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The front wall of the bakery is slashed open, as if cut with a razor-sharp knife, and crumbles. The shop windows shatter; Mihar falls down on the floor, covering his face from the glass shards, and this is what saves his life. A woman who ran inside in an attempt to hide from the carnage is not so lucky: whatever cut the front wall also slices her head clean off. Her blood sprays on Mihar, and he must have passed out for a minute or so, because when he comes to, the dust has settled. Beyond the rubble of what used to be his storefront, the greengrocer's shop across the street is burning, and the man himself – a jolly, pot-bellied fellow who helped Mihar set up the “We are open!” sign two weeks ago – is lying on the cobblestone before his shop, his stomach pierced open with what looks like a black bamboo stick in the hands of a dark-haired kid no older than thirteen.
Then the kid turns his head to look straight at Mihar. Although the boy's eyes are invisible behind his rectangular sunglasses, Mihar can feel his piercing gaze and flinches.
He can't be this terrified of a little kid, he can't, but Mihar almost pisses himself when the kid hops over the wreckage of the front wall and walks up to him. He saw the kid beat a man to death with this bamboo stick earlier in the central square, when -
Then all thoughts fade, because the kid stops before him. His button-up shirt and pants are stained with dark blots that Mihar knows are blood.
“You,” the kid says with a teenager's cracking voice. “You are new here, aren't you?”
When Mihar doesn't answer, the bloody tip of the black bamboo stick hits his chin under his well-trimmed beard.
“I asked you a question,” the boy repeats, and Mihar unfreezes.
“Y-yes,” he manages to utter, his teeth clacking, “I just moved from the South Blue... a month ago.”
The kid nods; his face doesn't move, but he seems satisfied.
“Can you bake cakes?” he asks, and Mihar thinks he misheard him.
“What?” he blurts out dumbly.
The kid sighs, annoyed, which sends a twinge of terror straight to Mihar's gut.
“They only bake pies on this island,” he says. “Can you bake a cake?”
Mihar gulps and nods.
“Yes,” he says, “I...”
The kid doesn't let him finish. He raises his staff and hits Mihar across the back.
“Up,” he orders. “And come with me.”
***
On their way through the burning town, they are joined by a tall, lean man in a fancy velvet hat. Mihar is not a small man himself, with his stout build and curly brown hair, but the velvet hat guy towers over him despite being half his age; he would've been even taller if not for his deformed hunched shoulders. Upon hearing that Mihar is new in town and can bake cakes, the man loudly praises the kid (whose name is Vergo) and gives him a thumbs-up. The tall man is carrying a sword, and his clothes are just as bloody.
He was in the square too, standing next to the fountain like a royal guard.
Around them, the town is nothing but burning ruins. Something strange is happening to the buildings that are still standing: one by one, they get swept in what can only be described as an ocean wave coursing through stone, and the charred walls fall apart, losing all shape and turning into piles of rubble. What once used to be a bustling town is being methodically eradicated.
But while the buildings are being leveled to the ground, the bodies are left on full display, looking almost obscene in the bright sunlight. Mihar shudders as Vergo and the tall man walk right over them, sometimes kicking a leg out of their way or stepping on a lifeless hand. Mihar did not have time to get to know everyone in the town, but he does recognize some people: the old woman who bought two bread rolls every morning, the goldsmith's son who spent his lunch money on Mihar's South Blue honey cakes, the shoemaker who was the first to tell Mihar the (quite unbelievable) story of how the townsfolk made a family of Celestial Dragons by the name of Donquixote pay for their crimes.
Mihar should've believed him. Mihar should've run from the town the moment he heard that tale.
It is Sunday, so the bakery is closed. The sermon has just ended, and the colorful townsfolk, dressed in their best attire, leave the church. Mihar doesn't really believe in God, but he wants to fit in and get to know local people, so he goes too.
In the central square, they are met by five strangers.
Two men stand on both sides of the fountain that represents the town's patron saint; two boys sit on the edge of the fountain's basin in the front, one long-haired and bulky, the other lean and with a bamboo staff in his hands. The third boy sits on top of the fountain, on the back of the fish in the hands of the saint; he is wearing sunglasses, and his short hair is very pale blond.
