One Piece 1. Chapter 1

**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.


	2. Chapter 2

**WARNINGS** for this chapter: abusive relationship, mentions of noncon, sliiiight mentions of crossdressing, mentions of cancer.

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Business was going great, if Doflamingo said so himself. They literally swam in money, and the power he now held was incomparable even to his late Father's influence as a multi-millionaire, an heir to a huge corporation.

Doflamingo also had a family now, one he'd built on his own. He had brothers and sisters, and there were children clinging to his legs every time he came back home in the evening. Doflamingo found he loved children; sometimes he even idly considered becoming a father to a child of his own one day. He would, of course, have to find a suitable girl, one that would carry and nurse the child, and disappear once the kid was grown enough to not need her anymore. Doflamingo had enough money to buy anyone's silence and obedience, but women could get real crazy about that sort of thing, so Doflamingo planned on simply removing her, together with any possible threat her probable maternal feelings could pose.

But that was a distant idea in the distant future. For now, Doflamingo had enough children on his hands as it was, and Roci was the one who demanded the most time and attention.

As years went by, his brother grew more and more distant and complacent. He was still an important asset, Doflamingo's ace in the hole when it came to business, but the drugs made him so out of it that sometimes Roci wouldn't even recognize him until he felt Doflamingo's lips on his own; always lost in the maze of his own head, always staring into the distance. Doflamingo would bite his neck and grip his thighs so forcefully Roci's skin would be all red and blue come morning, to make Roci remember who was fucking him, to leave a reminder of whom he belonged to. Not the damn drugs, not his own damn thoughts Roci was always drowning in—when there was Doflamingo, there could be nothing else.

Doflamingo nearly regretted letting Roci fall years ago. Given the chance again, though, he would do the same thing, because it meant he was the only one Roci saw.

Roci didn't even care much about the kids, ever cold and indifferent to them, until they gave up on him and went away. He was never angry or scornful; he just never noticed them.

When Doflamingo took him to business meetings, though, Roci would transform so drastically it was easy to think that the old Roci was back again. He would smile and talk politely, he could be charming and persuasive, and he always got Doflamingo the deal before the end of the meeting. He looked handsome in his white shirts, hair carefully combed, and a bit of makeup would conceal the circles under his eyes, making him look healthier, less emaciated. Roci knew very well how pretty he was; how could he not, when Doflamingo would tell him every night, over and over again. And he was not above using it for their own personal gain.

Doflamingo was very much not okay with it.

Sure, it was nothing serious—just a tiny, secretive smile on Roci's lips, another man's hand between his shoulder blades. Doflamingo knew that was as far as Roci would go. He was not suicidal, after all.

But after his little brother got him another big client, Doflamingo beat Roci to a bloody pulp.

"Whoring yourself out, are you?" he rasped, lifting Roci's head by his golden hair. "You fucking slut."

Roci just looked at him with wide eyes, making no move to free himself. He was so beautiful like that, face bruised, lower lip bleeding. Doflamingo forced him on his knees and gathered Roci's blood on his fingers. Carefully he spread the red over Roci's lips, making them seem like a fresh wound on his pale face, and turned his brother to the big mirror.

"Look, baby," he whispered in his brother's ear, enjoying Roci's shiver. "Don't you look like a fine whore, hm?"

Roci's mouth fell open when Doflamingo slid his palm into Roci's pants. It was only after Doflamingo got him all worked up that Roci began fidgeting in his arms, tiny little sounds falling from those blood-red lips. The impromptu lipstick was starting to dry out, turning a reddish brown, so Doflamingo vowed to get Roci actual lipstick first thing in the morning.

He made Roci turn his head and bit into his lower lip, feeling skin break and blood rush into his mouth. The moan Roci let out nearly made Doflamingo lose his head.

Tossing his brother onto the bed—the drugs made Roci's body so thin he barely weighed anything—he pulled Roci's pants down and entered him in one swift move. Roci never required much preparation anymore, what with barely spending any nights alone when Doflamingo was in the city, but Doflamingo was rough enough to make Roci jerk and hiss through clenched teeth.

"Don't you—ever—dare—do that—again," Doflamingo panted, moving so violently he made the bed ram into the wall. "No whoring—yourself—out—you get me?"

"Your whore," Roci agreed, his blue eyes glistening in the dark. A tear left a wet trace down his cheek. "Just yours."

"Good boy," Doflamingo said and kissed him, licking the dried blood off his lips. He came like that, Roci's mouth on his own, Roci's blood on his tongue. Roci let out a long moan before his body clutched Doflamingo tight as a vice. His brother would often come untouched like that.

"Look at the mess you've made, baby," Doflamingo reproached. "Now be a good boy and clean it up."

And Roci obediently sucked his come off Doflamingo's fingers.

Doflamingo got him lipstick, and Roci looked beautiful with it. It tasted nothing like the natural flavor of Roci's mouth, and traces of red would end up everywhere, but it was a sacrifice that needed to be made. Roci's full, sensuous lips were made to wear lipstick.

Clever Roci soon caught on to it and started wearing eyeliner. In full makeup he looked nothing like Doflamingo's little brother with his defined, manly features. He looked pretty, almost like a girl, and so very dangerous. Neither a woman nor a man, walking on the edge between.

He took up smoking, too. Doflamingo never liked the smell or the taste, but Roci on his bed, legs spread shamelessly wide and a cigarette between painted lips, was far too exciting a picture, so Doflamingo dealt.

He loved seeing Roci walking around his bedroom like this: cigarette in mouth, clad only in his shirt sliding off his shoulder, impossibly long legs fully on display. Once he got Roci high-heeled shoes, just to try it. His brother looked stunning, but he also fell down six times in a row before Doflamingo took mercy and got them off him—but no earlier than he fucked him with Roci's legs on his shoulders. Roci nearly hit him in the ear with a heel, but it was _so_ worth it.

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Yes, things were good, if a little unpredictable. Doflamingo had money, power, a family of his own, and he was on his way to the very top.

The only tiny little problem was that the cops seemed to have a special compass or something, pointing at Doflamingo at all times. The moment Doflamingo's boys were ready to strike another big deal, or deliver another lot of goods, the cops would pop up and try to shit on his parade. They never succeeded, of course; Doflamingo easily lied and bribed and bullied his way out every single time, but their insistence was annoying.

And they were getting closer.

Doflamingo hated to admit it, but denial never got anyone far. There was a rat in his family. A big fat rat, someone close enough to him to sniff out the tiniest details. Something had to be done about it as soon as possible. Doflamingo considered talking to Roci about it, but his brother barely noticed anything or anyone anymore, unless it was Doflamingo, or necessary for business, or Doflamingo said it was necessary for business.

But then came Trafalgar's brat.

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The dying man proved far too stubborn; not even good money could shake him. And he was one of the best surgeons in the city, too. He had barely a year to live—Doflamingo would've thought that the prospect of leaving his son an orphan with barely enough money to last him until college would've persuaded the man to work for him. But no, