#possessive behavior

The coach blew out the final whistle just as the ball flew into the net. The practice game was over, and there was one clear winner. Kaiser’s grin was feral as his team crowded around him, celebrating his amazing shot. It was an incredible play; you could hardly believe he pulled it off. Despite your reservations about the guy, he was incredible on the field. 

You wish he could just stay on it forever. 

The team gathers on the sidelines to take their much-deserved breaks. You’re quick to get to work, trailing behind the other managers as they begin to pass out towels and water bottles to the players. You make a beeline to Ali. He’s the biggest talker on the team; everyone hates being near him once he gets going. Maybe if you can get Ali to ramble about birds or something, he might not be too keen on bothering you. 

He steps in front of you. You nearly collide with his chest. He’s so tall, you have to crane your neck up just to look him in the eyes. You think that he especially enjoys that. His blue eyes sharpen with delight. 

Kaiser tilts his head. “Got anything for me?” 

You look down at the water bottle and towel in your hands. Accepting defeat, you hand them over. His fingers brush over yours deliberately. As always, Kaiser makes a show of it. He languidly wipes at his neck and face. He downs the water like it’s liquid gold. Just when you’re about to attend to the next player, he snaps his fingers. 

Reluctantly, you look back at him. 

“Thanks.” He tosses you the towel. You barely manage to catch it. 

He pats your shoulder just before he passes you. “What would I do without our sweet little manager.” 

His tone is so condescending that you feel yourself heat up from embarrassment. Out of all the team managers, you’re the only one he calls that. 

Players aren’t supposed to return towels to managers; they’re supposed to put them in the bin. Kaiser, however, treats you more like his servant than as your actual job title suggests. You have to ball up your anger as you trek to the rag bin. 

One of your fellow managers gives you a sympathetic smile. You toss the dirty rag and grab another water bottle. 

“That bad, hm?” She asks. 

“No, just the usual amount of shitty.” You mutter. 

“He’ll get better,” she tries to assure. “He just needs a bit more time, since you’re new and all.” 

Yeah, more time. 

They’ve been saying that for the past year and a half.

You’re not sure why Kaiser has a hyperfixation on you. You’re pretty average, all things considered. Despite your normalcy, Kaiser has made it his personal mission to whittle you down. 

Everyone has acknowledged his behavior as abnormal. He’s never picked on any of the non-players of the team. He used to pretend they never existed until you came along. 

He’d make jabs at your clothes, ghost touches that lingered on inappropriate if he was any slower, and that dreaded title: ‘sweet, little manager’. 

“Ignore it.” Another fellow manager comes up to tell you. “He’ll stop eventually.” 

You shrug. You glance out the corner of your eye. 

Kaiser’s already staring at you. His grin is infuriating. 

“Yeah,” you say, “eventually.” 

~

You’ve talked to Noel Noa twice in your life. 

First: the day you got hired.

Second: the day you turned in your resignation. 

He’s still staring long after you stopped rambling. His stare is so heavy, practically crushing you, and yet you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Even as he studies you from his chair, he still feels bigger than you. 

He’d stepped down from playing a couple years ago, but even as head coach of the team, he’s yet to lose his intimidating stature. 

“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks, 

Noa has yet to glance at the slip you dropped on his desk. You drafted your resignation letter with a bold black pen and the neatest handwriting you could. He barely acknowledged it.

“I am.” You tell him. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll forever be grateful for all the experience I learned from this team.” 

It sounds rehearsed because it is rehearsed. You practiced in the mirror, mouthing the words over and over so you wouldn’t flail in front of Noel Noa. 

He only tilts his head, scanning you up and down. You wonder what he’s searching for. 

“Did anything particular happen that made you want to resign?” He prompts. 

You think of blonde hair with bright blue tips. A blue rose. 

“No.” You smile with tight lips. “Nothing at all.” 

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. 

“It’s a shame to see you go.” He says anyway, standing up and reaching out his hand. “You were a wonderful asset for this team.” 

“Thank you so much, Sir.” 

You shake his hand with all the confidence you can muster. You loved this team. You really did. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

He wasn’t worth it. 

~ 

When you leave the office, you aren’t surprised to find Kaiser waiting for you. 

He’s leaned against the wall, watching with sharp eyes as you continue to stare at the ground. Stupidly, you hope that if you continue to ignore him, he might not try to start anything. 

If anything, that makes him more eager. 

“Hey hey.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Your lips curl into a sneer, but you’re forcing it back down. 

“Kaiser, I have work.” Your voice is quiet even to your own ears. It prompts Kaiser to lean down closer to your face. 

“Hm? What’d you say?” His grin is even wider. 

You try to pull away, but he’s crowding you against the wall, lightly pushing at you. You're forced to take a step back, then another, then another until your back hits the tile. 

“I don’t have time for this.” You say, just as quiet. The bite in your words is mute. He relishes this. Kaiser grins, showing white teeth that glint. 

“Aw, C’mon.” He mockingly pouts and you bite your lip. “You were in the coach's office for a while. I was getting worried.” He cocks his head, assessing you. 

“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, did you?” 

“No,” you say firmly, “Stop it. I need to go–” 

“Go where?” He prods, and you feel his hand rest on your upper thigh, daring to creep up. 

You freeze. 

He’s saying something else, but all you can think of is his fingers drifting over your thigh. He gives a firm squeeze. 

“Get the fuck off me.” 

You push him away. He stumbles back. It’s not strength that gets him off of you. Your burst of anger just surprised him. He’s used to your meekness, willingness to be pushed around. You use it to your advantage, immediately turning away before he can say anything else. 

He doesn’t follow. You don’t hear the second echo of footsteps as you walk off. Relief singes at your fingers. 

Just for a moment, just for a peek, you glance back. 