There is something unsettling about this scene.
“It's the gang from the south of the island,” Mihar hears someone whisper. “Doflamingo Family.”
“Shit, that's them?”
“Those are just kids.”
The murmurs roll across the crowd, and the mayor steps forward – sensing, perhaps, that his authority is required.
“Gangs are not welcome here,” he says firmly. “Here, we have a short conversation with disturbers of peace.”
Murmurs of affirmation rise all around Mihar. One of the men from the gang – a rather disgusting fellow with a runny nose and a bowler hat – sneers.
“Behehe, it seems they don't know who they're talking to, Doffy!”
The blond boy on top of the fountain lets out a short laugh.
“How quickly animals forget. Let's remind them, then.” He stands up, keeping his balance on top of the fish's back with ease. “My name,” he says loudly, and his voice echoes across the square, “is Donquixote Doflamingo.”
Some people around Mihar gasp, and one woman lets out a cry. Mihar doesn't get it, until it hits him: hey, wasn't Donquixote the name of that supposed Celestial Dragon family?..
The blond boy snarls.
“And you all shall kneel before me!”
He doesn't say those last words any louder, but they ring inside Mihar's head like a giant bell, heavy, deafening, - and his knees buckle on their own; he falls on the ground together with every other person in the square and prostrates himself before the blond boy, a ton on lead pushing down on his back and purple dots dancing before his eyes.
The boy's words are falling on his head like the strikes of a hammer against an anvil.
“I always fulfill my promises. For the crime of laying your hands on me and my family, you are all sentenced to death.”
And then the carnage starts, but the pressure is gone, and Mihar runs back to his bakery, the demon boy's laughter chasing him like the hounds of hell.
Mihar's legs feel numb, and he can barely move them by the time they reach the square. It is surrounded by ruins now, the church and the rich houses of the town's elite all turned into the same unmarked rubble. The fountain is cut in half, and the upper part with the saint's bearded face and the fish is lying next to the basin.
Between the two pieces of the fountain, there is a net of thin threads that shimmer in the sunlight. The blond boy is jumping on it like on a trampoline, and it seems unreal with the smoking ruins as his backdrop. Before him, there is a pile of bloody bodies, and the slimy man with the bowler hat is dragging a screaming elderly woman by her hair.
“Here, Doffy, I think she's the last one,” the slimy man says, throwing her on the ground before the boy.
“Celestial demon! We should've killed you back then!” the old woman cries. “You shall burn in hell for this!”
The boy simply laughs.
“I've already done that.” He puts his hands together and makes a finger gun. He points the “barrel” at the woman, something glints in the sunlight – and Mihar jolts when blood erupts out of the woman's left eye. The tall man and the boy named Vergo watch with big smiles on their faces.
The blond boy keeps jumping, laughing as the woman's body slumps.
Mihar closes his eyes; his knees are shaking, and he knows that he is next. He doesn't know why, he has never met this demon child or the Donquixote family, but there is no rhyme or reason to this massacre. He never should've moved here.
Mihar's panicked thoughts are interrupted when a bamboo staff hits the back of his knees, sending him face-down to the ground.
“Bow, you idiot!” the boy named Vergo hisses. Mihar whimpers, the force of his fall causing the tears to spill from his eyes.
He sees the dust and ashes on the pavement before him, and the bouncing net; the Celestial demon never stops jumping.
“Doffy,” the tall man speaks, “this guy is new on the island, he wasn't here two years ago.”
“And?”
“And he says he can bake cakes,” Vergo adds.
“Doffy, can you stop skipping while we're talking?” the tall man says with good humor in his tone. “My head is spinning.”
“Nope!” Doffy replies with all the cheek of a spoiled child. “Hey, can you really bake a cake?”
Vergo hooks Mihar's chin with the tip of his staff, raising his head to face his executioner.
If Donquixote Doflamingo really is a Celestial Dragon, he doesn't look different from any other brat Mihar saw running around. He is lanky and gangly in a way a boy who has recently hit puberty is, and he is missing a canine – probably the last of his milk teeth. He is barefoot, and his shirt and pants do not quite fit him, as is often the case with second-hand clothes.
