Archive of Our Own

When he’s a baby, the very vague memories that are tinted with white and purity, with Paradise, with his rightful place as a God, he knows that the celebration is a thing because his parents kiss his cheeks and wish him a happy Valentines.

His years as a toddler stay just as muddled, vague memories not that important and as such not as needed to be remembered. He does remember with startling clarity for a two year old the day his mother gave birth to his little brother, he remembers climbing onto her bed while his useless father laughed merrily at his struggles, he remembers holding out a bouquet of flowers towards her that she took with delight. He remembers his mother holding him against her side, Rosinante’s little hand clutching at one of his fingers, the sunny and gummy smile of a baby that wasn’t even able to open his eyes yet but that had completely stolen Doflamingo’s heart.

“Look, Doffy, this is little Rosinante. He’s your little brother, so you must protect him, okay?”

“Mhm!” His excessive nod leaves him dizzy, but his smile is radiant.

That Valentine’s he spends curled around his brother, gazing at the sleeping baby with the closest thing to adoration that will ever reflect in his eyes and passing a flower over his little arms and hands, tickling the little baby and giggling softly at his sleepy but content smile.  Besides that, there are no clear memories, after all he’s only two years old at the time.

He’s three years old and his father has taken to trying to correct his attitude towards the slaves, even as his mother looks on with confusion. That Valentine’s they spend as a family. Rosinante has started taking his first steps, and the first time he manages to actually do something close to walking he meanders as directly as he can towards Doflamingo, happily screeching “‘Ingo!” while holding his arms out.

During that celebration, Doflamingo holds one of his brother’s hands, delicately putting a flower behind one of his ears and smiling when his little Rosinante giggles delightedly. There’s a feeling of peace settled into his heart, warm and safe, and deeply fulfilling.

At four years old, his parents kiss their cheeks and leave them under the care of the servants and slaves with clear instructions of what to do. Doflamingo pulls on the butler’s pant leg and demands that a slave be sent to find the best flowers for Rosinante. The family butler smiles indulgently and presents Doflamingo with a bouquet about an hour after he makes his request.

During the day, in between playing and eating, he keeps handing Rosinante flowers from the bouquet. He smiles, accomplished, when there are no more flowers by the time their parents get home.

When he’s five and Rosinante is three, he’s finally able to hold his brother by the hand and take him to the garden for a little picnic. Their parents aren’t around, having chosen to spend this day of love by themselves, but that gives Doflamingo even more time to spend with Rosinante without interruptions. Inside the picnic basket, besides the food, there is a small bouquet of flowers that he takes great care to make into a flower crown and put on his brother’s head, and a little flower ring that he puts on the same finger their parents wear their wedding rings.

Doflamingo is six years old when he asks his mother — because his father has been acting weird, cagey, shifty — if he can take Rosinante on a date for Valentine’s. Her expression is delighted and she claps with joy, asking the butler to arrange for the slaves to fix everything exactly as Doflamingo wants it.

He hand-feeds his little brother, kissing his cheeks whenever he can and kissing his knuckles whenever Rosinante stays still for more than three seconds. When the daylight is gone and the fake candle light shines brightly, Doflamingo hands his brother a complete bouquet and delights in Rosinante’s giggles and blush, and seeing him surrounded by the gentle light of the fake candles and the real stars Doflamingo thinks Rosinante is brighter and purer than the sun.

By the time he’s seven years old he no longer trusts his father. There is something he’s hiding and not even his mother knows what it is. Still, he chooses to ignore it and focus on his little brother who, while holding his hand, is pulling him into the greenhouse and giggling in mischief at the harried servants running after them.

That Valentine’s they spend amongst the flowers that his mother requested be planted on the greenhouse, playing with the butterflies and with each other, Rosinante shrieking in delight whenever Doflamingo manages to grab him and kiss his face and part of his neck. They walk around the greenhouse hand in hand, and Doflamingo makes a bouquet himself for the first time ever with any flower that Rosinante points at.

When they go back to their house, he walks his little brother to their mother’s office and declares that he’s going to marry Rosinante when they are adults. His mother, as sweet as her name, lights up in delight and hugs them in congratulations.

When he’s eight years old his father starts making noises about being “human” and ignoring the worried and slightly horrified look on his mother’s face. Rosinante’s expression is kept carefully hidden behind his bangs but Doflamingo can recognize the fear in the strength of his grip.

He kisses him for the first time that Valentine’s, a strategically held bouquet keeping him away from their father’s eyes while their mouths find each other in close-mouthed kisses, one after the other, and Doflamingo has never felt that bliss during all his life.

His world falls apart soon after that.

When he’s nine years old he holds a mess of a bouquet in front of his angel, and curses at their father in his mind when this is the best he can give to his most beloved.

He doesn’t care to hide anything from the useless lump of a man that is their father by the time he’s ten. What’s he going to do? He can’t keep them safe, he can’t keep his wife alive, he can’t keep Rosinante unharmed. That Valentine’s, Doflamingo bites down on his brother’s ring finger, gently pulls a wildflower behind his ear, and sits him on his lap.

He kisses him then, like the adults do, putting his hands on his hips but down his shirt, pressing their lower halves together and opening his mouth to tangle their tongues. There’s drool on the corners of their mouths, and whenever they separate for longer than a second Rosinante looks dazed. Doflamingo feels tingly all over.

