbed your toe and cried out of spite.

It does nothing. He smirks louder. Emotionally. Telepathically. Spiritually.

“You looked so pretty when you thought I wasn’t watching.” A pause. Sinful. “Spoiler alert: I always am.”

You try to deny it, valiantly.

“That was—private. It was biological. It didn’t mean anything.”

“Sweetheart,” He croons, “it was spiritual phone sex. And you butt-dialed me.”

You vow—vow—never to touch yourself again. You briefly consider shaving your head and joining a monastery. You wonder if monks are allowed to cry this much.

Then he whispers it. Soft. Wicked. Smug enough to black out the sun.

“Don’t worry. Next time, I’ll help.”

You throw your shoe at the wall. It bounces. It hits you.

He feels it.

He laughs for forty straight minutes. Possibly more. You wouldn’t know. You’re already digging your own grave with a plastic spoon.

The bond is buzzing now. You’ve been seen. And Doflamingo? He’s delighted.

You're no longer just hiding from an emotional terrorist. You're hiding from a man who has seen you naked. And he will never let you live it down.

You genuinely consider moving to the Moon. Quiet place. No warlords. No soulbond static humming behind your eyes like a mosquito with a superiority complex.

Instead, you get a therapist.

A fancy one. Specialist in soul bonds, telepathic bleed, and emotional containment techniques. Her office smells like sandalwood and quiet judgment. She has a PhD in psychic hygiene and wears linen robes like a woman who’s never been personally terrorized by a flamingo in sunglasses.

It depletes most of your college fund. You eat instant noodles for six months and barter your roommate’s scented candles to afford the last session. But by the gods, it works.

You learn the ancient and noble art of greywalling. You don’t know how. It’s instinctive like a prey animal flattening in tall grass. You start thinking… wrong.

Not a wall exactly. More like a fog. A numb, soothing, beige silence that makes your inner landscape so boring it repels narcissists like holy water. No thoughts. No feelings. Just the psychic equivalent of elevator music and poorly lit office carpet.

It works.

Doflamingo pings your mind, irritated. Sniffs around the edges. Sends increasingly unhinged mental messages.

“If you don’t stop thinking about taxes and glue, I swear I will fly to wherever you are and start narrating my workouts in detail. I am not losing a psychic staring contest to a gremlin. If you say 'zen garden' one more time, I’ll turn your stupid little frog plush into a hand puppet.”

But you hold. You breathe. You greywall.

This is the year you leave home and all semblance of mental stability.

You packed your bag and ran to become something else entirely: A tactical genius of emotional evasion.

Stone-faced. Steel-minded. Soupproof.

“You know who’d be cute with a little hat? A potato.”

And on the other end of the soulbond, Doflamingo snaps.

“HELLO? What the hell is this? WHAT. WHAT IS THIS? WHY IS THERE A HAT ON THE POTATO? TAKE THE HAT OFF—Why is my head full of... clam chowder? Is this a hostage situation? Did someone scramble you?”

You escalate.

You start doing fake reality show narrations in your head.

“Day six in the hideout. The color-blind Flamingo is pacing again. That’s the third chair this week. He is emotionally constipated and angry at soup.”

“I will find you and stuff a cannonball in your ear canal.”

He’s used to people screaming, begging, obeying, or dying. He is not used to being ignored.

By now, you’ve figured it out. You’re not the strong one. You’re not the clever manipulator. You’re not a warlord with sunglasses worth more than your entire village.

But you are excellent at one thing.

Going silent. Not just quiet— just annoying as hell. Emotionally, mentally, spiritually. You learn to layer your thoughts in static, white noise, nursery rhymes. You picture soup. Endless, brothy soup.

“Did you just think about turnip stew for six hours straight?”

Yes. Yes, you did. And you’ll do it again.

You become a master at decoys. You once spent three days mentally reciting the Goa Kingdom’s Tax Code.

“I swear to god, if you say Clause 7-B one more time—”

You start singing internally. Not good songs. Not ballads. You sing “It’s a Small World” on loop. You create psychic musicals about mundane tasks. You give him earworms so potent he starts questioning reality.

“I heard that stupid rat song in my sleep. ARE YOU SINGING ABOUT STUFFED ANIMALS?! HOW IS THIS MY BOND?!”

You imagine yourself as a sentient raccoon with a briefcase.

“WHAT IS IN THE BRIEFCASE?”

You don’t answer. You never do. That’s what makes it art.

He starts trying to reason with you.

“Just show me where you are. We’ll talk. I’ll be polite. No torture unless necessary. I can make you rich. Powerful. Better soup.”

You respond by imagining what a grilled cheese would sound like if it could sing.

He nearly chokes during a high-stakes underworld meeting.

At this point, he nearly snapped. He has restructured crime empires. He has murdered royalty. He is feared across the sea. But he cannot find the little rat in his head who keeps making musical numbers about turnips wearing wedding veils. You won’t even give him your goddamn name.

He doesn’t get it. No one harasses him. No one forgets he exists. But you?