He’s still standing right where you left him. 

His smile is gone. 

~

For the next few days, things are strangely peaceful. 

There’s no more beratement from Kaiser. You never suffered any more unwanted touches or annoying quips. It was like you were completely erased from his world. 

You weren’t complaining. For the first time in a while, you actually looked forward to working with the entire soccer team, rather than just huddling with the other non-players. It was a nice change of pace. 

It’s a shame the change only happened right when you were leaving. 

A few days before you officially left, your little team of managers promised you a farewell party. You were looking forward to it. One last hurrah with your co-workers before you move into a new section of your life. 

Things were finally looking up. 

After hours, the club is pretty quiet. Most players just want to shower and go right home. You know, some like to stay behind to do a little more practice, but this is mostly when staff use the time to reorganize locker rooms and such. 

You like working alone. Someone else was with you earlier, but you’d kindly waved her off, insisting you could handle it. It was less than an official storage room and more of a closet. You stood in front of the equipment, your trusty clipboard in hand. Someone mentioned that the team was running low on some items. You might have to edit some orders if they were true. 

Loud footsteps echo behind you. You pay them no mind. Probably a coach. A player who’d forgotten their bag. 

They stop right behind you. You don’t even bother to look. 

“I’ll be just a second.” You tell them, assuming they wanted to set up some cones for last-minute drills. 

“You’re leaving?” 

Your fingers tighten on the clipboard. 

Slowly, you turn to look at Kaiser. He’s still in his uniform. The smell of sweat and rubber is faint in the air. His breaths are slow as he glares down at you. Your eyes trail to his hand. 

Your resignation letter is crumpled in his hand. 

Something keeps strumming through your arms and legs. You want to fidget: shake your leg, flex your fingers. You feel nervous, though you aren’t sure why. 

“Yes.” You respond as curtly as you can. “But that’s none of your business–” 

“The fuck it is.” He crowds you, forcing you to back up into the storage room. 

You’ve seen Kaiser angry before. On the field, or with his teammates. Never at you. There’s no reason to be angry at you. In his world, you barely exist. 

Kaiser wasn’t angry. 

That’d be too tame a word to describe him. 

His blue eyes almost glow with the way he looks at you. Kaiser has always forced you to feel many things: embarrassment, discomfort, anger, and frustration. 

Not fear. Never fear. 

Until now, at least. 

“You think you can just run from me?” He asks, but you don’t think he’s talking to you. His voice sounds rampant, unfocused. “You think there’s somewhere you can escape to? That I’d just let you walk away from me?” 

The way he speaks makes something awful grow into the pit of your stomach. His tone is vile, possessive, and something else you’d rather not name. You feel small, like you’re a toy a child is no longer allowed to play with anymore. 

You open your mouth, and then his lips are on yours. 

There’s no softness, no gentleness. Kaiser is nothing but harsh and full of teeth. By the time you’re able to pull away, your lips are sore and bitten. 

He lets you stumble back, reaching up to wipe your blood off his lips. 

You should’ve taken that time to run, but you can’t. Your feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground as you continue to stare at him. Your lips sting. Something burns across your face as he advances forward. 

You should’ve run. Even as he shut the door behind you two with a final thud, you knew that. 

The tiny sliver of light barely gives you a glimpse of his figure before you feel him against your chest, shoving you against the wall. 

“What are you doing?” It’s all you can say, all you can think. “Kaiser–what–what are you doing–” 

“It’s my fault,” he says, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than talking to you, listening to the words form in his mouth. “I was too lenient on you. Everyone else saw it, and I thought that was enough.” 

There’s a click of his tongue. “It’s clear you need to have some things spelled out for you.” 

Fingers crudely snap in your face. You flinch, trying to back up against the wall, but there’s nowhere to run. Maybe that was the case from the first moment he saw you. 

“Here’s how things are gonna go: You aren’t leaving. You are never leaving me. The minute you try, I’m dragging you right back kicking and screaming.” 

You wordlessly stare back at him. Kaiser isn’t finished. 

“If you want to try, I’ll make you understand just how hard things will get for you.” 

The threat is clear and laced with venom that stings. You stop breathing, but your timid fear isn’t enough for Kaiser. 

He leans into your space, lips right at your ear. 

“Do you understand?” 

Something about his tone makes your body snap up at attention. You close your eyes and nod, pressing yourself further up against the wall. 

“Okay.” You find yourself saying. “I–I won’t….okay.” 

You keep your eyes closed until you no longer feel him breathing down your neck. Even then, he doesn’t let up on his closeness. Strangely, his presence feels smaller, like he’s slowly calming down. You can still feel the rage emanating from his body, but the heat is a bit more bearable. 

“Better.” He tells you. You flinch as he lightly pats your cheek, like you were some rowdy mutt. 

“There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. It's too Americanized for me, but the food’s pretty good. Wanna go?” 

You blink at him. He’s back to how he acted just hours ago, slightly leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, casual with the slightest hint of a playful tease. 

How was he so casual about this? Why was he so unafraid? The minute you got out of here you planned on reporting him until he got arrested. You should have done that weeks ago, but why was he so confident you wouldn’t. 

You glance down at his shoes. Yours were cheap, but you took care of them as much as you could. You wanted them to last. His were rugged and muddy and barely held together, but the brand was expensive. It probably cost an entire month of your salary. He’d easily buy another pair. 

Ah, that was why. 

That’s why the other managers brushed off his harsh words even though they edged on harassment. That’s why you still hesitate to say anything even though you desperately want to. You’re just a Pawn on the chessboard. 

Kaiser is the King. 

When you give a wordless nod, Kaiser preens, satisfied. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, jostling you to his side as he drags you out of the suffocating closet. You shrink under his hold, reluctantly following along as his head dips into the crook of your neck. 