His world burns to ashes when the disgusting humans tie him and his Rosinante up, when they torture them, when his darling screams for them to stop and they don’t listen. His world collapses when he returns from Mary Geoise, his father’s head discarded along the way, to find that his brother is no longer where he left him and once again when he looks all over the island to find no trace of his brother.

Valentine's Day stops being important after that.

He still takes the time to prepare a bouquet by hand and gently leave it on the shore for the waves take wherever it ends up at.

He tells no one about it, but he thinks Vergo knows.

He sleeps around, women older than him by a number of years. His bed partners are always women, never blondes, never close to his size, never with sunset-red eyes, never with bangs, never when he’s sober, never with the same girl twice in a row.
Never on Valentine’s day.

He drinks and drinks and drinks, he lets bloodlust cloud his mind, he lets himself forget-forget-forget the heat of a smaller hand on his own, the way his brother’s taste was so sweet, the gentle charm of a giggle.
He never gets drunk or raids an enemy base on Valentine’s day.

Valentine’s day has already passed when spring returns to his life after his 24 birthday, 14 years passing by in an unending winter. 

Gone are the giggles, gone is the softness of his frame, gone is the light in his eyes and the gentleness of his touch, but the man in front of him is Rosinante. Doflamingo would know him even blind and deaf, but he has to ask, he has to know, he needs to understand how and why now.

The answers are not given in a way he would ever expect.

His brother's handwriting is… wonky. But it doesn’t matter, because Rosinante is communicating with him even in this way and the only thing Doflamingo cares about is that his brother found a way for them to talk to each other, a way where no one else could interrupt with a stupid comment in between their conversation.

The answers he gets are horrible. His little brother, patiently waiting for him to return only to be run out of his hiding spot by those disgusting humans, only to be rescued — on a technicality — by a random old woman that threw him onto a small fishing boat and screamed at him to leave the island if he wanted to live. He learned of the years his brother spent scavenging in the trash to survive, of other pariahs that ran him out of their spots, of all the wounds that had scarred badly and now lined his flesh.

Rosinante told him of Valentine’s days spent looking for wildflowers to put on his hair, of stolen sweets put in front of stolen candles. Of finding a wanted poster and knowing he wouldn’t be able to reach him, not yet.
Of not caring, and almost dying at sea.

Rosinante offers, without making a big deal out of it, to show Doflamingo the scar of when they were crucified by those humans if he needs to make sure Rosinante is who he claims to be.

Doflamingo doesn’t need it, hadn’t even thought of asking his brother to prove his identity, but the offer to see and touch his brother, to hold him… it’s too much for him to pass. So he nods, and Rosinante stands up, drops the mess of a backpack to the floor, and unbuttons his shirt.

He can’t take his eyes off of his brother, of the expanses of skin being offered up for him, and without even trying to control himself he stands up and presses a hand against Rosinante’s abs.

He smiles when Rosinante shudders, hums in delight when Rosinante opens his mouth in a silent gasp when Doflamingo brings one hand up to his mouth to kiss his knuckles like he did when they were young. Smiles, happy, when Rosinante blushes as he traces his kisses up and up from his hand to his collarbone.

He holds him with one hand around his waist, tracing gently all over the scar tissue that seems to consume his brother, and continues kissing from his collarbone to his neck, to the underside of his jaw, up to the lobe of his ear, his forehead, the bridge of his nose.

He stops, putting the smallest amount of distance that he can, to stare at his brother. His own voice is a whisper, wrecked, destroyed so effortlessly by someone who’s not even trying to destroy him.

“Rosinante.” It’s a request, a demand, a clamor, a sinner kneeling in front of his God. “My Rosinante.”

His younger brother closes his eyes, waiting. And Doflamingo is not a Saint, so he falls. He kisses him, pressing him against his front, walking backwards until his knees make contact with the couch and letting himself fall back, dragging his brother down with him. There’s no noise when the air leaves Rosinante’s mouth, no noise when he twists and turns and straddles his older brother on the couch, no noise when Doflamingo’s hands find his waist, go up his back, pulls his shirt down his shoulders, down his arms, off his hands, no complain when Doflamingo throws that rag that dared to adorn his brother to the floor.

The only noise is their heavy breathing and the noises their mouths make while they exchange saliva. It’s been years, 14 years to be exact, since the last time Doflamingo tasted his brother’s sweetness, and he knows he won’t be able to go back to how it was during that time now that he has Rosinante back where he belongs.

He doesn’t pay attention to the moment he gets hard, only separating for a second to turn his desperate kisses to his brother’s neck while the hand at his waist pulls him closer and closer. Rosinante throws his head back and Doflamingo uses his movement to paint even more bruises on the long expanse of unharmed skin.

He only notices he’s hard because Rosinante starts grinding his ass on top of his dick. His piece of sunlight gasps mutely, his breathing laboured, before he pulls on Doflamingo’s hair so they can make eye contact. He mouths “Aniue” and nothing else matters in Doflamingo’s eyes.

He grabs his waist, pulling his brother down onto his clothed cock and thrusting his hips up, both of them humping the other in desperation. They kiss again, more tongue and saliva than an actual kiss, more of an exchange of hot air than a pressing of lips.

Their movements are harsh, desperate, huffing and puffing, biting lips and tongues, Doflamingo pulling back to press lips and teeth against his brother’s neck and return like a dehydrated man back to Rosinante’s mouth, his hands are holding so tightly to his brother that he knows for a fact that he’ll find fingerprints later on and the idea of leaving his mark on his brother’s skin gets him so hot and bothered that for a second he can’t control the rhythm they found with one another.