You cut him off. And now he’s fuming. And he’s not an idiot. He’s unstable, but not stupid.

“You’re being annoying on purpose, aren’t you?”

You don’t answer. You’re pretending to be a turnip today.

“You little goblin. You are doing this on purpose.”

You mentally picture a rutabaga in a scarf.

“Oh. Oh, I see how it is.”

He paces his study. Flings a chair at the wall.

“You think you’re clever. You think I won’t burn ten towns to flush you out, but I will.”

And you?

You imagine slow-cooked lentils with fresh rosemary.

“I SWEAR TO GOD.”

You start picking up tricks from watching the news; World Government censorship, Cipher Pol propaganda, even weather pattern irregularities around key islands. You realize if you shuffle your daily routine and keep your emotions scrubbed clean like laundry, you can dip below his radar.

He can’t read what you won’t allow. And if you act boring enough, he won’t even try.

You move to a new town. Take on a fake name. You’re working part-time cleaning ships. You’ve trained your thoughts to run like a filler arc no one asked for.

He doesn’t even want to harass you anymore.

He wants to understand. He wants to meet the freak who weaponized the word “pink pony yogurt club” against him. He wants to see your face just once and scream into your mouth for five uninterrupted minutes. He no longer calls you a divine punishment.

He calls you “my affliction.”

You replied curtly, ‘Ew’.

You’ve never met. You are just a girl. You have never been kissed. You are the emotional equivalent of a haunted IKEA display.

But he knows your mind like a battlefield, and he is losing.

“You win. You broke something in me. I want to meet you and strangle you and feed you better soup.”

On a suspiciously bird-themed ship, Doflamingo Is Having a breakdown in sunglasses.

It isn’t love. It isn’t longing. It’s rage, confusion, and a slow-dawning fascination with the one thing in the world he can’t find.

“Where the hell did you go. I know you’re not dead. You’re too stubborn. Like cockroach-in-a-microwave stubborn.”

And you are.

You’re in some no-name town with a fake-ass identity, a head full of soup and math equations, pretending to be normal. You’ve erased every trace of your real self like a witness in a mob trial.

Meanwhile, he’s spiraling.

Combusting over a blurry flash of shoulder, like it was a religious experience. Living, laughing, and losing his damn mind over a maybe-nipple like it’s the final boss of his personal sanity dungeon. His usual women aren’t cutting it anymore. Too flattering, too available, not enough psychic mystery or soup-based emotional damage.

And somehow… he can’t get a lock on you.

“Alright then. Let’s see how long you can keep it up. Come on, little soup gremlin. Play hide and seek with the devil.”

You feel it then. The subtle shift.

Before, you were a nuisance. Now? You’re a project. And Doflamingo loves unfinished projects.

You hear him muttering to himself now, sometimes through the bond. Like a shark circling a boat it can’t quite bite. You sit quietly. Eating dry crackers. Pretending to be a sentient loaf of bread. You picture him pacing in his ship’s throne room like a disgruntled flamingo.

You are not a warrior. You are not a revolutionary. You are not a threat. But somehow, you have become the single most fascinating thing in the life of one of the most dangerous men in the world.

And that’s a terrifying achievement.

Age 19:

You saw the news by accident.

It was plastered on the front of a damp bounty flyer, stapled to the wall of a dingy tavern somewhere halfway up a crumbling cliff road. You’d stopped to steal a sandwich and maybe a bar stool.

Then your eyes landed on it:

“DONQUIXOTE DOFLAMINGO — NEW WARLORD APPOINTMENT ANNOUNCED.”

Underneath, a grainy image of him smirking. Arms wide. Coat flared. Pink as sin.

You stood there, sandwich in hand, absolutely unblinking. Inside your skull, the bond buzzed like a wasp nest dipped in champagne.

“Warlord? They made him a warlord? Who looked at that walking Gucci tantrum and said, ‘Yeah, give him state-funded murder rights???”

You knew he knew you saw it. And you knew what was coming next. Sure enough, ten seconds later,

“Sweetheart.”

Your blood turned to soup.

“You’re wearing the pink panties, right?”

Dropped the sandwich. Burned the flyer. Left the town so fast you nearly took the bar stool with you.

You didn’t stop to think.

Because there was no thinking anymore.

Doflamingo—your soul’s biggest mistake—was now a Warlord of the Seven Seas, the Joker of the underworld, and was whispering sweet chaos into your brain like a bedtime story from hell.

He’s in his thirties, and he’s getting worse.

No character development. No healing arc. Just unfiltered rage and an ever-expanding pastel wardrobe like trauma is tax-deductible.

He doesn’t talk into the bond all the time. But when he does, it’s usually after a bloodbath. Or a tantrum. Or a business deal involving a body count.

You’ve gotten good at dodging emotional landmines.

But sometimes he gets weirdly domestic. And those moments are somehow worse.

"You’d like this silk, I think. Soft. Expensive. Bloody, but I wiped it off. What do you eat besides soup?” He snickers, but his voice softens, “I bet you eat like a peasant. Tch. I’ll fix that."