“Well?” The boy furrows his nonexistent eyebrows, and Mihar swallows the dry prickly lump in his throat and nods.
“Cool,” Doffy grins and looks at the tall man. “Diamante, tell Pica to keep his bakery intact if he hasn't destroyed it yet.” He allows himself to fall on his back, and the strange shimmering trampoline cradles him gently as he sits up with his legs crossed, focused on Mihar again. “I like strawberry cake the best.”
Mihar gulps again.
“Y-young master... it's October. There are no strawberries,” he stutters, prepared to die. But while Doflamingo seems disappointed, he doesn't lash out at Mihar for nature's mistakes.
“What do you have, then?”
Mihar blinks off the sweat that is getting into his eyes, trying to force his brain to work.
“A-apples, and pears, and, um... grapes.” He shudders, awaiting a slash of those invisible blades with every wrong answer. “I also have... Tangerine jam.”
“Tangerine jam sounds good.” Doflamingo hums and makes a dismissive gesture. “Go make a cake, then. I like vanilla cream, not chocolate,” he adds, getting on his feet again.
Mihar doesn't see what he does next, because the tall man (Diamante?) grabs him by the shoulder and drags him away. When they are far enough to be out of earshot (the kid named Vergo stayed behind with Doflamingo), the man lifts Mihar by the collar.
“Now listen here,” he says, deceptively pleasant; Mihar suddenly notices how blue his eyes are. Icy blue. “It's Doffy's birthday. He's turning thirteen, so it's a big day. If his cake is anything but perfect, I'm going to make a new one out of your intestines – and I will make sure that you live long enough to taste it. Got it?” After Mihar's furious nod, Diamante's lips stretch in a grin wide enough to split his face in two. He places Mihar on the ground, dusts his vest off, and sends him staggering toward his bakery with a kick to his behind.
***
In the end, Mihar's bakery is the only building that is left standing among the ruins of the town, and the five bandits gather in here when it gets dark. The front room where Mihar used to meet his customers is missing a wall, so the gang barges into the spacious kitchen and settles around one of the big tables. Mihar is working on the cake with his back to them, but he can sense them with every cell of his body.
He is working much slower than normal, terrified to make a mistake. His hands are trembling. The biscuit layers are done by now and are cooling, while Mihar is busy preparing the cream, frosting, and decorations. Behind him, the murderers maniacs monsters are laughing and clinking glasses.
When the two men and three children enter the remains of Mihar's bakery, Doflamingo stops in his tracks, staring at one glass counter that miraculously survived.
“Are those macarons?” he asks.
Diamante smacks the back of Mihar's head, and he replies, hating how his voice sounds like the bleating of a scared goat:
“Y-yes, the South Blue macarons.” It's his prized recipe and the most expensive pastry in his shop.
The celestial demon in the shape of a child keeps staring at the selection of freshly made macarons that are resting on a large plate. He walks up to the counter, takes a pink one, and bites into it. Mihar cannot see his eyes behind the sunglasses, but for a moment, the boy's face relaxes as the tender almond sweetness fills his mouth. Even his fellow gang members are silent, waiting for him respectfully.
“These were Rosi's favorite,” the boy says quietly after he swallows the treat. “Mother always kept some on the table.” The word he uses for “mother” is very formal and old-fashioned, and he slips into a strange accent that is nothing like the local Northern.
Then he turns around to look at his companions, beaming like a... well. Like a child in a pastry shop.
“You guys gotta try them!”
The plate is sitting on the gang's table now, the macarons gone. They were made to be enjoyed in small quantities, each pastry a delicate masterpiece, but the five bandits devoured them like a pack of wolves. The bulky kid with long hair shoveled them into his mouth with his giant, ugly hands; the slimy man with a runny nose must have stained some of them with his snot; Vergo has a piece of yellow meringue stuck to his cheek. It is stupid, to feel sorry for a bunch of macarons when the whole town lies in ruins around Mihar, but somehow, this miniature repetition of the brutal devastation from earlier, delivered to the work of his heart and soul, is what breaks him. He weeps quietly, wiping his tears off with a sleeve so that they don't ruin the frosting.
