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Spider Miles is a dreary place, all grey and brown and rust. It's far too reminiscent of the nameless town that Rosinante grew up in. Surrounded by the decrepit ruins of the island, Rosinante finds himself wallowing in memory far more often than he should, even standing on the balcony, high above the ground. The dusty breeze blows by, drying his mouth and coating it with the ghost of mouldy bread. He takes another drag of his cigarette to ward it away.
As he watches the smoke of his exhale trail up into the dishwater blue of the sky, he notes dark clouds crawling over the horizon. It's going to rain soon. That never bodes well for his mood. Rain means that the entirety of the family will be trapped indoors together, and Rosinante will be surrounded by raucous, disgusting criminals crowing and jeering and making a ruckus until it's dry again.
Rosinante considers the glowing cherry of his cigarette, wondering if today is the day he snaps. He could burn the whole place down, and damn the consequences. Sengoku wouldn't mind, not if he said his cover was on the verge of being blown…
“Corazon. Come with me,” Doffy says, startling Rosinante out of his reverie. He jerks his chin as he walks by and doesn’t pause to check if Rosinante is following him. Why would he? He’s Donquixote Doflamingo. The world bends to his will.
For all that Rosinante is disgusted by having to keep playing at obedience, he decides that he's not ready to pull the trigger on island-wide arson just yet. He stubs his cigarette out on the balcony railing and follows his older brother through the halls and into his bedroom, silent as a shadow.
“Shut the door behind you, Corazon. This might take a while.”
Rosinante does as he’s told, then digs around in his pockets for his notepad and pen.
“What’s this about, Doffy?” He scribbles on the paper.
When he looks up, he’s too shocked to hold the note out. Doffy is sprawled on the bed, totally naked from the waist down. More than that–
Doffy doesn’t have a dick? Rosinante's head is spinning as he tries to process the sight before him. Has it always been like this…? Why can’t I remember? Rosinante knows he should turn away, but he’s frozen, unable to stop himself from staring at Doffy’s naked crotch in all its impossibility. He jolts when Doffy breaks the silence.
“You might not recall, but back when we were kids, you commented on this when we were in the bath together,” Doffy scoffs and leans back on his hands, sounding nostalgic. “As a child, it was shocking to me that I didn’t have a penis, despite being a man. I was jealous of you having the parts that I didn’t, so I used to give you an ‘electric massage’ now and then.” It takes Rosinante a long, blinking moment before a hazy recollection from his childhood in Mariejois surfaces. He remembers being on his back, remembers crying and pleading, remembers Doffy standing over him and bringing his foot down between his spread legs–
The memories were so traumatic that I buried them deep, Rosinante realizes.
Even without him saying a word, he’s sure his glower communicates just wanted how much he doesn't want a reprise of that “game”.
“Fufu!” His brother laughs, then sits up straight for a moment. “You’ll be happy to know that I don’t plan on reviving the game… at least, not in that form.”
As quickly as he’d sat up, Doffy bends forward to dig around underneath the bed.
“Rather, I’m so happy to be reunited once more, that I want to apologize for my childhood trespasses properly–Ah, there it is.”
When Doffy raises his prize, triumphant, Rosinante can’t stop himself from grimacing in shock.
Is that a sex toy?!
“Come now, little brother,” Doffy says, grinning with all his teeth. He waves the vibrating wand, then spreads his legs, exuding all the confidence of a man who’s never gotten kicked in the dick. “Never let it be said that I don't pay my debts.”
It takes a beat before Rosinante gathers the courage to reach for the vibrator. The handle is heavy and cool in his palm. If he'd closed his eyes, he could almost believe what he holds in his hand is a weapon instead of an instrument of potential pleasure. As he tests the weight of the toy in his hand, Rosinante raises an eyebrow at Doffy, silently offering one last chance to back out. Not that Doffy takes it. Of course he wouldn’t—this whole thing was his idea.
“Go on.”
Rosinante squints at his brother for another long moment. Finally, he presses the “ON” button. He's already committed so many sins in his pursuit of justice. What's a little incestuous heavy petting compared to murder, in the grand scheme of things?
The low buzz of the wand oozes menace, so he’s admittedly gentle with his first experimental prods at Doffy’s cunt.
“Fufu! That tickles!” Doffy’s legs jerk, but only out of reflex, not discomfort. “Surely you can do better than that, Corazon?” He angles a smirk at Rosinante over his glasses and god, the condescension in that expression is so heavy, so irritating.