You move again. That’s the third time this year. Send more potato-in-hat images.

You stayed on the move.

Changed your name. Your clothes. Your voice.

You learned how to lie through a Den Den Mushi with a smile.

You stuffed your thoughts with trivia and garbage again; cabbage facts, sock folding techniques, sandwich rankings by altitude.

Even worse, that’s the year you get into a fist fight—and by “fist fight,” you mean a life-or-death brawl with fate, blood, and the violent repercussions of your own hubris.

It happens in a dingy alleyway on the edge of a port town, under lanterns that flicker like they’re in on the joke. You’re not supposed to be there. You’re running a quick errand. You have a bag of yams in one hand and false confidence in the other. Then someone jumps you.

Not metaphorically.

You don’t remember what they wanted. Your coin purse, your life, your identity; it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that you fought back.

And lost.

Spectacularly. Like a heroic cabbage in a blender. You have a bruised rib, a dislocated shoulder, and the sneaking suspicion that you bit someone mid-panic. But the worst part isn’t the pain. The worst part is what happens when you lose consciousness.

Because it turns out, when your soulmate is a warlord of the sea with Haki (You’d discover what Haki was much, much later) strong enough to black out a small country, and when you happen to be unconscious?

The bond fully opens.

And you are dreaming.

Or, you were.

You expect nothingness. Instead, you wake in a place that feels familiar and wrong.

Because suddenly you’re standing in a blood-red room that smells like cigars, velvet, and ambition. The floor is polished marble. The air is too still. And sitting in a throne that looks stolen from a villain-themed opera is him.

Donquixote Doflamingo.

Blond. Tanned. Shirt undone like it’s a war crime. Legs spread like arrogance made flesh.

He’s waiting.

Seated on a throne of strings and broken glass. Pink feathers bleeding into the wind.

His expression is the first thing you see.

Not his voice.

Not his laugh.

Not even that unbearable psychic hum that usually announced his presence like a bad omen with designer shoes.

Just his face.

Startlingly close.

Too close.

So sharp and vivid it felt like a vision carved into the backs of your eyelids, like lightning caught behind them. It flashed into being with no warning, no buildup. One moment you getting your ass kicked, and the next, his face was there, burned into your mind’s eye with impossible clarity.

He wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

His eyes were wide open; exposed, unfiltered. The color of dried blood and burnished mahogany, glowing with something old and volatile beneath. Strange and warm and unnerving, like autumn leaves falling into a fire.

They were beautiful.

Offensively so.

The kind of eyes that made people forget to breathe, or think, or say anything remotely intelligent.

And he wasn’t smiling.

That, more than anything, made your pulse lurch.

Because Donquixote Doflamingo smiled at everything: mockery, threats, murder, his own reflection, that grin was his weapon and his shield. A constant, polished sneer that meant he was in control.

But his sunglasses are gone. His expression is bare. His jaw is clenched like it’s trying to hold in the whole damn ocean. And for the first time since the death of Rosinante, he looks… shaken.

“You reckless idiot. You absolute menace. You stupid, stubborn brat—”

His voice cracks like a whip, but not with anger.

It shakes.

“If you think you get to drop dead and leave me with nothing but flashbacks of you insulting my coat, I will resurrect your corpse just to yell at you.”

You’re still half-dreaming. Still bleeding. Your mind floats somewhere between agony and consciousness, but his presence is so loud, so sharp, it slices through the fog.

“Huh?”

He leans closer, fists trembling where they grip your dream-reality like it might vanish again. And his voice, so often smug, cruel, and unbearable, is soft.

Raw.

He stares at you like a man trying to memorize a constellation moments before the sky swallows it. His gaze is fixed, hungry; not with desire, but desperation. The kind that comes from nearly losing something he swore he didn’t need.

“You nearly severed the tether.”

His voice is low, rough. Not angry. Frayed.

“You think I wouldn’t feel that? You think I’d just let you slip away without consequence? Without a word? Without—”

He cuts himself off, breath hitching. Then slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height. He’s huge, ginormous, terrifying.

The world around him responds, the dreamscape shuddering like glass under strain. Shadows ripple along the edges of the surreal, like the dream itself knows better than to test him.

And for once, he doesn’t swagger. Doesn’t smirk.

There’s no humor left in him.

“You can’t die here,” he says, each word a verdict. “Not now. Not before I get to make it worse for you in person.”

You groan, dragging yourself upright with the exhausted defiance of someone who’s been through hell and still refuses to leave it politely.

“You’re more dramatic than a pigeon in a courtroom,” you mutter, blinking the haze from your dream-vision.

He snorts once. No grin. Just grit.

“I’m more invested than a fucking pidgeon. I was born into power. I lost everything. I clawed it back with blood and strings. But you—”

He steps forward. Closer.

Then he kneels. A fluid motion, calculated but unguarded. He reaches out, his fingers curling under your chin; not cruel, not tender, just firm, like he needs to anchor himself to something real. To something that won’t vanish if he lets go.

