WARNING: dubcon, drug abuse, manipulation, sibling incest, underage. Please proceed with caution if any of these things trigger you.
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His brother had always been such a stupid, weak crybaby. He would sniffle and snivel and wail, as if his tears could change anything.
Doflamingo had never seen him cry as hard as when he got torn away from Doflamingo by the orphanage workers, a piece of Doflamingo's tattered shirt clutched in his hands. Useless, useless.
Doflamingo had never felt so useless and weak.
At first it was Mom who left them, though she clung to life with all her might. She may have looked fragile and tender but she was strong, stronger than Father by far. Their poverty beat her, but she didn't go down without a fight.
Then it was Father—and good riddance to him, Doflamingo thought vindictively. To spend all their fortune on helping hungry children and incurably ill, to have no money left for when his own wife lay dying, or his own children grew so thin it was easy to count every rib under the dirty, paper-thin skin.
And now, it came to Roci. Roci, who always hid behind Mom's skirt; Roci, who would lose to Doflamingo every time they fought; Roci, who would sometimes crawl into Doflamingo's bed and curl up beside him, and Doflamingo would always let him fall asleep like that, snuggled up to him and emitting heat like a furnace.
A useless crybaby he might be, but Roci was still his only younger brother. He was his, dammit, and nobody was allowed to take him away from Doflamingo.
So Doflamingo screamed and fought and bit and scratched—all for nothing. The adults were stronger, and apparently the law required that Doflamingo never saw his little brother again.
(Roci was all Doflamingo had left in his life, and he was his.)
So Doflamingo promised himself something, when he panted, immobilized, and stared at his brother being carted away, now just crying and shaking uncontrollably. He told himself that he would grow up ten times as strong, to make everybody else do what he pleased. And when he felt hands on his shoulders, steering him the other way to take him to some shitty orphanage, he viciously grinned, turned around, and kneed the worker in the crotch, adding a nice, "Fuck you" in a voice hoarse from all the yelling.
At that moment, Doflamingo promised himself that he would grow up to do whatever he wanted, and fuck the law.
Right now, though, what he wanted was his brother back. So he went and got him.
It was easy to get a line on the place Roci was taken to, and even easier to escape the orphanage. Roci seemed to be foolishly content with his new home, though—he even suggested that he asked his new 'parents' to take Doflamingo in, too. He looked scared and hopeful; his eyes shone.
Doflamingo scoffed and said, "Are you leaving with me or what? I haven't got time to waste."
The hopeful light in Roci's eyes went out, but Roci nodded and scrambled around the room to put his stuff into an old ragged backpack. Then he tried getting out of the window, but, being his usual clumsy self, ended up with a bloody split lip.
Doflamingo worried Roci would start crying, but his baby brother had long since learned to withstand pain silently. There were tears in his eyes, but no sound escaped him.
Doflamingo looked him up and down, found his clothing to be satisfactory for a getaway in the night, and finally nodded.
"Let's go," he said, and Roci followed obediently. In a minute or two, Doflamingo felt a small wet hand sneak into his own bigger, cool palm and grip it tightly. Doflamingo wrinkled his nose but let Roci hold his hand. It's been two weeks since they had last seen each other; Doflamingo would never admit it, but he did miss his little brother.
They fell asleep in a cardboard box, tightly entwined to preserve the precious vestiges of warmth between them. Still, Doflamingo woke up freezing, but Roci next to him felt like he was burning up, a peaceful smile on his flushed face. His chin was still covered in a brown crust of dried-up blood.
The rays of the morning sun caught in his hair, forming a golden halo around his head. Doflamingo scowled and shook him awake:
"Come Roci, let's find something to eat."
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Doflamingo found them a place and a job. Nothing stellar, but at least they had decent clothes on their shoulders and food in their bellies. At first Roci would refuse to do the errands they were tasked with, but Doflamingo (and sometimes Doflamingo's fist) quickly talked some sense into him. Silly Roci still cared that somewhere, some brat with half a brain and too much money would swallow down some cut molly and die like the worthless scum he was.
They did try some once or twice—uncut, obviously. Doflamingo didn't like it. The rush felt great, but the feeling of losing control was not something he cared to relive ever again. He was the master of the game, and he didn't like the idea of turning into a mindless puppet on MDMA strings.
Roci… was instantly gone. Doflamingo thought nothing of it when Roci used once or twice a week. But when it turned into once or twice a day, and molly into heavier substances, Doflamingo started watching Roci.
What he saw surprised him. He had never seen his little brother so out of it; so careless and complacent. Sometimes it seemed that all Roci thought about was getting another dose. He stopped arguing with Doflamingo on whether drug trade was bad and other such nonsense; he would sell cut molly, get his money, and smile at the future corpse with his ever-bitten lips. He did what Doflamingo told him to, and didn't complain.
So Doflamingo worked another habit into their routine. Every time Roci was shooting up, he would come and watch. It was mesmerising, the way the glimmering needle broke pale skin littered with bruises, and sank into Roci's vein; the way the plunger would slowly go down, letting the clear poison into Roci's blood.