It takes Doflamingo by surprise when he realizes he’s about to cum like this, without even putting his hard erection inside his brother’s tempting body, but he can’t help the pride he feels when Rosinante’s hips hitch, completely abandoning their already destroyed rhythm. He pulls back harshly, needing to see his brother cumming on his lap, and is rewarded by the most beautiful scenery he’s ever seen.

Rosinante is blushing, sweat is gleaming down his chest and saliva spills from the corner of his mouth, there are tears caught on his lashes and his eyes look dazed, the front of his pants is already turning a darker shade than the rest of his pants, and Doflamingo licks his lips at the sudden surge of hunger he feels. Rosinante is still weakly moving his hips against Doflamingo’s erection, most of his energy already spent after his orgasm but still wanting to bring pleasure to his brother, and Doflamingo can’t wait even for a second.

He pulls Rosinante back a little, just enough so he can undo his pants and take his dick out of the confining clothing, and then grabs Rosinante’s waist once more, pulling him closer to himself while he jacks off so fast that his hand is a blur. He points his dick at his brother’s stomach, the idea of his cum painting his little brother’s skin so hot that he can’t keep quiet, a constant stream of “Rosinante” falling from his lips like a devotee begging for favor from a deity.

He doesn’t last long when Rosinante puts his hand over his own, a deep and animalistic growl ripping itself from his throat when he feels the callouses on his brother’s hand make contact with the skin of his dick.

Light sparkles behind his eyes when he finally comes, pressing his dick harshly against his brother’s abs and noting with muffled satisfaction that the splatter reached up to his chin and down to the already darkened spot on Rosinante’s pants. He breathes harshly, letting his forehead rest against his brother’s collarbone while Rosinante’s fingers of his clean hand gently pass through his hair.

When their breathing is once again back to normal he finally pulls his head away from his little safety place at his brother’s neck and notices with satisfaction the light of mischief shining in Rosinante’s gaze. He swallows, heavy, when Rosinante shows him his dirtied hand and starts licking his fingers and palm clean. His dick, still out, twitches in interest and Doflamingo groans while Rosinante chuckles silently.

“You’re teaching me how to sign.” His perfect little brother nods, smiling at him with love in his eyes.

He’s 25, fluent in sign — or at least the bastardization of the language that his brother developed out of necessity while on the streets — and sure of his destiny, when he’s finally able to celebrate a Valentine’s day with the only one that matters.

Doflamingo knew, since the second he saw the man his angel of a brother had become, that this Rosinante was not the same from his memories. He was okay with that, he loved him anyway, but he couldn’t say he’d expected some of the specific changes that had befallen on his younger sibling.

First of all, Rosinante now hated kids. Or at least he acted as if he did. Doflamingo pretended he couldn’t see the spark of longing that seemed to shine in his eyes whenever he stared at some of the younger kids that looked to join the Family.

Second, his brother’s temper seemed all but gone. He glared at those of the Family that even jokingly commented about how close the two brothers were, his smiles were only reserved to Doflamingo — and once to Vergo, but none of them talked about it, nor did they talk about the sudden spike of bad luck that the Original Corazón had to deal with after that.

And third, Rosinante was needy now. Whenever they found themselves alone Doflamingo found himself with a lap full of younger brother, Rosinante playing with the hairs at his nape, gently pressing open mouthed kisses on his jaw.

It was messing with his self control, especially when whenever they tried to take things to the next level something or another always seemed to happen — Doflamingo needed to be inside his brother now, and judging by the amount of hatred that filled his Rosinante’s gaze whenever they were interrupted then Doflamingo could say without fear that the feeling was mutual.

Thankfully, Valentine’s day was just around the corner. Everyone knew not to bother Doflamingo on Valentine’s, and he was going to make sure to reinforce the order, to remind every member of his family that he was not to be bothered this Valentine’s, not when he finally had his most beloved by his side and their intentions aligned to the same purpose.

A small hiccup happens two days before Valentine’s day.

Doflamingo had been getting things ready in the closest room that could pass as a greenhouse in Spider Miles — he’d packed that dilapidated and abandoned room full with vibrant flowers, had called for one of his contacts to have the finest wine ready for the day, had managed to find the closest imitation to the good chocolate their parents had shared with them when they were younger, he’d commissioned for a copy of his feathercoat in his brother favored darker color (he’d wanted it red, but Rosinante tended to prefer black whenever he had to go on a recon mission for the Family) — when shit hits the fan. One of the things he’d requested was the softest carpets, bedding, pillows, duvets, anything that could work as padding on the floor so he could take his brother wherever the mood struck, along with it he’d requested a ridiculous amount of lube taking into account his size and his brother’s previous preference for topping, and most of those things he'd stored in a different room so he could grab them the day of.

Things were almost perfect, the padding-carpet-bedding-duvet mix of things was already installed and careful piles of blankets — that Vergo had called nests, and the idea of his most beloved laying down comfortably in a space Doflamingo had meticulously prepared for him did bring to mind the animal he shared a name with and also did things to him — when one of the newest recruits of the Family, an idiotic brat of no more than fifteen, had “accidentally” set fire to Doflamingo’s preparations.

He kept promising and swearing that it was an accident, but Doflamingo had seen the glare he’d given them when he caught them kissing in one of the hallways and that was before he’d introduced Rosinante as his beloved little brother, so he had reasons to suspect that the “accidental” fire was actually purposefully.