The macarons are only the beginning. The gang has a whole feast laid out on Mihar's kitchen table – probably some family's Sunday dinner that these murderers stole before destroying their house. There is an entire roasted chicken, mashed potatoes with vegetables, cold ham, bread and cheese, and a few bottles of wine. Mihar can easily imagine a happy couple with a bunch of rosy-cheeked children gathering around the table to enjoy a family dinner – but now they are dead, and what was meant to bring them joy is now gobbled up by these vultures.
“Happy birthday, Doffy!” the slimy man proclaims, and the rest of them echo in a discordant choir: “Happy birthday!”
Mihar peeks behind his shoulder. The Celestial boy is grinning, sitting at the head of the table like a father of the family, and clinks his glass with the others. His cheeks are flushed from the wine, and Diamante is pouring him more.
“We have another present for you,” Trebol says and winks at the other man. Diamante stands up and with the dramatic gesture of a street magician pulls out a long, thin black stick from under the table. Mihar briefly wonders what it might be – when, to his shock, the stick goes soft in the man's fingers and unfurls into a large piece of fabric.
It's a black banner with a grinning jolly roger, crossed out by a diagonal line.
“Your own flag,” Diamante says, smiling at Doflamingo's awed face. “Now we can sail away like proper pirates.”
Mihar's heart skips a beat. Sail away? They are leaving?! Oh, please, please let it be true, let them just leave and never come back!
“I can't wait to leave,” he hears the Celestial boy say as the others cheer and congratulate him. “I'm sick of this fucking island.”
“To our pirate crew, then!” Diamante toasts. “To the Doflamingo Family!”
“Oh no, no!” Doflamingo interrupts, laughing, and Mihar can hear the dark glee in his voice. It makes his skin crawl. “I shall not hide my name anymore. It is something we should bear with pride. Let those pigs in Mary Geoise know what's coming for them. We are the Donquixote Family!”
It only takes the others a second to join in.
“To the Donquixote Family!”
***
The macabre birthday party deteriorates as quickly as Mihar would expect from gangsters and pirates. He is shaping the cream on top of the cake when one of the men takes out playing cards, and now they have some sort of a drinking game going. The bakery stinks of booze and cigarette smoke, and the cake will probably stink of them too.
Doflamingo picks one of the five cards that lie face-down on the table. It's an ace of hearts.
“Vergo!” he exclaims and looks at the dark-haired boy with a smirk. “Give me a kiss!”
Stoic Vergo blushes a deep shade of red, but gets out of his seat, dropping his staff to the floor in the process. Doflamingo takes the cigarette out of his mouth and tilts his face up as the other three hoot. Vergo balls his fists, his whole body wooden, but leans down and presses his lips to the other boy's. It's a chaste, sweet kiss – until Doflamingo slips his tongue out and licks the smudge of mashed potatoes from the corner of Vergo's mouth. The black-haired boy makes a choked sound and hurries back to his place as Doflamingo and the others laugh.
Doflamingo shuffles the cards and arranges them on the table again. This time, it's Vergo who picks a card: it's an ace of clubs.
“Trebol,” he says and looks at the snotty man. “Give Doffy a kiss.”
“Nooooooo!” Doflamingo – Doffy – cries, making horrified faces, but he can't hold back laughter.
“Alas, young master, such is your fate!” Trebol says, extending his arms and advancing at the blond boy in a comically scary manner. Doflamingo keeps pushing him away and screaming, but his struggles seem to be more for show, and he does get a wet, slimy smooch to the cheek.
“Alright,” Trebol snickers after Vergo has shuffled the cards. “My turn.”
Ace of spades.
“Pica!” Trebol grins. “Sing the pretty princess song.”
“No way,” the bulky boy says and takes a shot. His voice is weirdly squeaky for such a large body, but he does seem a bit younger than the others. Mihar wonders if his voice will ever drop.
Trebol shuffles the cards, and now it's Pica's turn. He picks a joker.
“Doffy.” He hums, thinking. “Lick the ashtray!”
“Ew, no!” Doffy gives him a middle finger and downs his own shot.
Mihar looks away. Some part of him that still remembers basic human decency is horrified at the fact that Trebol and Diamante are getting three children drunk, but he is mostly just afraid for his own life. These children are insane and dangerous, and they will become even more dangerous when wasted.