“I was eight years old when I watched my father get crucified by the people he thought he could live among,” he says, his voice quieter now. “Watched my brother pity me. Then hate me for killing that selfish old man. Then Corozón betrayed me. I have been hated, loved, despised, and venerated—”

His thumb brushes the edge of your jaw.

“And still, none of it prepared me for you.”

He leans closer just enough that you can feel the heat of his breath against your cheek.

When he speaks again, his voice is low. Raw. Almost reverent.

“You don’t get to leave me. Not unless I say so.”

The words aren’t sharp. They’re jagged. Torn from somewhere beneath his ribs.

You stare at him, heart hammering. Not in fear, but in understanding. Because for once, this isn’t bravado or games. This isn’t performance.

This is real.

He means it. Every cracked, ugly syllable.

Doflamingo leans in, forehead pressed to yours. His breath is shallow. The dreamspace pulses, heavy with heat and gravity, like the air before a storm.

And then, you feel it. The tether. Glowing between you. Not frayed. Not dim.

Alive.

“...You are the only thing in this whole rotten world that can never leave me.” He murmurs. “Even when you curse me. Even when you run. Even when you talk back like a little brat.”

His voice drops lower, rougher.

“You will not die.”

It’s not a plea. It’s a command. Solid. Blazing. Horrible. Intimate.

“Live, you idiot,” he breathes. “Live so I can keep loathing you properly.”

And then you wake with a gasp.

Blood on your tongue. A gash across your shoulder. Screams in the distance. The world shuddered back into motion.

Age 20:

It’s the year he takes over Dressrosa. Crowned de facto king after what the papers cheerfully call a “peaceful transition of power.” You snort into your tea and accidentally choke.

Peaceful, your ass.

The article is accompanied by a photo of him on the palace balcony, looking like a war criminal in designer shades, surrounded by confetti and terrified nobles. There’s a quote, too, of course. Something bland and regal. You don’t read it. You don’t need to.

Because you already know what he said to you.

You’ve been getting little psychic postcards all week. And by postcards, you mean whispered threats with the cadence of a marriage proposal.

“Did you know I rewrote the laws of Dressrosa? Guess whose name is outlawed now? It starts with yours.” He’s such a smug braggart. “The throne’s missing something. I think it’s you.”

You set the paper down.

He’s a king now.

You grab your emergency mental foghorn.

Time to pretend you’ve never heard of wine, or thrones, or—God forbid—him.

He’s quieter now, which is worse. Before, he was noise incarnate: arrogant laughter and swaggering monologues, honeyed venom laced with entitlement. The man once used magical thread powers to dramatically soliloquize from the top of a castle. Subtlety was not in his vocabulary.

But lately?

He doesn’t scream anymore. He studies you.

The tether hums faintly, the bond never broken, just waiting. He tracks your moods like a cartographer of storms; silent, focused, and unnervingly accurate. He tracks your emotional rhythms like clockwork.

“Sad today. Tried cooking yesterday and got hurt. Maybe a burn.”

He speaks to no one in particular when it happens. Sometimes aloud. Sometimes just into the smoke. He reconstructs your voice with surgical precision. Imagines the expressions you’d make. Catalogs the things you hate about him, and commits them to memory like a prayer.

The bond has become something of an altar that he’s decided is holy. And you are extremely concerned about what a man like Donquixote Doflamingo qualifies as holy.

"I’ll find you eventually, cariño. You’re the only good thing the world gave me. You’re mine. You know that, right?"

And the worst part?

You feel it.

That subtle tug in your chest. That phantom ache whenever he’s angry. Or restless. Or, God help you, lonely. It drags through your ribcage like ghost wire, cold and aching.

“Speak to me. Scream at me. Hate me. I’ll take anything. Just don’t go silent.”

He sends thoughts now like love letters. Each one is worse than the last.

“Today, I stabbed a man for snoring. Thinking of you.”

They arrive unannounced, like bad weather. No lead-up. No apology. Just violent declarations scrawled across your sanity.

“Put something nice on. I’m fantasizing.”

You eat plain soup with the fury of someone at war. You meditate like it’s a hostage negotiation. You sob quietly into Pancake, your frog plushie, the noble, bug-eyed witness to your ongoing psychological siege.

He hums. Softly. Like this isn’t deeply unhinged.

Pancake stares with you. Both of you silently scream.

You won’t give in. You are almost certain of that. But he is utterly convinced that one day you will tell him your name and location.

Because in his mind, you are his one and only buddy, his unfortunate soulmate with amazing thighs and a frankly heroic capacity for ignoring him. A rare combination of mental fortitude, dry wit, and bottomless resistance.

You will not break.

You are not okay.

But you are very, very stubborn.

And that? He loves it. Horrifically. Loudly. Forever. Whether you like it or not.

Age 21:

The bathroom mirror had seen better days. So had you.

You scrubbed at your face with a rag that smelled faintly of mildew and mint, the water in the basin lukewarm and flecked with soap scum. Another bad day. Another town. Another name that wasn’t yours.

You were tired. Tired of hiding, tired of fake papers and muddy boots, tired of planning your meals like military operations. Most of all, you’re just tired of him.