The rage had been blinding at that moment, enough that he’d beaten the kid with his fists instead of using his fruit, enough that he’d left him half dead and made Vergo go pick Rosinante from their rooms so Doflamingo could give him the honor of finishing the bastard that ruined their plans.

When Rosinante reached the office, Doflamingo had stood up, hugging him by the waist and kissing him without a care of whoever was in the space with them. Vergo had already departed from the office, so no one that mattered would be bothered. With that in mind he grabbed Rosinante’s thighs, holding his weight like it was nothing and slamming him against the wall while refusing to let his brother breathe.

When he finally got his fill of Rosinante, he gently set him back on his feet before letting him see the bastard glaring at them from the floor.

“Rosi, mi corazón. This bastard tried to ruin our preparations.” His voice was cold, and even Rosinante stared at him in confusion and weariness. “So, since I already got one form of revenge, why not let you have your fun too?”

He grabbed the gun, specifically designed to be the pair to the one he tended to favor, and gently set it on Rosinante’s hands. His beloved looked at him before focusing back on the gun, on the design, on all the little modifications that made it even better than any other Rosinante might’ve had access to. He could see the excited smile on his brother’s face, and he smiled back once he turned back to him.

“Why not debut it with this… worthless human?” Rosinante stared at him, then back at the teenager, before tilting his head to the side in clear question. “He tried to burn down the little space I meticulously prepared for our Valentine’s celebration. The idiot didn’t even realize that it was just the holding room.”

The indignation on his brother’s face is sublime, the rage that transforms his face into a punishing angel is perfect. He can’t help it, hugging him from the back and starting to kiss and nibble on his brother’s neck, his hands pressed against his front, one slowly making his way towards his belt and the other sliding up to tease Rosinante’s chest over his clothing. Even with Doflamingo groping him, Rosinante’s grip on the gun is stable and sure.

When he starts rubbing his clothed erection against his brother’s backside, Rosinante finally pulls the trigger. They are close, too close, close enough for blood to splatter them too, and Doflamingo can’t contain his full-body shudder when Rosinante licks one of the droplets of blood that ended up on his face.

With desperation, with agony, with a need so strong that it feels like he’ll die, he turns his brother around and shoves his tongue down his throat. Feeling Rosinante choke because of the sudden movement, feeling his throat work hard either to swallow him whole or to expel him from his mouth is heaven.

He grabs a handful of Rosinante’s ass only to move that hand to his thigh and pull it up-up-up, so it’s resting against his hip, so they can hump against one another fast, like two animals in heat, like two deities of fertility. The idea of Rosinante somehow carrying his kids is what forces him to pull away from the kiss.

“Mi vida, mi alma, mi corazón. No sabes cuánto me encantaría que tuvieras mis hijos.” His voice is breathy, gruff, and Rosinante nods-shakes his head-pulls his hair. “I know, you hate kids, but they’ll be ours, mi corazón.”

Rosinante points at their crotches and Doflamingo laughs. “Yeah, you’re a male. I know. But maybe Ivankov would be willing to help. Although-” he groans, repeating that movement again and watching in fascination as Rosinante throws his head back to offer his neck for marking, “-the idea of sharing you,- fuck, Rosi, baby, the idea- ngh-, even if they’re our kids-”

Rosinante uses the leg around Doflamingo’s waist to pull him even closer, scratching at the skin of his upper back and breathing quick and heavy. Like this, with small droplets of blood, with a loaded gun in his hand resting against Doflamingo’s back, with ecstasy written in every line of his face, he looks feral and it speaks to the beast living under Doflamingo’s skin.

“I won’t share you- never, I won’t- not even with our kids- fuck, Rosi, right there baby.”

Months of teasing one another, of rubbing against each other in whatever hallway they can find empty at the time, of grinding against each other during those few minutes they can spear alone in Doflamingo’s office, of unsatisfactory jerk-off sessions where they have to be fast because Doflamingo is still the head of a crime Family and he can’t take time off or make those disgusting humans wait for too long, of sharing a bed and shoving his cock between his brother’s thighs while jerking him off and teasing his nipples, until his Rosinante is crying and trying to push his hand away from his sensitive chest.

He wants to wait, he wants to take his brother on Valentine’s because it’s always been a day that means something to them and their story, but it’s like a haze has settled over his head and red tints his eyes. He pushes three fingers against Rosinante’s mouth, and breathes heavily when his brother immediately takes them inside his mouth, he only gives Rosinante a few minutes to wet the fingers as much as he can before shoving his other hand between them and undoing Rosinante’s belt and pants, pulling them down enough that his brother’s entrance is unobstructed to his seeking fingers. With that same hand he pulls at his brother’s cheek, groaning when he finally feels the skin of his Rosinante’s back directly, and finally takes his fingers out of Rosinante’s mouth, who lets his tongue loll out so the string of saliva joining Doflamingo’s fingers and Rosinante’s sinful mouth together stays intact for a few torturous seconds. Once that breaks it’s like Doflamingo’s patience is breaking with it, attacking his brother’s mouth like a starving beast and circling one of his fingers against his brother’s hole.

He groans when he feels it open slightly, almost like it’s trying to seduce him, to call him inside, and he might be a god but he’s only as strong as his desires, and he wants like he’s never wanted before.

“Punch me if it hurts.”  

He gives no time for Rosinante to nod or acknowledge his words, shoving one finger inside up to his knuckle before pulling it out and back inside again. In and out and in and out, and his beloved scratches his shoulders, the noise of the gun falling to the floor ignored by both males, but Doflamingo refuses to stop and Rosinante hasn’t punched him yet so he continues like that, keeping his mouth busy by biting and sucking hickies on his neck and collabones and right under his ear, any spot possible so everyone knows, so they know that none of them can touch his Rosinante.