“Should’ve done this sooner. Everything's so much easier now that you understand,” he says, his voice muffled by your neck.

The first ever memory, implanted in your brain by Cadmus, was about Superman: how good he was, how selfless he was, and how heroic he was. You learned about Superman before you learned how to walk, how to speak, and how to read. Why would you not? Your whole purpose was to replace “The Man of Steel.” A clone was what you were, well, a clone gone wrong, more specifically. Instead of a genetically identical male specimen of Superman, Cadmus found themselves with a female one—something about mistakenly splicing the wrong gene or whatnot. Lex Luthor’s added genes must have messed something up and caused no sex change during the cloning period. 

The plan was to dispose of you, “Specimen thirteen,” but where others saw failure, Luthor saw an opportunity. A female clone of Superman would be unsuspected and undermined; yes, you looked almost identical to the hero, but your gender would undoubtedly throw The Justice League off. He would use you as a spy, and in the meanwhile, he would create a better, less flawed clone in your absence. Once the “Man of Steel” was no more, he would dispose of you, and “Specimen Fourteen” would replace the fallen hero after “Fourteen” killed him. Well, that was the plan anyway. 

What Cadmus did not foresee was having their cloning lab busted by the Justice League pre-maturely. You were nowhere near ready to leave the lab. With Cadmus still trying to create an accelerated growth program that wouldn't denature your alien enzymes, you were only a measly twelve years old when the Justice League found you, coding still incomplete. 

It was like any other day within the confines of the dark and gloomy living quarters of Cadmus. You went through your normal schedule of training, learning, and check-ups, eager to fulfill whatever ongoing task Cadmus had for you. It wasn’t until 23:00 that the emergency sirens started flaring, and explosions and crashes could be heard from the upper levels. Doctors and other unfamiliar faces in lab coats ran around, destroying equipment and the cloning tubes. Other incubating specimens were disposed of before scientists ran out of the lab. You were still stuck; however, you hadn’t been directed to leave your quarters, so you didn’t. It was obvious the Cadmus employees had forgotten about you in their own haste to escape, but you’d wait. You had to be good, and obeying orders and rules meant you were good. How else were you supposed to live up to the name of “Superman” or, well, “Superwoman”?

However, the loud noises and explosions were starting to scare you. This hadn’t been a part of your training, not yet, at least. A particularly strong explosion shook the walls around you, cracks forming on the ceiling of the bunker-like room, making you yelp in fear. You didn’t know what to do! The only thing that you could do was crawl under your small cot, close your eyes, and hope that someone would save you. Somewhere in the near-distance, you heard a wall crumble, footsteps and voices following shortly. Your little body started to tremble as you thought about your fate. You knew you couldn’t be scared, Superman wouldn’t be, but you could hear your heart race as the footsteps and voices drew near. 

Meanwhile, as Superman and the rest of the Justice League unknowingly approached nearer to your quarters, the “Man of Steel” could not hide his disgust, anger, and betrayal. They cloned him! They took biotic samples of his dead body; they violated his dead body! For the first time, Superman truly felt real, visceral anger and disgust. In his hands, folders upon folders of information about experiments regarding his and Luthor’s DNA being mushed together to form some abomination. 

He was going to kill Luthor.

As if sensing his rage, Wonder Woman put a hand on his shoulder, trying to comfort him whilst Batman looked at him from his cowl-masked face, seemingly in worry. Realizing that Superman needed some time alone, the rest of the League continued searching the abandoned lab. Which was when Green Arrow stumbled across your room, a windowless lead box that was locked. The archer cautiously approached the heavy door, reading the nameplate on the wall.

“Specimen Thirteen.” Green Arrow read out loud.

“What was that?” The Flash asked, darting over to where Green Arrow stood.

“The room. It's locked and made of lead.” Green Arrow spoke, narrowing his eyes.

“So what? It’s made of lead, big deal!” The Flash exclaimed as he slung an arm around the archer.

“The only material on earth known to block Superman’s x-ray vision is lead.” Wonder Woman spoke up from behind them.

“Shit, I forgot about that.” The Flash said.

“What’s all the commotion here?” Superman asked, floating into the hallway.

“We think we found something. This was one of the only lead-lined rooms that we’ve found on the premises. It’s holding, or supposed to be holding, something called Specimen Thirteen, maybe a clone or some other biological weapon.” Green Arrow answered, eyebrows furrowed as he looked over to his comrade.

Superman grits his teeth. Whatever was in that room would have to die; he’d make sure of it.

“I’ll take care of it, Arrow. Stand back.” Superman commanded.

He pulled his fist back before letting it collide against the lead-lined door. A loud boom echoed in the now-empty lab as the door shattered upon impact. He was expecting some monstrous, evil version of him to fly out, but instead he found nothing; just an empty room with a cardboard-like cot and a desk.

“Well, that was anticlimactic.” The Flash quipped from behind him. 

The “Man of Steel” was going to agree before he heard the small pitter-patter of a heartbeat hiding somewhere within the room. Well, it couldn’t really be considered hiding if there was only one place to look: under the bed. 

Batman must have also picked up on the extra lifeform within the room, thanks to The Oracle, as he turned towards the cot in the corner. 

The rest of the league must have picked up on the new tension as they also turned towards the cot, breaking out into defensive and offensive stances. The tension was thick as Superman aggressively grabbed the cot and threw it behind him, breaking a wall in the process, everyone expecting some monster or abomination. What they didn’t expect was a small child curled up on the floor, shivering like a leaf in the wind.

Batman and the rest of the league softened, starting to piece together the narrative. It was only a child.