It had been quiet lately. No jeering laughter in your skull. No flippant commentary on your soup obsession or your thoughts about frogs in hats or emotional potatoes. No psychic eyerolls during thunderstorms. Just... silence. The kind that made your skin itch.

So, naturally, your guard was haywire. You weren’t thinking. That was the problem.

You were just muttering to yourself under your breath as you scrubbed your teeth, watching your own reflection with the dull detachment of someone who hadn’t slept properly in three nights.

You’ve been mentally torturing him for years with soup, barnacle trivia, and passive-aggressive Gregorian chants. You once forced-fed him an hour-long internal monologue about sock fabrics while he was bleeding out in a back alley.

You assume—correctly, logically, reasonably—that Donquixote Doflamingo does not care.

About you.

Not in the way that would suggest softness or sentiment or any of the dangerous, thorned things that curl beneath skin and root themselves in a soul. No, he couldn’t possibly. Because you, regrettably, have heard him.

All of him.

It had started years ago, quiet at first, like a radio signal caught on a wind current. A glimpse. A murmur. Then, louder. Uninvited. Unfiltered.

You learned quickly that soulbond telepathy had no dignity. That whatever cruel cosmic force tethered you to him had zero concept of personal space. Because sometimes, far too often, his mind was a midnight broadcast of sins, and you were the poor soul caught holding the receiver.

He had liaisons. Frequent. Loud. Ridiculously vivid. And you? You had trauma.

There were nights you sat rigid in bed, pillow over your face, trying not to hear the way he rasped breathless curses against someone else's neck. Days when your tea cooled untouched, as laughter and heat flooded your senses without consent. You once hurled a ceramic vase at the wall with such force that it cracked the plaster. He’d been particularly loud that morning. Your earlobes burned for hours.

So yes.

Of course, you assume he’s not all that committed to you.

You are the unwanted intrusion, the irritating frequency in his head that he forgot to mute. Background static. A parasite in his private thoughts. The gremlin soulmate who haunts his subconscious like a tax he never agreed to pay.

You’re just a loose thread in a coat he can’t burn. He’s only mentally present to torment you. To twist the tether. To punish you with psychic echoes of things that were never meant for you. That’s what you tell yourself. Over and over.

The moment you think that thought, clear as day, halfway through brushing teeth, a little smug even:

“Thank god he doesn’t actually like me.”

Oh, sweetheart. If your future self could reach across time, she would gently touch your shoulder, look into your wide, blinking eyes, and whisper:

“You poor, sweet dumbass.”

Because you really believed it, didn’t you? That you were just a blip. A glitch in the psychic system. That Donquixote Doflamingo, flamboyant, feral, deeply unstable, disturbingly hot, was soul-bonded to you solely for the cosmic comedy of psychological torture. That he hated you. Loathed you. That his theatrics, his possessive taunts, his fixation were just funny little threats on the wind.

And sure. Fair. Who wouldn’t think that?

Turns out, you were wrong.

Because the second that thought escapes your brain and the traitorous spark of relief formalizes, it happens.

You feel it. That awful, molasses-thick psychic presence slithering in like tar. Familiar. Claustrophobic. Saturated with heat and silk and something unhinged. He’s there.

Not in body. In mind. Sudden. Vivid. Uninvited. Like someone kicked the door to your soul off its hinges and waltzed inside, horrified.

A stunned silence stretches across the bond.

Then, his voice. Low. Icy. Coiled with disbelief.

“…Excuse me?”

You froze mid-brush, hand hovering near your mouth, foam dangling precariously from your lips. You blinked at your reflection like it had betrayed you.

Then came the second blow:

“What the fuck did you just say?”

Not playful. Not smug. Not even his usual theater-kid villain tone. No. He sounded offended. Personally. Existentially.

“You think—after all this—you think I don’t want to have sex with you?”

Your stomach dropped. The toothbrush slid from your fingers and bounced off the sink like it was abandoning ship.

“You think I’ve been putting up with you—you—for eighteen goddamn years, because I don’t want to fuck you?”

Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.

He wasn’t finished.

“You soup-brained, nightmare-spitting, telepathic sewer imp—I’ve been edged for YEARS. You think I like being haunted by the one person on the planet who moans over lentils and emotionally blue-balls me with Gregorian chant every time I so much as breathe horny?”

“You’re insane,” you whispered, horrified.

“You’re gonna find out just how insane.”

You scrambled, desperate for deflection, decency, distance. You conjured oatmeal, the blandest thought you could find. You tried to imagine beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige feelings.

He bulldozed through it like a freight train made of silk and sin.

“Oh, baby. I wanted you to hear.”

You sputtered something unwell. Something about revenge. About him being a melodramatic megalomaniac. About loud, pornographic payback that starred women who weren’t you.

Your mind flinched to the image he’d wanted you to see:

Him sprawled across a massive bed, silk sheets rumpled and half-ruined. A woman tangled around him, moaning, gasping, her nails dragging down his chest— And he wasn’t even looking at her.

He groaned for you.

He was achingly loud now..