The fog in his head thins slightly when he feels Rosinante gently punch his shoulder and pull his head back by his hair. He slows down, unwilling to fully stop but respecting and loving his brother too much for him to ignore a stop sign, and smirks when Rosinante pouts at him and signals to put a second finger in.

“Fuck, angel,” he groans, almost in pain, as he pushes two fingers in. Rosinante slams his head against the wall at his back before Doflamingo bites his collarbone. “Don’t hurt yourself, that’s my job.” He groans again when Rosinante’s insides squeeze his fingers, desperate to feel that movement against his dick. “We need to- fuck, yes- baby, angel, mi corazón y mi vida- we gotta, slow-” he licks at Rosinante’s neck, sucking another hickie, moving to his lips. Throughout the preparation their hips keep moving against each other, the space between them boiling with their combined desire. “We gotta slow down, Rosi- ngh-” He bites Rosinante’s face as a scolding when his brat of a brother squeezes his fingers once again and pulls him back by his hair to kiss him. “Fuck- fuck- angel, please. Please, yeah? Tw- two days- Rosi-”

He shoves his third finger inside even while he begs Rosinante to have patience, and groans long and hard against his brother’s throat when Rosinante scratches his back at the feeling, and with ragged breathing he resumes marking his brother’s throat.

“Rosinante- mi vida, get me out of these pants- I swear- fuck, yes, thank you angel- fuck, fuck- yes, perfect, like that- fuck you feel- huff, ngh, Rosi- baby, bite me- Fuck! Yes!”

He groans, the feeling of Rosinante’s dick being pressed against his own, of Rosinante’s hand around both their erections, of Rosinante’s teeth marking his neck and his fangs breaking skin, of Rosinante’s insides squeezing his fingers and desperately trying to pull him deeper-deeper-deeper, all of it is heaven and torture for his senses, he’s so close that his head hurts and light keeps exploding behind his eyelids.

He grins, unhinged, when his fingers press against a specific bump and his brother arches against his chest, his shirt clinging to his skin and his cock jump-jump-jumping at the sensation, Doflamingo uses that second of Rosinante being overwhelmed to nibble at his ear and chuckle against it.

“Yea’? ‘S good, right?” His smirk grows even more when Rosinante nods mindlessly, “can you imagine how good- fuck, Seas- how fucking better it’ll feel with my cock instead?”

He groans, long and hard when Rosinante scratches his back purposefully and bites down at his neck. They’re both so close it's a wonder neither has come just yet, but they both want the other to break first. It’s a game, to see how long it takes for Rosinante to shove his brother to the floor and use him as a toy or for Doflamingo to throw him to the desk and fuck him against it, and neither wants to lose. Not yet, not when the finish line is so close.

A knock against the door, the congested voice of Trevol announcing his presence, and the rattling of the doorknob announces that their time is up, and Doflamingo’s threat of dismemberment is the only thing that stops Trevol from simply shoving the door open and finding them like this. It’s not like they’ve hidden their relationship from the rest of the Family, but no one in that equation wants to see them like that or be seen like this.

Rosinante focuses on jacking them off fast-fast-fast and tight-tight-tight, and Doflamingo is falling head first to an overwhelming orgasm. He jabs his fingers against Rosinante’s prostate, quick and harsh, slamming against it again and again and again until finally his little brother comes first, opening his mouth in ecstasy even when no noise leaves him. He quickly comes right after him, groaning and cursing and repeating Rosinante’s name like it’s the only thing left in his brain. Who cares who hears them, Doflamingo can just kill them all if they have something against it.

Valentine’s day is as perfect as he planned for. The pseudo-greenhouse is clean, the floors are soft and padded, there are piles of bedding and soft duvets or blankets, on the corner there is a low table and a singular beanbag and on top of the table there is a bottle of wine and fingerfoods, the expensive chocolate, and a gift box where he knows Rosinante’s featherjacket sits.

He wakes his beloved up with soft and gentle kisses on his nape, the hand draped over Rosinante’s waist tracing circles over his stomach, teasing his belly button, circling around his nipples and moving back down again. He chuckles when Rosinante huffs, and kisses his cheek when he weakly glares at him. The sun is yet to come up, but Doflamingo wants to enjoy this day, to listen to his hedonism in ways he hasn’t been able to since becoming the head of a Crime Family and a wanted Pirate, to rot in decadence, so he takes his beloved glare in stride and kisses him softly.

Rosinante melts under him, exhaling gently. Doflamingo misses his voice like an aching wound, and he knows it’s a sore spot so he refrains from mentioning it, but he knows that if his beloved had been left unharmed he would’ve hummed in lazy pleasure. It’s clear in the way his body moves, in the way he melts after every kiss, in the lazy and unhurried way he hugs his neck and pulls him closer, almost on top, in how when they separate for a few seconds Rosinante smiles at him filled with love and adoration.

Desire burns slowly through him, as slow as the path his mouth traces from Rosinante’s lips to his neck, his Adam’s apple, the spot underneath his ear, the prominent vein on his neck, the hollow of his throat where vocal cords no longer work, his collarbones.

He takes his time, slow and steady but insistent. As he continues on he thanks his past self for whatever it is he did that allowed him this view, his brother shirtless and flushed under him, a besotted smile on his face even when his eyes keep turning towards the clock Doflamingo keeps in his room.