The game goes on, and the gang becomes more and more inebriated, until Mihar makes the mistake of dropping a tin bowl on the floor. He freezes, feeling how a drop of sweat is sliding down his forehead. Please, please don't pay attention to him...
“Hey, baker!” It's Diamante; his words are a bit slurred. “Where the fuck is the cake?”
Mihar turns around slowly, preparing to die. All five are looking at him, their faces flushed with alcohol, their teeth bared. A pack of feral dogs ready to tear him apart.
“It's... It needs a few hours in the cold...” Each hour until the cake is ready is an additional hour that Mihar is alive. At least that's what he thought before, but now he thinks he might have made a mistake.
“A few hours?!” Diamante slams his hand on the table and gets up. “Are you fucking serious?! Doffy's birthday is today!”
But the rescue comes from an unexpected place.
“It's okay, Diamante.” Doflamingo yawns, rubbing his cheek. “I'm too full anyway.” He peeks over Mihar's shoulder at the lush tower of white cream and tangerine jam. “We'll eat it for breakfast.”
“As you wish, Doffy.” Diamante's voice mellows immediately when he speaks to the boy. “Sleepy time, eh?”
There are no beds in Mihar's bakery, so they line a bench with Trebol and Diamante's jackets. They are big enough to cover Doflamingo entirely. Vergo settles on the floor with his back to the still-warm oven. Pica watches Mihar put the cake on the counter in the front room, where the chilly October night will serve as a cooler, and then pushes him into the corner of the kitchen. There, Pica touches the stone floor, and it bulges under his hand and sucks Mihar's foot in like swamp water. Then Pica takes his hand away, and the stone is solid again, trapping Mihar better than any shackles. Without any words, Pica gets up and walks away, lying down for the night next to Vergo. Trebol and Diamante remain at the table, talking in whispers. They snuffed out most of the candles, leaving only one in front of them.
Mihar cannot sleep; how could he? He pulls at his leg, but the stone floor holds it tight. What kind of devilry is this?
Same kind that allowed Doflamingo to shoot people with no bullets, and Diamante to make fabric solid. These people are not normal, and Mihar can't be happier that they are sailing away. He just hopes that they will leave him alive. They won't need him after the cake is done, right? And if the cake is good, they will show mercy, right?
He wasn't here two years ago. He did nothing to Doflamingo or his accursed family. Why were the Celestial Dragons even here? Why is Doflamingo sleeping under some gangsters' coats instead of lounging on a feather bed in a mansion?
Mihar doesn't really care, but the thoughts keep swarming in his head, his mind painfully alert. Can he saw off his foot and crawl away? But there is nothing sharp in his reach, and the two adult gangsters are awake.
Mihar starts falling into a weird delirium between sleep and feverish wakefulness, where his mind is flaring, images and thoughts flowing like a relentless stream, mixing and shifting. It is broken when his ears pick up new sounds: quiet gasps and muffled cries. They are coming from the pile of clothes that cover Doflamingo – and then the boy jolts awake, sitting up on the bench. His chest is heaving.
Trebol and Diamante look up from their card game.
“Doffy?”
The Celestial boy fumbles for his sunglasses and puts them on, although it is so dark that Mihar cannot even see his face properly.
“Nightmares again?” Trebol says, his voice saccharine.
Doflamingo gets off the bench and pulls his shirt off.
“I'm hot,” he murmurs. In the uneven light of the candle, Mihar can see sweat glisten on his skin.
“Come drink something,” Diamante says, reaching out for him. Doflamingo walks up to him and climbs into his lap. Trebol pours him a glass of water, which the boy quickly downs. The water is immediately replaced by wine, and Doflamingo sips on it, too.
“I thought the nightmares would stop if this place is gone,” he whispers, resting his head against Diamante's chest. Doflamingo is sitting on his lap sideways, with Diamante's arm slung around his waist.
The man sighs, rubbing his side.
“Sorry about that, Doffy.”
Seems like even a Celestial Dragon cannot order the nightmares to leave him alone, Mihar thinks with grim satisfaction, but the emotion rings hollow. This whole scene puts him on edge; there is something very wrong about it.