Loud in that specific, dangerous way that meant he was pacing. Shirtless. Furious. Possibly throwing furniture. Possibly hard.

“You don’t think I’ve noticed?” he hissed, sharp and unbearable in your skull. “How your thoughts stall when I’m mid-thrust? How you go weirdly quiet when I face-fuck someone else? Like you’re trying not to care?”

You fought it. Clawed your way toward denial. You summoned soup. Rats in hats. Potato Fashion Week. You mentally described an entire monologue about barnacle society hierarchy.

He burned through it like God’s wrath in Gucci sunglasses.

“Every time you tried to tune me out, I got harder,” he growled. “You’ve been teasing me through sheer neglect, you evil little hellspawn.”

You clapped your hands over your ears, as if that would help. It didn’t.

“You thought you were winning. You thought I was suffering.”

A pause. A dangerous, inhale-through-the-nose, hands-on-hips kind of pause.

“You were right. But now, we are going to fuck. Hard.”

You tried to flee. You slammed mental doors. You summoned the cabbage soliloquy. The potato sock puppet. The ancient barnacle god of taxes. You tried to think of Law doing taxes in his hat.

He crushed it. All of it. Left nothing but the echo of silk sheets and chaos.

You curled up like a dying spider. “We are not—”

His voice slithered back in, slow and thick and molten:

“Yes, we are. On principle. Out of spite. For science. And because I’m going to make you say my real name while you cry about it, you mouthy little headache.”

You fell off the bed.

Audibly.

Painfully.

He laughed. Deep. Loud. Triumphant. A king reclaiming a throne made of your shame.

“You don’t get to deny me for half a decade and walk away,” he purred. “Congratulations, cariño. You’re the most effective form of torture I’ve ever known. Now tell me where you are and I’ll ruin your life properly.”

You stared at the wall like it had betrayed you. Like it knew.

The tile didn’t answer. It offered no help.

Doflamingo pressed harder. Slower. With the precision of a sadist and the flair of a poet.

You snap.

“You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m not lying.”

There was a pause. You could feel the smirk stretch across his words.

And then, Oh. Oh no.

You felt it.

A vision slammed into your mind like a lightning strike: His body pinning yours to a bed that smelled of sea salt and ruin. Your mouth swollen, your throat bitten raw, his coat long discarded and forgotten. His voice—low, ruined, reverent—rasping against your ear:

“Still think I don’t want you now?”

You gasped. Out loud.

You slammed into the sink. Everything fell. Everything betrayed you. You clutched the counter like it might save you.

But he wasn’t done. Not even close.

“You’re mine, cariño. You just haven’t admitted it yet.”

The words slithered through your thoughts like silk dipped in sin; warm, invasive, and slow.

Heat flared at the base of your spine, sharp as a struck match, then climbed, curling upward in a slow, unbearable arc. You felt it before you could brace for it: phantom fingers beneath your chin. Telepathic, but too detailed. Too real. Too practiced.

He was in your head, and he was enjoying it.

“Let me clarify, cariño. I want to destroy you. Gently. Then humiliate you. Slowly. Then maybe tie a pretty little bow around your throat and make you say ‘mine.’”

You tasted static. Your thoughts short-circuited.

“POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP. POTATO SOUP—” You screamed it mentally, like a desperate exorcism. He laughed.

Low. Rich. Cruel.

He purred.

The bond vibrated, pulsing like a live wire too close to water. You slammed every mental door you could think of, but now, it didn’t quite close right. Something lingered. A thread, frayed and glowing. Still connected. Still feeling.

“You fucking String Cheese Menace! I’m being mentally violated by your interpretive telepathy porn.”

He laughed again. Louder. Prouder. Like you’d just handed him your diary and dared him to read it at a gala.

“String Cheese Menace? That’s new.” His voice oozed amusement. “You’re more obsessed with my name than I am, cariño. Keep going. I like it when you think about me.”

God, you were going to need stronger soup. Soup infused with holy water. Soup boiled under a blood moon and stirred with the bones of your dignity.

Because now, every time your mind even drifts near him, you hear it:

“Make sure you stretch— I’m big.”

And you do. Oh, you do. Too well. Too clearly. Too viscerally.

You will never emotionally recover from the sheer unholy clarity of that lesson.

And worse, no one else will ever understand.

Not a single soul on this cursed, spinning rock has woken up to the sultry, baritone voice of a wanted war criminal calling them “darling” before listing six assassination techniques like bedtime affirmations. They don’t dream of velvet-draped throne rooms, where their trauma lounges like a king in mirrored sunglasses, sipping wine and smirking like the devil’s prom date.

And all you can do, all you ever seem to do, is sigh. The long-suffering kind. The kind of sigh someone makes when told their spine could straighten if they just imagined choking a monarch.

Somewhere—far away but never far enough—you feel him lean back. Not smug. Not triumphant. Just satisfied. Coiled like a serpent. Smiling. Plotting.

“Goodnight, cariño,” he says, soft as sin. “Dream of me.”