It takes him a few seconds but he huffs in amusement and self consciousness before explaining that everyone in the Family knows he is not to be bothered on Valentine’s and at Rosinante’s tilted head he clarifies that this Valentine’s is not an exception, that every year this day is sacred, the one day Doflamingo has always kept free. Rosinante stares at him with clear surprise before his eyes soften, his hands caress Doflamingo’s face, and he details in gentle and slow signs how he too kept Valentine’s as a sacred day, how he hid away in places so he wouldn’t be bothered, how even when he found random work he always disappeared on Valentine’s.

The knowledge is devastating in the best way possible, to be told that despite how young Rosinante was when they could spend their Valentine’s together they still meant enough for him to keep that day special.

Doflamingo lets his full weight rest against Rosinante, snickering at his annoyed huff and kissing his shoulder right over the clear scar of a bullet wound. He hasn’t asked about all the scars, but he drinks all the information Rosinante has deemed to share and the names Rosinante knew. Most of them are no longer around even before Doflamingo re-entered the picture, and others are on the Family’s hit list.

They laze around until the sun rises, Rosinante going in and out of sleep and Doflamingo contemplating him. He thought he’d lost this, and for 14 years that had remained a reality, a horrible eternal winter where the only memory was his brother screaming and begging him to not kill their useless father, a begging he’d ignored and thought he’d then paid a horrible price for, believing Rosinante to have run away from him when in reality his most beloved had been chased out. But here he was now, safe and secure and in his arms once more.

By the time they finally leave their bed, Doflamingo takes him to the prepared room. There is breakfast on the table, and Doflamingo mentally notes to give Giolla a free day and thank Vergo. He sits down on the beanbag and drags his brother down his lap, carefully feeding him small pieces of breakfast and being fed in return.

When breakfast is gone, so is Doflamingo’s patience. When he turns his brother’s head to kiss him he can see the same hunger reflected in his eyes. The kiss, that was going to start slowly, became a forest fire of passion, a clash of teeth and lips and tongues.

In the blink of an eye Rosinante is face-up on the table, shirtless and flushed and drooling, his chest marked with Doflamingo’s teeth and the shape of his mouth, his pants unbuttoned and showing that tempting stretch of skin that seemed to go on-and-on with no view of any form of underwear.

Doflamingo swallowed heavily before asking, smirking right back at his mischievous brother when he confessed to be wearing none.

Getting him naked was the work of a second, and he only stopped admiring his brother when Rosinante complained about being the only naked one. His shirt flew off fast, but his pants were skin-tight and annoying, even more difficult to get out of now that he was hard. When he finally was naked in front of Rosinante he couldn’t help the ego boost at his reaction, at the way his pupils dilated, at the way his pulse seemed to spike, at how his dick jumped and leaked precum in interest. He pressed their dicks together, enamored at the fact that he was bigger than Rosinante in all aspects but knowing his brother was still considered big by normal standards. He grabbed one of the multiple lube bottles that were left around the room before holding both their erections in one hand and slicking the fingers of his other hand. He groaned when Rosinante held his legs up by his thighs, opening himself up for Doflamingo’s eyes.

Prepping him this time was faster, the lubrication and Rosinante’s own relaxation making it easier to open him up. In a second of worry, of brotherly concern, he held the strip of condoms up, tilting his head questioningly at Rosinante, before his brother glared at him and slapped the strip out of his hand. Doflamingo laughed, delighted, before finally pressing the head of his cock to Rosinante’s entrance.

It was slow, but he could still see the pain his brother was trying to ignore, he continued jerking him off, lowering his head to kiss him, to bite his neck, to suck at his throat and tease his nipples, and slowly-slowly-slowly he moved, entering inch by inch and pulling back almost fully.

It was really a test for his self-control, the way Rosinante’s insides sucked at him, trying to pull him in faster, promising that if no one else had managed to take him full then obviously Rosinante was going to be able, he was born to be his after all.

With those slow movements he finally bottomed out, resting his forehead against his brother’s and breathing harshly the same air. Rosinante’s eyes were glazed over, tears falling toward his temples, mouth open and lips shiny, droll marking its way down, red bite marks on his neck, nipples puffy and sensitive, and the detail that completely shattered any and all self-restrain was the bump he could see on Rosinante’s stomach. A bump that moved whenever Doflamingo’s dick pulled out and reapered whenever he pushed back in.

He tried to keep a slow rhythm, but he couldn’t. Holding Rosinante’s waist and slamming himself inside over and over, Rosinante scratching at his back, biting his neck, using his legs to pull him in deeper-deeper-deeper, until there was no longer more space between each other, until nothing else mattered, until they were the only ones in the space.

When he changed the angle of his thrusts he was gifted with his brother arching his back away from the table, pushing his chest up, and who is Doflamingo to resist or refuse a gift from a God when said God is his own? He suckles at his nipples, licking, biting, sucking, scraping his teeth against one and then moving to the other, groaning when Rosinante squeezes his insides and moaning when he plays with the hairs at the nape of his neck. 

When they kiss, their lips sliding together, their breathing mingling with one another, their eyes open and locked on each other, refusing to miss even a second of the images they are each giving one another, Doflamingo finally feels at peace.

He pumps inside faster, aiming only to Rosinante’s prostate, and jerks him off unrelentingly. Rosinante shakes his head side to side, trying to escape from the overwhelming sensations but keeping his legs firmly around his brother’s waist so as to not let him pull away, one of his hands having moved from around Doflamingo’s neck to one of his arms, his nails leaving red and angry marks on its wake.