Superman’s eyes locked onto the trembling figure of the child beneath the bed. His mind, however, was not processing it as a person—it was an abomination, a perversion of everything he stood for. They had violated his very being, manipulating his DNA to create a weapon. It was a ticking time bomb, and he couldn’t stand the idea of it existing.

“We need to eliminate this threat,” he said coldly, without even considering the fragility of the life before him. The room fell silent, every Justice League member processing the weight of his words.

Wonder Woman’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Clark, she is a child,” she said softly. “A clone, yes, but a child nonetheless.”

“It is a weapon,” Superman shot back, his voice growing harder. “We don’t know what they’ve done to it, how it’s been programmed. If it’s anything like me, it’s dangerous. And worse, if it’s been manipulated by Luthor—who knows what it’s capable of?”

Superman’s eyes locked onto the trembling figure of the child beneath the bed. For as long as you could remember, you had been told you were meant to be something—someone good, like Superman. You thought maybe you could be him, or maybe like him. But hearing his voice now, seeing his anger and disgust, shook you in a way you couldn’t understand. Why was he looking at you like that? Why were you getting scared? Superman was supposed to be kind and good, so why were you so scared?

The room felt suffocating, too many voices swirling around you, too much fear. You had only ever known Cadmus’ dark, sterile walls, sunlight never having touched your skin. Yet you longed for its warmth. How could someone—something long for something if it hasn't even experienced it? You wondered, perhaps the heroes would let you see the sun if you were good, you'd really like to.

Batman, standing quietly in the corner, had been observing everything. His sharp mind pieced together the delicate web of emotions surrounding this situation. Superman’s rage, the child’s fear, the League’s divided opinions—it all pointed to something dangerous brewing. He glanced at the others, Wonder Woman, who was torn between compassion and duty; Green Arrow, tense but silent; The Flash, who seemed ready to move on impulse.

And then there was you.

Batman knelt down cautiously, meeting your wide, fearful eyes. “What’s your name?” he asked, his voice calm and steady, far less intimidating than the others.

You blinked, confused. You had never really been given a name, just a number. “S–Thirteen…” you said hesitantly, voice barely audible.

He nodded slowly. “Do you know who Superman is?” he asked, gesturing toward the man standing tensely nearby.

Your eyes flickered toward Superman, filled with a mixture of awe and terror. “Yes,” you whispered.

“And do you want to hurt him?” Batman asked, his tone matter-of-fact.

You shook your head quickly, looking even more afraid that he would think you did. “No! I just—I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” you said, your voice cracking under the weight of it all.

Batman turned back to the group, rising to his full height. “She’s not a threat right now. She’s a child, confused, scared, and not fully developed. Killing her is not an option.” His voice was resolute, and he gave Superman a hard look.

“Bruce, you don’t understand what this means, what it represents. They used my DNA! It’s been made to be something terrible!” Superman’s voice was breaking with frustration.

“I understand perfectly,” Batman countered, his eyes narrowing. “But she’s also more than just your DNA. You were raised by a family that gave you a sense of morality, of purpose. She was raised in a lab, trained to be a weapon. And right now, she doesn’t even understand what she is.”

The rest of the League stood in stunned silence. The Flash finally broke it. “We can’t just throw her into Blackgate, or somewhere worse. She’s not some villain.”

Green Lantern stepped forward. “I agree. She’s a kid. Maybe a clone, but she deserves a chance to figure out who she is, under our guidance of course.”

Superman clenched his fists, clearly frustrated but also torn. He had never imagined himself being in this position, having to decide the fate of a clone made from his own DNA. 

“I’m not saying we release her into the world without supervision,” Batman continued. “But we can’t treat her like she’s already a villain. We give her guidance, training, and yes, we monitor her. But we don’t punish her for something she hasn’t done.”

Batman’s tone was firm as he turned to Superman. “And you? You need to keep your distance, Clark. At least for now. But I expect you to step up to the plate.”

Superman’s eyes flared with anger. “What do you mean Bruce?”

Batman, or Bruce now, gives Superman a hard look. “Shes your daughter Clark–”

“That thing, is not my kid! My kid is sitting at home with my wife, who has no idea all this has happened.” Superman’s voice booms, a manic edge to it.

There was a long pause. Superman’s chest rose and fell heavily.

“Like it or not Clark, she is. And it's up to you to help her figure this out, she'll need your help.” Batman says, ignoring Superman's previous outburst.

Superman's glare just hardens, the League could tell he's gearing up to leave.

“Before you leave Clark, make sure you tell Lois. I'm sure she'll feel differently than you.” Batman says, as he bends down to pick you up. You tiredly clasp your hands around his neck, enjoying the warmth radiating off of his body. 

Superman takes off in a dust of dirt.

Wonder Woman stepped forward, now facing the rest of the JL, her voice soft yet firm. “We’ll take her back to the Watchtower, monitor her closely, and help her understand her powers. She’s not a weapon. She’s not a monster. She’s a child, and we owe her a chance to become more than what Cadmus intended.”

You didn’t fully understand what was happening. You only knew that for the first time, you weren’t alone, and perhaps, just maybe, you’d finally get to see the outside world.

– 

Five years had passed since that fateful night when the Justice League found you in the cold, sterile confines of Cadmus' labs. Now, at fifteen, the world was still strange, but it was no longer the prison you once knew. Your body had grown, though your mind still had a ways to catch up; physically, you were in high school, but emotionally, the years of isolation had left their scars.

You had hoped that maybe, just maybe, Superman would eventually come around. He was supposed to be your mentor, the one to guide you as you learned to control your powers and find your place in the world. But that never happened.

Clark—no, Superman—never accepted you. To him, you were a mistake, a reminder of a violation he could never forgive. He was cold, distant, and whenever he did engage with you, it was with a harshness that felt so much more severe than what he showed to others in the League. Every training session felt like a test you were destined to fail, and every mistake was treated as proof of your danger. He called you “clone,” never your name. Because, in his eyes, you didn’t have one.