Rosinante’s self-control gives way with a nigh audible crack. One swift movement has both of his brother's wrists clutched in one hand, and then Rosinante has lunged forward, pinning Doffy down to the bed with his own weight.
“C-Cora-ah!! Corazon-nn!”
Doffy tries to speak, to complain or to accept, Rosinante doesn't know. All he knows, all he cares about, is that when he grabs the buzzing vibrator and jams it back down between Doffy's legs, holds it there on the highest setting—when he does that, a profound relief floods his body. The feeling of satisfaction he gets from hearing his brother squeal like a whore as Rosinante forces him to climax is the most healing thing he’s ever experienced. It’s sweeter than honey, more refreshing than summer rain.
I could get addicted to this, he thinks as Doffy stutters and sobs his way into incoherency. For all his brother’s writhing, Rosinante is seated solidly. His brother can't move an inch, can't escape the way Rosinante is still laying into his puffy cunt. Stopping at one climax would make this a pleasant experience, after all, and Rosinante’s goal is nothing less than punishment.
“Fuh-! Fuck!!”
Doffy curses and moans, tossing his head and shaking as the vibrator in Rosinante's hand drags orgasm after orgasm out of his body. Tears start leaking past the frames of his glasses, cutting shining trails down his cheeks. The slice of Rosinante’s soul that howls for vengeance feels a deep catharsis at the sight. After all of the hardship that he's suffered at Doffy's hands, here, finally, is some measure of restitution for Rosinante's pain: a taste of what it feels like to be the one harming, instead of being harmed.
“Plea-! Co-ooooh!!”
Doffy's voice is so much weaker now than it had been when he'd screamed through that first orgasm, Rosinante notes dispassionately. Cracked and quavering, he realizes his brother's tone reminds him of how he'd sounded back when they were children—sick and weak and so in love with each other.
Where had that love gone?
Rosinante doesn't know.
“Please! Rosi!”
He looks down at Doffy's gasping mouth, feels how little strength is left in the jerks of his arms against Rosinante's grip, and his heart twinges. He wants revenge, but… maybe this was enough.
Doffy goes limp the moment Rosinante shuts the vibrator off. He doesn't twitch when Rosinante lets go of his wrists, doesn't even move when Rosinante lifts his weight off him and rolls off the bed.
Maybe in another world, that would have been it. Rosinante would have wiped his hands clean on the blankets and left the room without a goodbye.
But.
Rosinante looks back.
Doffy is sprawled on the bed, body still laid out where Rosinante had left it, arms above his head and legs spread obscenely wide. His pussy is right there, wet and open and red and god, Rosinante could probably take his pulse just by pressing two fingers to his swollen clit.
The urge to touch is suddenly overwhelming.
Rosinante should leave. He should keep walking out the door, then go sit out on his open balcony and chainsmoke until the coming rains drown the awful heat burning in his core. Up until now, he could pretend that the only reason he'd participated in this was to keep his cover. If he stays... But fuck, he can't stop himself.
He turns back, dropping onto the edge of the bed between Doffy’s legs, and drags his thumb over the puffy lips of Doffy's pussy. Doffy whimpers, and Rosinante knows that this is wrong, but he doesn't stop. He can't. He slides two fingers into Doffy's slick heat, pushes them in as deep as he can go and twists.
Doffy gasps, head lifting to meet Rosinante's eyes through the lenses of his glasses. They’ve been knocked off-kilter, and Rosinante catches a glimpse of his irises, as red as Rosinante's own.
“Rosi?” Doffy slurs, looking down at Rosinante's hand in his cunt with dazed surprise.
Rosinante doesn’t reply. He wouldn’t have even if he’d had the ability to talk. Instead, he reaches for his belt buckle, letting the click of it inform Doffy of his intentions.
At this point, Doffy is supposed to stop him. He’s supposed to scramble away or summon strings to toss Rosinante out of the room for being a perverted freak. He’s supposed to say no.
Instead, for some reason, Doffy sighs and lets his head fall back against his mattress. Blond lashes flutter against his cheeks as his eyes close. Rosinante pauses, then nudges his hip with his free hand. Doffy’s eyes stay shut, and only the faintest whine escapes his mouth. He’s passed out from exhaustion.
This is another chance for Rosinante to leave.