There are no words exchanged except for the praise Doflamingo keeps showering him with, Rosinante’s heavy and harsh breathing, and the wet sounds of their tongues playing with one another and Doflamingo entering his brother over and over, time is nonexistent in this room away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the Family, and the few things that matter are Rosinante’s mouthed declarations of love, Doflamingo’s promises of forever, and the union of their bodies.

His first orgasm is quick, but he keeps pistoning his hips in and out, even with Rosinante’s desperate headshakes and quivering legs, even as he’s actively cumming inside his brother and pushing his sperm in-in-in, even as his sensitivity starts hurting, he refuses to stop, lowering his head to lick the overwhelmed tears from Rosinante’s eyes. He carefully ties one of his strings around the base of his cock so he can stay hard, edging himself until it hurts and Rosinante has cum two more times, until his brother shakes-shakes-shakes with overstimulation, until Rosinante pulls on his hair and tearfully looks into his eyes. Only then does he allow himself to cum inside again and collapse over Rosinante.

He stands on shaky legs — just because he’s the one who did the action doesn’t mean it left him unaffected — and grabs one of the water bottles that Vergo insisted he leave at hand and swallows a mouthful before grabbing Rosinante’s head and kissing him again, passing the water from his mouth to Rosinante’s over and over, until the bottle is finished.

He sits back down on the beanbag before grabbing Rosinante and sitting him on his lap, careful to keep him in the cradle of his legs so he’s not uncomfortable before breaking bite sizes from the food in the room and hand-feeding him, delighted when Rosinante nuzzles against his chest and leaves tiny pecks in whichever patch of skin his lips find.

During the day, he takes Rosinante in as many positions as he can. He pulls him face down on one of the blanket and pillow nest and spends as long as he can eating him out, until Rosinante’s legs shake, until he’s drooling and crying and leaking a steady stream of cum, until the only thing keeping him up is Doflamingo’s hands on his waist, until even that isn’t enough and he drops to the side, and even then Doflamingo doesn’t stop, stabbing his tongue in and out, sucking and slurping at his entrance, biting his cheeks and teasing the space between his balls and hole, delighting in Rosinante’s full body shaking.

When he’s finally had his fill, he spoons his brother from behind and fucks him from the side, slowly and gently, lullying Rosinante to sleep with the careful motions. After he comes inside once more he holds him, kissing the top of his hair and inhaling his calming scent before taking a nap while staying inside him, having Rosinante cockwarm him until they are awakened by their hunger.

After their lunch is done, he carefully accommodates his brother so Rosinante is sitting down while facing him, sharing soft and tender kisses in the safety of the space. Slipping back inside is an uncomplicated process after all the time spent molding Rosinante’s inside to his shape, and he leans back to stare in delight as his brother rides him, his strong legs working hard to make him jump up and down and up and down, his ass clenching and massaging his dick, his chest on full display as Rosinante rests his elbows back on the table. His eyes are trapped in his beloved’s gaze, sultry, half lidded, exhausted but full of desire and love. He can almost swear that Rosinante’s pupils have changed into a heart shape, fitting for the one that holds his heart, love, and soul.

When night starts falling he finds himself sitting down in one of the multiple nests, his back resting against the wall and Rosinante’s head in his lap, his petal-soft lips wrapped around his softened dick. After a full day it was no surprise both needed a rest, and so he pressed one of his hands on Rosinante’s head, combing his hair with softness and care and devotion. His brother looked at him through tired and teary eyelashes, gently and shyly smiling up at him.

Before they left the room, Doflamingo held the gift box towards Rosinante, smiling at his giggles and blush, and smirking boyishly when he turned his surprised eyes away from the feathercoat in the box and towards Doflamingo himself.

“A matching one, the half of a set for the half of my soul.”

With that he hands over the bouquet that is wider than he is, delighted when Rosinante’s face emerges from the monster of a bouquet with a wide smile lighting his face.

Three months later a child demanding to join the Family appears in front of him, with burning eyes and trauma as heavy as a whole country. It’s like looking at a warped mirror, and like looking at a child-size version of the current determination of his beloved.

He notes on the back of his head Rosinante’s eyes shining with pity, and quickly reworks plans. He sends Vergo to infiltrate the Marines, calls his brother the second Corazón (even when Rosinante has always been his heart, his soul, his one and only), starts to educate the child so he’ll take his place as the third Corazón in the future.

Starts seriously focusing on Dressrosa, and on the proposal he plans once he’s taken back their ancestral home. He’ll be the King, and it’s only right that his brother rules beside him as his husband.

When he’s 26 some things have changed. They are constantly being chased by Tsuru of the Marines, and the doubts of the rest of the Family keep pointing straight at his beloved. The first time Diamante dared to voice his doubts he’d almost taken his head off, only being stopped when Rosinante himself grabbed his arms and shook his head rapidly.

It seems that, instead of his commanders getting closer to his brother now that he used the Corazón seat, that had only been used to recriminate him even more. He groaned, resting his forehead against his brother’s nape and squeezing his waist when Rosinante shook with laughter.

“You could’ve told me they were saying shit to you.”

“Its no secret we’re together and they still shit-talk.”

Doflamingo hummed, before shaking his head and nuzzling Rosinante’s neck. He kissed down the column of his neck when the door to his office was slammed open and in there stood Law along with Baby 5, both screaming at each other and towards Doflamingo. He groaned and squeezed Rosinante against his body, refusing to let him stand up even while his brother gestured towards the two kids with a darkened frown.