That changed when Bruce, realizing no one had given you a proper name, decided to name you himself. He chose "Y/n Kent," a name that came with a legacy you weren’t sure you were ready to bear. The day he called you by it, Superman had nearly torn the Watchtower apart with his anger.

“She’s not my family, Bruce. She’s not my responsibility,” Clark had spat, his voice venomous in a way you hadn’t heard before. “Don’t you dare give her my name.”

But Batman didn’t back down. He had been the one to see the potential in you, to give you a chance when everyone else saw you as a threat. To him, you were more than just a clone. You were someone who deserved an identity.

The name stuck, and while it didn’t make things better between you and Clark, it gave you a sense of place. But that place never felt like home. Superman never took you in. Everyone expected him to eventually come around, but as the years dragged on, it became clear that his resentment wasn’t going to fade. You spent most of your time at Mount Justice, training with the team. It was awkward, Robin, Impulse, and Wonder Girl. You didn’t want to impose, didn’t want to be a burden, but the team was surprisingly nice. The tower always felt more homely where they were around. It wasn’t quite a family, but it was close.

By the time you were fifteen, the weight of being "Y/n Kent" hung heavily on your shoulders. High school was a strange new experience, but Barry Allen and Bruce had insisted that you needed to socialize, to be around people your own age. It was hard at first, but you were beginning to find your way. You had made friends, a group of kids who knew nothing about your origin, nothing about the superpowers you kept hidden. They were just people who liked you for you, and for the first time in your life, you felt a glimmer of normalcy.

Still, there were moments—like when you’d catch Superman’s gaze during a mission, his eyes hard and unforgiving—that reminded you of the distance between you and the legacy you had been created to carry. He never said it outright, but every time he looked at you, it was clear he wished you didn’t exist. It showed in practice, where you'd get thrown around more harshly than needed to. And when you'd stifle that instinctive sound of hurt, vision swimming and head spinning, he’d simply just growl for you to get up. The JL never involved itself when it came to that. They cared—yes, but just not enough. And while you were growing stronger, more confident, that part of you—the part that wanted his approval—was still very much alive.

Tim had become your closest confidant during those years. He understood the complicated dynamics of living in the shadow of greatness, even though his situation was different. You weren’t family with the Waynes, not really, but you felt more connected to them than you ever had to Superman.

At school, you tried to blend in. Being physically fifteen when you were technically four wasn’t the easiest thing to navigate. Emotions, social cues—these were all things you were still learning. But your friends were patient with you, and high school was beginning to feel like a refuge from the overwhelming pressures of being Y/n Kent or Supergirl.

Yet, despite the new friendships, the training, and the small moments of normalcy, there was always a shadow looming over you. Clark’s refusal to acknowledge you as anything but a mistake still cut deep. His anger and hatred and clear want to just—you don’t know—snap your neck was fear inducing. You just couldn't understand how the world's kindest man, protector of people, friendly to all induced terror in you. You weren't stupid, if he could kill you he would, you could see it in his eyes. You could feel it in his stare and the force of his blows during practice. And no adult even cared. Not enough at least. 

After searching everywhere for you, the last thing he expected was to find you on this island of all places, with the Straw Hats of all people. The thought of you leaving him to gallivant with them wipes all earlier amusement from his face.

"You left," He whispers, his voice cutting through the silence that held nothing but your shared breaths. As though he's afraid that by saying it out loud, the truth will become real in a way he can't ignore.

"I know.” You guiltily respond, swallowing the lump in your throat.

"For an entire year I wondered what happened to you— if you were even still alive."

Taking a good look at him, you notice his droopy eyes. There's a heavy degree of sadness in them that it hurts to look at. You sigh and avert your gaze.

"I'm sorry, but I had to leave. I just–"

"You just what?" He interrupts impatiently.

"–didn't think you'd care.."

A blink of silence fills the room. "Why wouldn't I care?" He replies aghast, "Why wouldn’t I care that my girlfriend–"

"Girlfriend, right." You let out a dry chuckle.

He stops and studies your expression. "What about that is funny?" He asked, voice tight with irritation.

"It's just funny to hear you say girlfriend when most days it felt like you only saw me as an inconvenient pest." You shrugged.

"What?" He trailed off. You scrutinize his face and watch as it scrunches into a confusing scowl; as if he doesn't know what you're talking about.

It’s starting to piss you off.

With a click of your tongue, you sighed. You fight the urge to roll your eyes as you move to push past him towards the door. "Never mind. Just forget it" You mumbled.

Before you can fully move past him, he catches your wrists stopping you. "Wait," He breathes. "Don't leave."

Your shoulders lean inward, chest tight, as you fight back a groan. You're starting to feel weighed down from everything. This whole day has been a complete disaster. First, you get kidnapped by little minions and now you're being forced in a conversation you're not ready to have.

"Look," You sigh, "I understand I probably didn't handle–”

"Probably?"

"Okay, I should've talked to you before leaving but–"

"–But you’d rather run from your problems instead of–" He interrupts dryly.

"But would you have listened?" You fired back.

"Every time I tried to talk to you, you'd brush me off. Like–like I was some lackey, " You spit out, "How much longer did you expect me to stay on the sidelines while my boyfriend treated me like I'm a nuisance?" Your voice cracks. “There were times you went days without speaking to me. DAYS. Too focused on becoming what? A stupid warlord?!" You feel wetness rolling down your cheeks. "I–" You break off, pausing to collect yourself. Law softens immediately at the sight of your tears.

"I'm sorry" He breathes. He pulls you into his arms and holds you tight as if he's afraid you'd disappear if he lets go. "I let my head get filled with everything else and forgot about the most important thing to me."