Age 22:

It was supposed to be a quiet stop. Just a sleepy little port, the kind that existed in soft sepia, where sea salt clung to the windows and everything smelled faintly of fish and too-sweet tobacco. A place full of rusted signs, loose cats, and old men who argued over card games they'd long since forgotten how to win.

You ducked into the crooked little newspaper shack half out of habit. The man behind the counter didn’t look up. You flipped through the headlines with the disinterest of someone who’s seen too much already; another Sea King attack, another explosion in the Grand Line, another scandal involving a Yonko’s lover and a talking bird.

And then you saw it. One name. Bold print.

“Rising In the North Blue: TRAFALGAR LAW of the Heart Pirates!”

You stared at the paper.

Your hand stilled.

No. No, that couldn’t be.

You remembered him. Not in color, not in clarity, but in blips of memory. Through Doflamingo’s thoughts, years ago. Blurry. Raw. Half-digested with fury. He had a fatal disease or something.

“The brat. My brother’s final, pathetic pet project.”

You’d seen fragments of Law. A coat wrapped too large around too-small shoulders. A boy shivering in the dark, his breath visible in the cold. The way he hid behind Corazón like the sun was too bright, and the world too cruel.

You close the paper gently, fingers trembling just a little. And you whisper to the wind, like the secret might vanish if you say it too loud:

“Interesting.”

Later that night, curled up in the narrow bed of your too-small rented room where the walls are thin and the blankets smell like soap and sea, you try not to think.

But the bond stirs anyway. It’s not loud. Not demanding. It creeps in softly. Like a slow, stalking tide. Like blood blooming beneath bandages.

You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He hears your thoughts anyway. He always does.

“You heard, then.” His voice slides in; velvet and acid, sweet and scalding in the same breath. “The little roach crawled out of the grave after all.”

You flinch. Not at the words. The way he says them with that half-smile. That gnawing, sick amusement laced with something older. Sharper.

You’d been thinking about Law more than you meant to. Not constantly. Not in the big, bold thoughts Doflamingo could pounce on.

But in the spaces between. The pauses between breaths. The quiet just before sleep. Little thoughts. Half-formed. Careful.

A boy in the snow. A brother’s shaking hands. A ghost that chose to live.

You didn’t mean to send that thought through the tether. You really didn’t. It had just slipped out, quiet and instinctive, like an exhale after too many years holding your breath.

“Is he okay? He made it farther than anyone thought. I should find him.”

It wasn’t a declaration. It wasn’t even fully formed. Just a passing flicker of concern in the fog of your own mind, a warm memory brushed with frost. But the bond caught it anyway. Like static on a line, it jumped the circuit and lit up something you had tried for years to keep buried.

The response was immediate.

The world around you—brimming with late market noise, fish vendors shouting, tarps flapping in the ocean wind—seemed to pull back, muffled like cotton stuffed in your ears.

And then, with a slow, dangerous precision:

“What?”

The voice wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It slithered into your mind like smoke curling under a locked door; sweet, poisonous, and possessive. You froze, mid-step. One hand hovered over a basket of oranges.

You didn’t say anything aloud. But he felt your stillness. And that was enough.

“Say it again.” He demanded.

You clenched your jaw. Willed yourself to breathe. The market moved on without you, unaware, uncaring. Somewhere nearby, a child laughed. A bell rang. A gull screamed over the dock. The sea went on breathing.

“You’re thinking of finding him.”

It wasn’t a question.

It was a blade against your ribs, too casual to be anything but deliberate.

You resumed walking, slow and even, like you hadn’t just had your mind cracked open like a chest. The tether burned faintly behind your eyes: hot, expectant.

“You think he’d want to see you?” His voice curled around the thought like smoke around a blade; low, bitter, brimming with something too sharp to be jealousy. “My brother’s betrayal? The boy who ran from everything?” A pause, thin and cruel. “He wouldn’t know you from a toadstool.”

You kept walking. But the words sank their claws in.

Those were memories Doflamingo never meant to share. Too soft to hold onto, too vivid to forget. And they’d stayed with you, lodged in the back of your mind like splinters that never stopped aching.

His voice slid back in, cruel and smug.

“Is that what you’re doing now? Looking for my strays? Trying to replace me with a broken little pirate in a hat?”

Ah.

That made you stop right in the middle of the street. People moved around you like water, like you weren’t even there. You exhaled slowly. Then, with deliberate cheer:

“Bet he’d let me join his crew. Trauma solidarity. Anti-Doflamingo Alliance. He seems serious. Has a hat.”

The tether snapped taut.

And on the other end, Doflamingo seethed.

For a moment, you almost believed he was gone, until the pressure returned, sharp and glittering like glass ground into your spine.

“Don’t joke.”

He didn’t say it with humor. Not the usual oily lilt. This was raw. Unfiltered.

You felt it in your teeth.

So you doubled down.

“Why not? He looks like he has a dental plan. Bet he’d give me a crew jacket. Maybe even a title. ‘Executive of Not Taking Your Shit.’”

“You think this is funny?”

