Work Text:
When Doflamingo first saw you, he loved that ass of yours. And those perky tits.
He loved making you blush and squirm, whispering low into your ear.
He loved tucking his hand under your skirt whenever you were around.
He loved the way your eyes sparkled when you sucked his dick.
He loved that you smiled when you came.
He loved your face as you slept, soft breaths against his chest.
He loved every part of your body, but also, every part of your soul.
He loved you.
And he fucking despises it.
Flesh pressed against flesh, soft little touches, a big smile up to his face, grateful, innocent.
It makes his heart swell, his teeth crash together in a snarl. He wants to spend the rest of his life with you, he wants to strangle you and leave you in an alley for rats to eat.
His knuckles tight, fingernails digging into his palms, creaking of his jaw as he tenses it.
He sees you in the sunlight, pressed against the pane of an open window. Slow, sluggish footsteps.
You’re happy to see him.
A vein in his forehead pops.
He thinks about punching your face in, breaking your teeth, to hear you cry with your last licks of life.
When he raises his hand, you don’t flinch, you don’t look scared, you don’t even look confused.
The hand relaxes, finding its way to the back of your skull, dipping down to kiss you on the forehead.
He shakes and you see it. You move, giving him space to sit beside you, concern painting those gorgeous eyes of yours.
He wanted to cry in your arms. To apologise for something he didn’t do. To pop your eyes with his thumbs. To kiss you deep and tell you he loves you.
He says nothing.
Heavy pants in the night wake you. This wasn’t an uncommon occurrence. Doflamingo suffered from night terrors, and you were always there for him when he needed it, or if he didn’t need it.
He gasps for air, shoulders shaking. Glasses-less eyes find yours, wide and wild. He grips you by the shoulders, fingernails digging into the muscle.
It hurt, a hot, searing ache, but you kept your mouth shut.
Your hands found his face, it was clammy and cold, he leant into your touch, just about finding the rhythm of his own breathing again.
“Do you want to talk about it?” You spoke, unsure and quiet, the same question you always asked when he was like this. He always said no. Never stopped you from asking.
His lip twitched, flashing white teeth, snarling like a scared dog while he searched for the words to say.
The pain in your shoulders still lingered, though his large hands had now come to each of your wrists.
“Yes,” He paused, glassy eyes swapping between both of yours. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Take your time.”
The silence of the night. Fluttering of the curtain on the open window. Hiccups of breaths he was taking.
“I killed you. I wrapped a hand around your throat and killed you. You begged and cried but I just squeezed harder.” He looked down at his hands. “You clawed all over my arms. Your body got so bruised, bloated, rotted, like I had spent years just kneeling there over your body.”
His fingers brushed against your eyelashes. It tickled.
“Maggots ate out your eyes.”
“It was just a dream, I’m completely fine.”
“I know.” His brows lowered. Tense and frustrated.
“Doffy.” You spoke his name, featherlight and warm and he didn’t know what to do, aside from trap his eyes shut, hiding stone cold fear.
“I love you.” Doflamingo’s voice was hoarse, and dangerously low.
Your heartstrings panged. You shivered.
Neither of you spoke, nor looked at each other. He didn’t need a response, he knew that you loved him, right back from when he fucked you the first time. You got all blushy and mushy and pathetic the next day.
He thought it was funny, he laughed about it with Diamanté. Smarmy grins, taste of wine fresh on his tongue, likening you to a lovesick whore.
He was the fucking lovesick whore.
Whining and shaking in his own bed, in his own kingdom, over you.
“It scares me.”
Your fingertips were cold when they danced over his forearms.
“Maybe you should go away for a while.”
You knew what that meant. He had sent you away twice before, to Punk Hazard.
You never wanted to go, but you never questioned, never denied his request.
You had bedded Caesar, to improve his mood, to boost his work output , as the young master said.
Over a bottle of wine, Monet had theorised with a smile, like it was funny, that the master had sent you here, to fuck Caesar, so that he thinks less of you. To stop himself from feeling too involved with you.
Covered in purple lipstick, all you could think about was him. His smile, his laugh, his gaze, his hands, his warmth.
In a sick way, you were flattered. He cared too much.
You felt stupid, crazy, delusional.
You felt like you were picking petals off daisies, he loves me, he loves me not , as you stared at the soulless, industrial grey ceiling of Caesar’s room.
“No.” You breathed at his neck, baring your canines to drag along his shoulder.
Your eyes met, and he looked almost relieved at your defiance. His long fingers tangled with your hair, twirling and pulling at your scalp.
“Don’t you ever fucking leave me.” His voice firm.
“Never.” You kissed his jaw. “Ever.” And again.
His nose brushed yours.
“I hate you.” His arms circled around your waist. “I wish I’d never met you.”
“I love you.”
He kissed you, the barest, most innocent of kisses; you could feel his jaw shudder, his lips fluttering nervously.
“I love you.” You whispered again and again, a silent mantra, a hopeful prayer.
“Love me forever.”