"It doesn't matter, what's done is done. We can't change the past. We have to move on." You mumble against his chest.

Law pulls back slightly but doesn't let go, keeping you in his outstretched hands.

"I love you." He said firm and unwavering. As though he wants to engrave those words in your head, ensuring there's not a question in your mind. "I get that I might’ve been a little too preoccupied–”

"A little preoccupied?" You scoffed, stepping back and out of his hands.

"But my feelings for you never changed."

"Well you could've fooled me."

His face twists with frustration. “So you’re just giving up on us? You’re not even going to fight for us?!” He steps closer, pushing the words at you like a challenge.

“I did!” You shout back, your voice cracking with pent-up frustration. “Law, I fought for us every single day!”

You swallow hard, shaking your head. “There’s only so much I can do against a brick wall.”

“I'm the wall?” He reels back in disbelief.

You don't respond. 

You watch as his gaze flicks between your eyes. Something in his expression shifts. His jaw tightens, and his fists clench and unclench at his sides in barely controlled frustration.

A look you can’t decipher flashes across his face before he straightens, pushing his shoulders back. 

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway. You're coming back with me.”

"Excuse me?" Your head reels back in shock at his words. 

You blink and he’s suddenly back in your space. When did he get so close? He bends down towards you, his lips brushing your ears when he whispers "If you think for a second I'm letting you stay with that crew, especially now that I have you back you're sorely mistaken. We can work through this together later." 

You scoff in disbelief. “If you think you can control what I do, then you're even less connected to reality than I thought."

"I already said I'm sorry." A frustrated growl slips past his lips as he tightens his fist.

"I know, but that doesn't mean we can just go back to how things were.” You run your hands through your hair exasperated, "I don't know if I can take that risk again."

Law opens his mouth to retort, but you quickly interrupt him before he can say anything else. "I know you have a lot going on, and I just… I can’t help feeling like I’d be in the way, like I’d be a nuisance to you."

"You were never a nuisance, you have to believe me." He urged.

"It doesn't matter anyways.” You respond. “Considering everything you're planning, I don't know if there's space for me next to you. I can’t risk feeling the way I did… it hurts too much." You take a shaky breath before continuing.

"I don’t want to burden you with my needs. You clearly have a lot going on and if we’re being honest… I don’t think you have the capacity to handle a relationship right now."

He gazed down at you with an arched eyebrow, and scoffs in disbelief and mockery. "So what, you’re just going to stay with that crew? Then what, Go off on little adventures singing songs and holding hands into the sunset?"

You can't help but roll your eyes at his childishness.

"That's not happening." He replies curtly.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not repeating myself.”

You fold your arms over your chest as you look at him expectantly. “Then what are you going to do? You only have two options; either join the Straw Hats— which you'll never do or physically drag me away, but I won't let that happen. I’m not coming back with you.”

"Hmm...we'll see."

Law fights back a mocking laugh at the shock and disbelief spread across your face. You've always been so easy to read. It seems you truly don't understand what your absence has done to him.

______________

The morning Law woke up to a cold bed, it felt as if the entire world tilted on its axis. He ransacked the Polar Tang looking for you, and forced Bepo to turn the submarine around. He feared that they somehow left you behind on the last island they visited. He spent an entire day combing through the island in search of you. The sinking feeling in his chest got worse each passing hour as soon he realized, you weren't there.

Despite his feelings, Law knew he couldn't abandon his plans so he tried to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest and keep working while searching for you.

Unfortunately, at every island he docked you were nowhere to be found. Your disappearance created a tiny crack deep in his core that only grew as time went by.

Until now, seeing you here amongst the Straw Hats no less. He doesn't care what he has to do. He knows he can't leave this island without you. Over his dead body will he let slip away again, not when he's finally found you. 

Looking at you, he feels those cracks slowly begin to mend. He can't lose you again. It took far too long to find you.

Law won't go through that pain again. His chest tightens at the thought of it. You belong with him. You may be angry with him now, but he knows you still love him. You'll come around eventually. As long as you remain in his presence, it's enough to dull the ache in his chest. He can't risk spending another moment away from you.

You’re not sure what thoughts are passing through Law’s mind. As you stood there staring at him, the air seemed to suddenly grow colder.

A shiver runs through your body.

The longer you look at him, the more deranged he appears; as if the smallest thing could make him snap. There's no way the reason behind this is because you left… right?

At first you thought he didn't care about you, but looking at him right now, you fear he might care too much.

________

"Straw Hats, how about we form a pirate alliance."

WHAT!?

You stare at him incredulously as he goes over his proposal with the rest of the crew. You stand there silently fuming while they discuss how the alliance will work. He pointedly refuses to look your way, ignoring the hole you’re burning into his skull.

You’d naively thought you could finally put distance between the two of you once you were off this island, but clearly he has no intention of letting you go. You should've known he wouldn't let things be, but an alliance with the Straw Hats was the last thing you expected him to propose.

****

The moment Law is alone, you stormed towards him, fist clenched with fury in your eyes. If he thinks you're just going to sit pretty while he forces his way back into your life or that this will end with the two of you back together then he's lost his mind.

"Before you start, no I didn't propose an alliance because of you." He starts before you could say a word. "There are more important things at play besides our relationship."

"I'm supposed to believe you had a change of heart and decided to work with Luffy?” You raised an eyebrow as you folded your arms over your chest. “From what I recall you thought he was ‘an airheaded rubber fool’?”

"I don't remember saying that at all.” He says with a careless shrug, faux confusion written a little too neatly across his face. If it had been anyone else you'd believe them, but you know Law.

"Don't piss me off, Law."

"He's strong." Law replied with a hint of mirth, pleased at the sound of his name leaving your lips.