But he’d already made his decision to throw himself into damnation when he'd first turned back, and Doffy’s consent hadn’t figured into it then. Why would it now? So Rosinante pulls his fingers out of his brother, yes, but only so that he can replace them with his cock.
Tight. That’s the word that overwhelms every thought in Rosinante's mind when he sinks into Doffy’s cunt. He moves slowly not because he wants to, but because it’s physically impossible to shove himself in any faster. Doffy's childhood anger hadn't been misplaced—Rosinante's cock is bigger than normal, even considering his proportions. For all that Doffy’s still dripping wet from how many times he’d come, it’s impossible for him to take all of Rosinante's cock with no prep at all. At least, not right away.
But while Rosinante's first thrust only barely makes it halfway in, Doffy does take him eventually. Rosinante won’t settle for anything less. He heaves one of his brother’s legs over his shoulder for leverage and rolls his hips, gradually working his way deeper each thrust, shoving his way past the resistance of his brother's straining walls. Silent pants and grunts escape Rosinante's mouth, his thoughts blank, but for the single, burning goal of bottoming out. He falls into a mindless kind of rhythm, rocking his hips in time with his breath, clutching Doffy’s thigh with one hand, and gripping his hip with the other, bracing him to keep him from sliding up the bed as Rosinante fucks him.
When he finally sheathes his cock all the way into Doffy’s body, he stills, overcome with the need to memorize this moment. Sweat drips down his neck, mirrored by the way their combined fluids drip down his hip and thigh from where they’re joined. His balls are snug against Doffy’s ass, and his cock… fuck. It feels like he’s barely managed to cram himself inside of Doffy’s body with how tight his cunt is squeezing down around him. At the same time, that luscious heat is also sucking him in, pulsing around him with Doffy’s heartbeat, like Doffy's body knows who ought to be filling it up—who it belongs to.
On impulse, Rosinante turns his head and presses his mouth against the inside of Doffy’s knee in something that he won’t call a kiss. It leaves a smear of red lipstick behind, bright red and lurid on Doffy’s skin. The sight of that mark makes Rosinante's gut squirm and twist with a possessive fervour that he resolutely ignores.
He starts moving again. When he picks up speed, he can almost forget what he’s doing, who he’s fucking, can almost lose himself in the pleasure rushing through him. At the same time, though, it’s impossible for him to forget. The lust punching him in the gut truly is born from the fact that it’s Doffy that he’s inside of, that he’s fucking his older brother who he hates only slightly less than he loves. And fuck, there's the truth he'd been trying to avoid: he loves his brother for all that he tries to forget it.
Rosinante groans in passion and regret, instinctively biting down on his lip even though he knows that his devil fruit will keep any sound from reaching Doffy’s ears. What flashes through his body burns too hot to be fire, too cold to be ice, too bright to be light. It’s the closest thing that he’s ever felt to holiness, the first time he’s ever understood why a person might call themselves divine.
And then, it’s over.
He crumples forward, sprawling over Doffy’s chest. He feels hollow, empty, like a once-sodden sponge wrung dry. His shoulders heave once before he catches himself and swallows the sobs back. He can’t break down like some kind of rookie, not with the risk of his brother waking up hanging over his head.
Rosinante picks himself up and pulls out of Doffy, then struggles his cock back into his pants. He doesn’t do anything to make his brother more comfortable, doesn’t even look back, just leaves him on the bed with his legs splayed wide, leaking come while he stumbles out of the room.
It’s not until the door closes behind Rosinante that Doffy lets one of his eyes slit open. Even then, he waits several long minutes before he moves, swinging his legs closed and stretching his arms, luxuriating in the sore throb of his well-used cunt.
“Oh Rosi,” he chuckles, re-settling his glasses onto the bridge of his nose. “If I’d ever had doubts as to whether or not you were a fake, that would have killed them. The Donquixote blood definitely runs true in you, for all that it skipped our sire.”
He sits up, and his grin widens when he feels liquid oozing out between his legs from his change of position. He swipes some of it up, then admires the pearly sheen of the wetness coating his fingers for a moment before he sucks them clean.
“Fufufu.”
Doffy’s hand returns to his crotch, picking up more of Rosinante's come and rubbing it over the swell of his clit.
“One more round? Don’t mind if I do.”
He shifts himself over to a drier part of the mattress and sprawls out again, laughter bubbling out of his mouth as he tilts his head back against the pillows and goes to work.