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Stomach full of worms and burdened with thoughts stretching thin as they crawl the rim of his skull, orbiting the inside of his head like the rings of saturn, like a bubble, like a halo . The ugly one (they’re all ugly, they’re all repulsive, why do they look at you?) is laughing, elbows of an ill-fitting suit drooping low over his knees as he leans close, too close, a pistol dangling from his stubby fingers. The object in his other palm, gritty textured and vaguely pear-shaped, radiating heat and leaving his palm wavering with an unseen weight.
He lets his hat drop low over his eyes when Doflamingo takes it from his hands, but he’s close enough that he can see the sticky film of saliva stretching over the infinite rows of teeth, the cropping of stubble resting on a moistened upper lip that catches a perpetual ooze of mucus, too close. As if. As if Doflamingo hadn’t heard his ravings, of the king, the conqueror, whatever filthy words the cretin wants to ascribe. Not that he cares, with the way violence paints itself in sanguine hues like the flickering of a campfire against the insides of his skull--where he is pink and tender in that all too human sort of way. He does care, though, when the man lifts that weighted palm and says--words that aren’t important, power, power.
Doflamingo jerks back when he scoops the fruit from his hands, an ugly sneer lifting his lip and drawing his nose into a crinkle.
There’s worms turning his stomach all the way up to his brain, nail beds with blood blackened to potting soil, the taste of a bullet planted in his mouth as the Ito Ito no Mi drags that sickly umami across his tongue and down his gullet.