The fury came first—searing and immediate—but underneath it, curled like smoke in a cold hearth, was something quieter. Older. It wasn’t anger. Not really. It was fear. That sharp, desperate edge only someone like him could mask beneath silk and swagger.

You felt it. Not just through the bond, but in your ribs, in the subtle ache of your sternum. A pressure. A presence.

You tilted your head inward, tone clipped with practiced nonchalance.

“Everything’s funny when you’re not the one screaming in my head about ‘mandatory silk dresses’ and outlawing my name. Law already feels like a better conversationalist.”

The bond stuttered. Not frayed, not fragile, but destabilized. Like a tightrope in high wind. For a split second, the air around you changed; thick with salt, with ozone, with the kind of tension that cracks before a lightning strike.

“Are you out of your soup-stained, morally confused, freeloader mind?” His voice whipped through your skull, raw and incredulous. “You’re thinking of joining him over me?”

And there it was. The truth of his upset.

He was jealous.

Instead, you looked up at the overcast sky, let the wind brush your cheek, and replied flatly, “It’s just a thought.”

He snarled.

“It’s betrayal.”

You shrugged, walking through the crowded street like your chest wasn’t being hijacked by an overgrown warlord having an emotional meltdown.

“It’s a job application.”

“You think that little cretin could protect you?” Doflamingo’s voice dropped lower, venomous now. “He’s playing pirate. I am a Warlord.”

You exhaled through your nose.

“Yeah, but he doesn’t whisper in my brain when I’m trying to sleep. He doesn’t threaten potential boyfriends with crucifixion. He doesn’t refer to himself in the third person like a shirtless megalomaniac. Also, he has a doctor’s license.”

Doflamingo went disturbingly quiet, like a parent realizing their credentials weren’t quite as shining as they hoped. You’d learned long ago that his silence meant he was either plotting murder or branding. Planning. Wounded, maybe. Plotting revenge, definitely.

When he spoke again, it was quiet. Too quiet.

“He wouldn’t even like you.”

You smiled at a passing bird, the gesture almost sweet.

“We’re both tired, emotionally repressed, and have the same war criminal ex. We’d get along great.”

The bond hissed.

Then—like steam escaping a long-forgotten vent—came his voice, half-laughing, half-breathless.

“You little gremlin. You manipulative, soul-linked, absolute goblin. You want to use my trauma bond to run away and hide. You’re trying to network through my villain arc.”

You grinned.

“Glad you’re catching up, Doffy.”

You said it with a smirk, like a wink through the static. You could practically feel him pacing somewhere. Probably high on that gaudy throne of his in Dressrosa, rage-fluffing his ridiculous feathered coat like an over-caffeinated bird, trying to figure out if he could legally declare war on your intentions.

“I’ll kill him.”

“You say that a lot.”

“This time I mean it.”

“Okay, bet.”

Silence.

Sharp-edged, sulking silence.

Which, frankly, counted as a win.

You kicked your boots up onto the windowsill of your rented inn room, letting the afternoon sun warm your ankles while you mentally drafted your pirate résumé. Just in case. Because if Law would let you aboard? You’d be packed by nightfall. You had stolen pineapple bread, sourced from a dubious window seal.

Of course, you’d make it poetic.

“Dear Captain Trafalgar, handsome Law—please find enclosed my trauma credentials—”

The bond twitched.

And from wherever he was—in a tower, in a throne room, in the pit of his own frustration—Doflamingo swore.

Low. Measured. Dangerous.

“…You're not funny.”

“I’m hilarious,” you said airily, licking pineapple glaze off your thumb, “and your coat agrees. I bet Law agrees as well.”

Another pause. And then, something quieter.

Doflamingo exhaled.

Low. Long. Final.

Like the sound a monster makes when it decides it’s done playing dead. Like a beast surfacing. Like something ancient remembering its hunger.

You froze.

The bond didn’t shiver—it shifted, like something had turned to face you from the dark.

“Okay.”

That was all. Just that. With enough conviction to be concerning.

The bread went slack in your fingers. Your stomach dropped like a cannonball.

“Okay, what?” you asked, slow and suspicious.

“It’s time,” he repeated, voice syrup-slick and filled with rot.

“Pardon?” You stopped chewing.

“Run. Hide. Cross the Grand Line backwards for all I care. I am going to hunt you down.”

Mid-bite, mid-thought, mid-life crisis. The pineapple bread turned to sawdust in your mouth.

“Nope.” You said aloud, with the conviction of someone denying reality on principle. “Absolutely not. We don’t belong in the same sea, much less the same island. I have boundaries. And brain rights. And possibly a strong future in privateering—”

“You did this to yourself, brat. You’ve refused to meet, refused to even give me your name. You just threatened to share pillow talk with another man. Prepare yourself for the consequences of your actions.”

A beat.

“You’re near the Red Line, aren’t you?”

You grabbed the pineapple bread, your coat, and your dignity (what little remained), and ran. But it was too late. You felt it deep down, threaded through your spine, your heartbeat, the air around you, like barbed wire laced through every bone in your body.

-X- End Part Two -X-

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