"So you can't continue whatever plans you have without him?" You demand. "What were you going to do if we weren't here?"

Law clenches his jaw, irritation flaring at the way you say ‘we’ as if you're one of them.

"I would've handled it."

"And why can't you handle it now?”

"Why make things harder when it doesn't have to be?” He shoots back.

"So me being with the Straw Hats has nothing to do with it?"

“Hey, if there are certain other benefits then…”

Your fingers itches to wipe that stupid smirk off his face. “You're impossible.” You shake your head in disbelief.

"And you're stubborn" He retorts, tone clipped.  "Since you refuse to come bac–”

"Hey, are you guys okay?" A concerned voice cuts in. You’re not sure if it's Nami or Sanji that walks over—this whole body swap situation still has you confused.

"Yes, just going over the plan." You respond quickly  before Law could open his mouth. "What's up?"

Before they could say anything, a loud voice cuts through the room.

"Y/N DEARRRR!" Sanji wiggles towards you, "OH MY LOVE, THERE YOU ARE! WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?! YOU'RE LOOKING AS RADIANT AS EVER."

Well at least now you know who's who.

You suddenly feel a chill run through your body. You glance at Law from the corner of your eye. Still looking as stoic as ever. Although, if you weren't looking closely enough, you'd miss the subtle clench of his sword and the brief flicker of darkness that crossed his eyes.

"SHUT UP, CURLY BROW!" Zoro yells. “PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO TAKE A NAP HERE!”

"NOW ISN'T THE TIME TO BE TAKING A NAP, MOSS HEAD!”

A nudge from Nami pulls you away from their argument, "Come on I need your help with something.” She says jerking her chin toward a corner of the room.

You both walk to the other side of the room before sitting down. She unfolds a map over her crossed thighs and begins to discuss a plan to leave the island when she suddenly goes quiet, seemingly deep in thought. You stay silent. You didn't want to disturb her as you allowed her to gather her thoughts, assuming she's struggling to come up with a decent plan.

"So..." Nami starts after a minute of staring at the map, causing you to sigh softly. “What’s going on between you and Law?” You froze. You knew eventually it would come out, but you were hoping you could keep it a secret for a bit longer.

You take a deep breath before facing her with a raised eyebrow, "You didn't need my help with anything, did you?"

"No, that's not true. I need your help with this map," She defends. "We have to figure out our next steps off this island.”

You give her a blank stare. "Nami. You know I don't know how to read a map.”

She looks almost sheepish. "Well that doesn't mean you can't still help–”

"It's okay." You cut her off before she can prattle on. "He's my ex." You admit, grimacing at the words.

"Oh!" She jumps back in shock. "Sorry, he just seems so–I mean, it’s just that you guys don’t look like–I mean, he doesn’t seem like the type.” She fumbled with her words. “He’s so...stoic. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, if that’s what you’re into–what I’m trying to say is–”

You can't help but chuckle at her reaction. Taking pity on her, you cut in, "It's okay, I know we don't seem like the most likely couple. I definitely didn't expect us to get together when we first met either and honestly, once you get to know him, he’s not as stoic as he seems"

Nami let out a sigh of relief. She was glad she hadn’t offended you. "So, what happened?"

"I don't know," You shrug. "Life just got in the way I guess."

She hums unconvinced. "Mhm. That looked like more than just life getting in the way.”

You don't respond, instead deciding to look around the room. The rest of the crew are huddled in front of the children. They are sleeping thanks to Usopp's many plant things. It looks like they're having an important conversation.

"Come on." You pat Nami's shoulders. "Let's go see what that's about.”

You two stand up from where you’re sitting and begin walking over, as you get closer you can hear your name being mentioned.

“Huh? Why would y/n go with you?" Chopper asks.

"It makes sense, they appear to have a close relationship." Robin replies.

"Huh? How?" Chopper's face twisted in innocent confusion. "Didn't they just meet?"

"No, they've known each other." Nami starts just as the two of you arrive. "But on the other hand… they are exes, so I don't know how smart it would be to–"

"Nami." You stiffened, casting her a sharp glare stopping her mid-sentence. You're going to kill her.

"No we're not." Law intersects at the same time Sanji starts wailing in despair.

"How could you be with someone like him when you could be with a gentleman like myself?!"

You hear Nami start arguing with Sanji, but you tune them out to focus on Law instead.

"What do you mean no?"

"Exactly that." He says in a dry tone. "We're not exes."

"What? You can't–”

"Just because you decided to take a trip and run off doesn't mean we're not still together." Law snorts, "A breakup is mutual and I don't recall ever going through or agreeing to one." You jerk your head as if you've been slapped.

Your jaw drops.

"It doesn't matter. If someone leaves you for an entire year, then the logical thing to conclude is that you guys are NOT together anymore." You snapped.

He keeps the same calm metallic voice as he responds, "No, the logical thing would be to have an actual conversation with the person you're trying to break up with instead of disappearing like a child."

You stared at him in disbelief.

“I tried–”

"You should’ve tried harder."

Law knows he's being difficult, but he can't ignore the bitterness he feels from being left. As far as he's concerned, you two never broke up. He considers your year apart as a brief pause.

"Just because we're going through a tough patch right now doesn't mean we're not still together.”

"You can't just decide–”

"What? Like you decided to run off?"

"Stop interrupting me!" You snapped.

“OKAYYY!" Nami interrupts. You were so focused you didn't notice how quiet it had gotten during your argument. There’s a mix of amusement and disbelief amongst the rest of the crews’ faces.

"Looks like you guys still have things to work out. You can do that after we're off this island. Now Law put me back in my body and– wait, where did Sanji go? GET BACK HERE!"

"Hey Traffy!" Luffy bounces over. "Where can I find food on this island? I'm starving!" Rubbing his stomach with a groan.