Trebol shakes his head, making his snot stick to his ragged black beard.
“That won't do. It's your birthday, it's supposed to be good.” He scoots closer. “Do you want us to make you feel good, Doffy?”
The boy downs his wine, puts the glass aside, and nods.
“Yeah,” he mutters, hiding his face in Diamante's chest. “It'll help me sleep.”
The two men exchange glances over the drunk boy's head, and Mihar's blood runs cold.
Doflamingo is a monster in a child's guise, but it still makes Mihar's stomach turn to see the older men help him shimmy out of his pants until he's stark naked. He is still a child, and Trebol and Diamante's hands look huge as they paw at the boy. Doflamingo is leaning into these touches, clutching at Diamante's shirt.
Mihar closes his eyes, both out of disgust and out of fear that they would catch him peeping. His heart is pounding so hard it makes him worry that the two men and the demon boy will hear it. He wishes he could cover his ears too and not hear Trebol's moist sniffles and giggling, Diamante's dirty praises, or Doflamingo's quiet gasps and moans.
How can it be? He has seen this child command the crowd with incredible power and witnessed him murder a woman with a smile on his face; how can a demon like this be used and molested by his own subordinates?
Mihar knows he should keep pretending to be asleep, but he can't help it. He opens his eyes by just a sliver, and the sight before him is something out of a sick nightmare. Doflamingo is still in Diamante's lap, straddling the man's bony thighs with his back to Mihar, and Mihar can see Diamante's long, spidery digits slide in and out of the boy's ass, fingering it open. Trebol is looming over him from the side, and although Mihar cannot see his hand (Doffy's body is blocking the view), it is clear what he's doing there, as the boy is hissing and mewling, thrusting his hips.
If there is Hell, Mihar thinks, this is it: a small, hot room reeking of alcohol and smoke, where murderers and degenerates writhe against each other in criminal lust.
But he is not the only one attracted by the sounds: Vergo stirs and wakes up in his corner by the oven, and Pica sits up too, rubbing his eyes.
“Doffy had a nightmare,” Trebol tells them, as if this should explain everything.
Doflamingo turns his head to them.
“Vergo,” he calls, extending a hand like a drowning man, breathless and desperate, “Vergo!”
The dark-haired boy gets up to his feet and hurries toward him as if pulled by an invisible force. His hand finds Doffy's, and he is drawn closer until their lips meet in a hungry kiss.
It is nothing like the simple, childish kiss from earlier; in the dark of the night, Vergo seems to have gathered courage, and the two boys kiss like adults, open-mouthed, tongues slithering against each other. Doffy is moaning into his friend's lips, and although Vergo is quiet, his face is red again, and he is squeezing Doffy's hand so hard it must hurt. It is lewd and hellish and wrong, but Mihar has to bite his lip, because, to his own horror, he finds himself getting hard.
It is just a bodily reaction, he tells himself. Just because he is forced to witness these deviants fornicate. He is just an unwilling bystander.
Pica appears to remain a bystander, too. He remains by the oven, shuffling his feet, and stares at Doffy being assaulted from all sides in clear discomfort. His rough face looks very young all of a sudden – too young to be here. How old is he? Mihar briefly wonders. Younger than Doflamingo and Vergo, and probably not fully understanding the depths of depravity he's being pushed into.
And then Doflamingo breaks the kiss and cries out, his muscles tensing, and Mihar realizes that he must've just climaxed; Mihar's own cock twitches and grows to half-mast, which makes him want to puke. Damn it... He shuts his eyes, but the arch of Doflamingo's back and the damp golden hair stuck to his forehead are burnt on the inside of his eyelids.
“Hey, hey, Doffy, do you feel better?” Trebol's whines are drilling into his ears. “Was it good?”
“Shit, you almost broke my fingers,” Diamante says with a smile in his voice. “You're a menace, Doffy.”
“Hey, hey, are you too tired? Will you help us too, eh?”
Mihar hears Doflamingo chuckle; he sounds hoarse, breathless.
“You guys,” he murmurs. There is fondness in his voice. Fondness!