That Valentine’s he spent walking around the new town with Rosinante and the two younger kids walking around and in between them, gifting him a silver earring in the shape of a flower, handing him a bouquet and giving a flower each to the two kids looking at them with huge eyes, and he finished the day by pushing his brother face-down against his desk and coming deep inside him, before continuing in the bedroom and falling asleep inside his beloved.

When he’s 27, he takes Rosinante to watch a play. It’s hard to find free time now, his plans for Dressrosa are close to completion, he’s carefully planting his and forming his reputation so that his take over is seamless and so the Marines don’t become a problem, and he’s taken to oversee Law’s training. There are rumors of a fruit that would benefit from someone knowledgeable in medicine, and that would benefit Doflamingo himself, and the best candidate for the Fruit is the child from the medically advanced but destroyed country.

Still, he takes the time to free Valentine’s so he can dedicate his full focus on Rosinante.

The play is decent, entertaining enough that he can see the underlying tension his beloved has been carrying finally lighten, even if a little, and the private room he reserved in the best restaurant of the city is decorated perfectly in what can only be called the height of hedonism. Once Rosinante is done eating Doflamingo hoists him up by the thighs, stamps him against the wall, and attacks his mouth. Their movements are frenzied, knowing they have a time limit and not caring at all — why care, when they can just kill whoever makes a big deal? — and harshly pulling the clothes off of the other.

He’s shirtless, and his pants are only staying up because of how he’s standing. Rosinante on the other hand still has his shirt on, even if it’s only hanging on by his elbows, and he’s wearing his pants in only one leg.

He’s push-push-pushing inside his brother, grinding his dick against the spot that makes Rosinante bite his shoulders and scratch his back. With great care, aware of how one wrong movement could hurt his beloved, he spins one of his strings on Rosinante’s cock base, stopping him in the middle of his orgasm and licking his face clean of tears and drool.

After he’s had his fill he takes a plug from his pants, quickly but gently pressing it inside Rosinante and plugging him full of his cum. The plug is decent sized, and the bottom of it is shaped like a flower.

He smirks when Rosinante pouts at him, then snickers when his brother turns away from him with arms crossed, he relents after he finishes laughing, holding his waist and kissing his hair and walking him towards the Numancia Flamingo.

Their room had been softly decorated, lights dimmed, candles burning gently, floor and bed sprinkled with petals, one bouquet on a vase and another laying on top of the pillows.

While looking up at his brother, working so hard to bring both pleasure, the idea of forever stayed in his head. Rosinante’s ear was decorated with the same earring he’d given him one past Valentine’s, the only piece of clothing gracing his skin was the same black feathercoat that he’d given him, and not long before his own erection was inside his Rosinante he’d kept the plug with the shape of a flower warm deep inside himself.

His brother had draped and decorated himself with all the gifts that Doflamingo had given him during the Valentine’s they’d spent together, and the visual was everything he could’ve asked.

They don’t get another Valentine’s day.

Rosinante betrays him.

His heart blackens.

He drinks himself stupid the following Valentine’s. He sleeps around. He fucks a blonde dude who screams his name to the sky and then Doflamingo cuts his head off with his strings.

What does it matter in the end?

Years later, weeks after Valentine’s day, he almost kills the bastard brat his beloved betrayed him for.

Doflamingo is 41 years old when he’s finally able to spend another Valentine’s day alongside Rosinante.

He’s dehydrated, he’s bored out of his mind, and the only thing he can do is lay down and stare at the ceiling. In part he’s not surprised that he started hallucinating, and is even thankful that the hallucination is Rosinante himself before he got beaten up trying to save Law and before Doflamingo killed him. It’s a Rosinante that is whole, that is comfortably dressed in his gifted feathers, that is makeupless and all the more radiant for it, that wears the earring with grace and a beauty that no one had been able to imitate.

So, he lets himself pretend, lets himself believe that he can feel Rosinante’s lap under his head, that he can feel his nails gently scratching his hair, that he can feel his fingers tracing the shape of his eyes and the age lines that Rosinante himself didn’t get to develop.

He ignores the tears falling from his eyes, ignores the painful ache on his chest, and starts talking. He tells his brother about the years after his betrayal, he laughs through how he took Dressrosa back but it didn’t matter in the end, he tells him how he planned to propose, how he wanted Rosinante as his King Consort, how by this time he’d once thought they’ll already had their first kid.

He tells him about getting beaten by a rubber brat and the one traitorous bastard, and ignores the feeling of his hair being pulled. He laughs when he tells Rosinante about Law’s tattoos, about how he obviously got feelings for Rosinante and he would never be able to feel his touch, how that’s the only thing Doflamingo has over him.

He tells him of the aching loneliness that consumed his every moment after Rosinante betrayed him, how he considered ending it all but his hatred for the stupid Dragons kept him going, he tells him about being betrayed once again but how none of that mattered because you can’t be betrayed if you don’t trust them.

He ignores the feeling of lips pressing against his own, ignores the cold spot in his forehead where another tried to rest, ignores-ignores-ignores and pretends-pretends-pretends, and eventually when the sun raises once again, he screams until his throat is sore when the presence is no longer felt, when the lap he was resting on disappears, when the hands on his hair gently trace down to his jaw and then leave, he screams and rages and challenges any god that might be there.

And once his throat is raw and he tastes blood, he breathes out and falls asleep.