Doflamingo didn't like thinking that he was knowingly, willingly letting Roci poison himself. But he did like the new Roci, who obeyed his every word and didn't ask questions; who was so used to having Doflamingo by his side that he would lie shivering, cramping, and hurting for two days, and still refuse to inject himself, because Doflamingo was away doing business. It was almost as if to Roci, Doflamingo was a drug of his own.
And Doflamingo always took care to watch that Roci didn't overdose. He was a responsible big brother, after all.
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Doflamingo didn't remember how it started, but in hindsight, he must have always known how it would end. Somewhere between sleeping in cardboard boxes and taking over drug business in their whole district, they grew up.
A seventeen-year-old Doflamingo cut an imposing figure, if he said so himself. He was tall and handsome, he liked to dress stylishly and lavishly; he loved to impress. He could have (and often had) any girl he wanted, and he sure had the money to throw at the bitches who called him their boss. He was king, and in time, his kingdom would only grow.
His brother grew up to be stunningly similar to him in appearance—only thinner, slightly shorter, his hair longer and ragged. He had Mother's blue eyes and Doflamingo's lush lips, and legs so long he always tripped over them. He had beautiful hands with long delicate fingers and arms half-covered in bruises he hid with the long sleeves of his stupid shirts. He had the longest eyelashes, golden like a wheat field, and a smile he showed very rarely, and only to Doflamingo. He would lift up the corners of his lips and let those golden eyelashes fall on his cheeks, hiding the sky blue of his eyes, and touch Doflamingo's hand. That meant Roci was happy. Sometimes the smile would turn just a bit shy (or coy), and then Doflamingo knew Roci was going to ask for something. His requests were usually reasonable, so Roci was never denied.
Doflamingo remembered the days before it all came to ruin. Roci's smile was wider then, more open and sincere. It was all gone, the silliness, the goofiness, the wide open-mouthed smile and the loud laughter. Sometimes Doflamingo would remember that happy carefree child with something akin to regret. It didn't happen often, though. A pliant, quiet Roci was far more convenient… and now he needed his big brother like he never had before. Doflamingo liked that.
He liked that Roci would never refuse him, no matter what Doflamingo asked. He liked that when he finally pushed his brother on his narrow bed and kissed those lips that drove him mad for a year and a half, Roci just trembled, sighed and opened his mouth, like he had been expecting that, too.
Doflamingo knew every inch of him since they were kids, since they had to sleep wrapped in each other's arms to avoid freezing to death. At first Roci was just his little brother, a warm bundle of trouble, his and therefore precious to him—and untouchable to everyone else. Then came the teenage sexual frustration, with magazines full of photos of naked chicks, uncomfortable awakenings in the mornings and an endless supply of tissues by Doflamingo's bed. It was all so normal that one day Doflamingo just had to look at his brother freshly out of shower, droplets still glinting on his pale thin body and blue eyes glittering even brighter from behind the golden locks darkened with water, and realize—the thought a thunderstroke in his mind, deafening him and passing through his body like a lightning, leaving numbness in its wake—that his little brother had grown to become unforgivably beautiful.
He was clever, too, with flawless acting skills and tactical thinking to rival Doflamingo's. He wasn't a good fighter, neither strong nor fast nor agile, and with his legendary clumsiness, he would sooner knock out himself than an enemy, but he didn't need to be a fighter; Doflamingo wouldn't let him anyway.
Roci never went to school but he taught himself enough to make his advice worthy—and he was Doflamingo's precious little brother.
He felt all the more precious to Doflamingo when he finally let his hands wander under Roci's stupid shirt. The thin body shook finely, but Roci's eyes were wide open, and he made no move to push Doflamingo away.
Doflamingo wasn't sure he'd let him go even if Roci did push him away. He was Doflamingo's little brother—his responsibility, his property. Doflamingo liked to keep what was his close to his chest, and he certainly didn't share.
It was fortunate Roci understood that, too. After a moment's hesitation, he embraced him, and his skin felt as burning as ever. He let his legs fall open to accommodate Doflamingo, and he obediently lifted his hips to help Doflamingo get rid of his jeans. He slid Doflamingo's shirt off his shoulders, and he licked and sucked Doflamingo's fingers like a good bitch, lightly nipping on the fingertips.
When Doflamingo slid inside, it was like nothing he had felt before. No girl could ever compare to this—maybe other men could? Doflamingo was an ever curious soul, and he vowed to check this assumption as soon as possible.
But Roci was beautiful underneath him, flushed and open and waiting, looking so much like Doflamingo himself, making Doflamingo want so much he knew instantly he would never be able to give this up. He moved, and with each move, the wanting grew.
Finished and spent, he craved his brother like never before, like Roci's lips and body got so soaked with drugs that a mere touch was addictive. He didn't pull out until he got hard again, and he didn't pull out when Roci fell asleep underneath him, tired and fucked out.
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"We're gonna expand," Doflamingo told Roci one night, voice rough from all the shouting; unlike Roci, Doflamingo was never quiet. Roci lay curled up next to him, secure in his arms; he opened one blue eye to show he was listening. There were other men after their first night, and then there weren't, but Roci stayed. His brother, his lover, his right hand, almost as precious to Doflamingo as his own heart, beating next to Roci's in unison. "This business we've got going on is a good start, but we gotta try something new. See, I found a decent surgeon…"
Roci listened to him, silent, his body turning to stone in Doflamingo's arms.