Mihar opens his eyes again and chokes on the lump in his throat. Doflamingo is still sitting in Diamante's lap with his back to Mihar. Trebol is standing next to him, his cock – a pale, crooked thing with a dark head that reminds Mihar of a grub – poking out of his puffy pants, and Doflamingo's little hand is stroking it expertly, up and down, with lewd slick sounds. The boy's other hand is hidden from view, but it's easy to guess what it is doing, judging by Diamante's blissed-out face and half-lidded eyes.
“Doffy, Doffy, you're so good,” Trebol is babbling, drooling out of the corner of his gaping mouth, “so good to us, young master, our little god...”
Doflamingo is basking in the praise, while Vergo is watching it all with dark, clouded eyes. He is worrying his lower lip with his teeth, and his hands are clenched around his bamboo staff in what Mihar can only guess is jealousy.
It doesn't take long for the two men to cum; their cocks erupt with a wet splatter, and Doffy laughs, dodging the stray drops.
“That was quick,” he says, grinning from ear to ear.
Diamante sighs and rubs his back.
“It's easy to cum to you, Doffy.”
The boy snuggles up to him like a cat demanding more pets.
“Doffy, that guy is watching.”
Pica's squeaky voice draws Mihar's attention – and he forgets how to breathe, because Pica is looking straight at him. And the other four are looking at him too, now – once again, reminding him of a pack of feral dogs. Mihar feels the chill in his very bones.
“Is he, now?” Doflamingo asks, his voice eerily playful. It makes Mihar shake.
Please, he wants to whisper, but no sound comes out.
“Who the fuck allowed you to look, huh?” Diamante snaps, but Doflamingo presses a soothing hand to his mouth.
He hops off Diamante's lap and walks toward Mihar, uncaring about his nude state. His steps are light, his body glowing in the candlelight, wearing the drops of sweat and other fluids like glittering jewels.
He is beautiful, Mihar thinks with horror. A god, Trebol called him, and perhaps the Celestial Dragons truly are gods, because no human child can be so cruel and alluring, so devoid of innocence and yet so clueless about their own evildoing.
The boy stops in front of him, studying him with a tilt of his head, and then giggles.
“He's hard, can you believe it, guys?” He presses his bare foot to the bulge in Mihar's pants, sending an electric shock of primal fear and desire up his spine.
Trebol snickers.
“Seems like even the dumb peasants can recognize the presence of their god.”
“I will gouge his eyes for looking,” Vergo offers, dead serious.
Doflamingo rubs his foot against Mihar's crotch, observing his reactions with an almost scientific interest. Mihar whimpers, trying to get away, but he is backed into a corner.
“You know what?” the boy says. “I think a few hours have passed now, and I'm not sleepy anymore. How about we taste that cake?”
Pica and Vergo hurry into the other room, and soon they are back, carrying the tray with the cake with utmost care. They bring it to Doflamingo, who scoops some cream and jam from the top with his finger and puts it in his mouth. Mihar's heart is thrumming in his throat, each beat more painful than the next, as he watches Doflamingo's face for the slightest change of expression.
The boy hums, licking his finger clean.
“Ah,” he smiles, “delicious.”
He puts his weight on the foot that is resting on Mihar's groin, and the man yelps, a sharp burst of pain-pleasure blind-siding him.
“Only the leg, then,” Doflamingo says, his voice reaching Mihar as if from far away. “Pica, if you will?”
Pica helps Vergo put the cake on the table, then squats next to Mihar and puts his broad hand on the stone floor that conceals his foot. Before Mihar manages to ask what this means, the stones ripple –
– and constrict around his foot, crushing it.
Mihar screams, deafening himself with his own voice. Blood bursts from the cracks in the stone and from the stump of his leg; Mihar spots the torn flesh and the broken piece of bone before his vision blurs and he falls to the floor, convulsing, weeping, howling. Pain floods his senses, concentrated in what used to be his foot but resonating through every cell of his body. He sees the golden halo around Doflamingo's head that has to be his blond hair, and the white of his teeth.
The Celestial demon is smiling as Mihar passes out from pain, and this smile is the last thing his eyes ever see, because while Doflamingo forgives his transgression, Vergo does not.