"Traffy?" You snicker, unable to hold it in.

"Shut up." Law grumbles, turning his head too quickly for you to catch the pleased look on his face. He was delighted to finally see a smile on your face.

While Law becomes occupied with Luffy, you walk over towards Zoro sitting in a corner of the abandoned laboratory to get away from the chaos.

Zoro lets out a low hum as you sit down, casting a brief glance at you before closing his eye. You sit in silence for a moment before the low timbre of his voice breaks through it. "You good?"

"Yeah, I just wanted some quiet.” You sighed.

He hums in response, growing silent again for a moment before he adds, "Just let me know if I have to fight him, okay? I will.”

You chuckle softly at his words, "I know, I'm okay. I promise."

He opens his eye and studies you for a moment. "Good.” With another low hum, he leans back against the wall and closes his eye again.

Feeling a prickly sensation on your neck, you turn around to see Law facing you.

If you didn't know any better, you'd think it was his usual scowl placed on his face, but you've spent years learning this man. You've never seen such a murderous glint in his eyes, at least not from you just talking to someone. He's never been a possessive guy, so to see him act like this is a little… unsettling.

Deciding it'd be better to speak to Robin, you stand up and dust the front of your pants. As you're about to alert Zoro, you feel the press of a broad chest behind you, then an arm snakes around your midsection.

"We need to talk.” Law's voice is strained, but soft against your ear, his hands tighten briefly before he releases you and begins to walk outside. 

You sigh. What now? Nodding at Zoro you get up to follow him.

You open your mouth to say goodbye, but before a sound can leave your lips, Law suddenly strides back toward you, grabs your arm, and starts dragging you away.

________

As soon as you turn the corner, you're yanked in the tight space between the lab and the mountain. He has you cornered against the building, looking down harshly. Your breath hitches. He looks like he doesn't know if he wants to kiss you or tear into you. You're both standing in the cold, his labored breath the only sound between you, his body’s warmth the only thing holding the chill at bay.

A beat.

"I'm going to say this once." He whispers sharply, his hand itching slowly to wrap around your neck, "I know we have a lot to talk through, but even though we haven't been physically together doesn’t mean you stopped being mine. I want you to remember that."  A finger grazes your pulse point and taps once.

Before a sarcastic retort could leave your lips, your words are swallowed by a kiss so devastatingly fierce.

Fueled by frustration, It was like he bottled up a year worth of love and longing and poured it into the kiss. A heartbeat later, you feel yourself melting into the kiss. You really wanted to fight, but you've always been weak when it comes to him. You're trying to be strong, but he makes it so hard. 

The moment your lips started to move, it was like a dam broke.

The force pushes you further into the wall, his hands sliding down to your hips. His grip tightens on you as the kiss turns desperate. He kisses as if he’d been waiting lifetimes for this exact moment. You feel yourself getting lost in the kiss. Your body is starting to heat up as the intensity of everything becomes almost overwhelming. You stumble out a gasp when he bites your bottom lip, trying to use it as an opportunity to slip his tongue in to deepen the kiss.

It has the opposite outcome.

You try to free yourself, the sting bringing you back to reality. Undeterred, he immediately starts laying fervent kisses all over your face. From your forehead to your nose and to your cheeks, before trailing them down your neck. His hands begin to roam your body frantically like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go even for a second. Heart fluttering, you stand there trying to convince yourself that this isn't what you want from him.

To finally feel the love and want that you should've felt a year ago.

As much as you want to forget everything and drown in him, you can't.

"Law..." You gasp, pushing weakly at his face, "Stop, we can't. We have to talk–”

He cuts you off with a kiss. “Shh… we're going to get through this, okay?”

Before you can respond, he kisses you again.

"Law–” You try again.

"Mmh.. I'll be better, I promise." He murmurs, lips brushing against yours. "I'm not letting you go again." Through labored breaths, another kiss follows.

"I'll do whatever it takes to keep you with me." He whispers against your lips. "Even if that means I have to work with those people to keep you by my side, I will."

Law knows he could just force you back on the Polar Tang, but that would cause more heartache than necessary. It would be easier for everyone if you came willingly. For now, he'll tolerate working with the Straw Hats if it means you'll remain by his side. (But if you try to leave him again, then he'll be forced to take drastic measures whether you like it or not)

"If I have to cut their entire crew into pieces and scatter them into different waters to make sure you stay with me, I will," he growled under his breath.

"Wait what–" He captures your lips with a slow and intimate kiss that steals every thought from your mind. A few moments later, he finally pulls back and looks at you with an unreadable emotion on his face. Holding your face between his hands, he rubs your cheeks with his thumbs.

He leans back in for one last deep kiss, before pulling back with a low groan. He tilts your chin up and looks directly in your eyes with a raised eyebrow. "You're never leaving me again, right?" The question is soft and insistent.

As you try to catch your breath through tingling lips, all you can do is move your head. You're not sure if it's a nod or shake, but whatever it is; he seemed satisfied. His eyes softened and his lips curved up at the corners.

"Good girl." He murmurs, placing a soft peck on your bruised lips. He wraps an arm around your waist and tugs you closer to him, resting his face in the crook of your neck.

Yeah… you're screwed.

___________

<- Part 1 | Masterlist ->

AN: If you see me cornered by Law...DON'T save me. I'm exactly where I want to be😩😭.

 I was not expecting this much engagement -honestly thought I'd get like 1 of 2 good likes so this reaction makes my heart swell. Thank yall for reading and engaging so much! 💞

Shout out to my bestie for being my beta reader and editor 😌

Taglist: Tagged yall cause you guys commented on the first part. I hope thats okay🥺 If you wanna be removed, let me know.

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.”

“Slurp.”

“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.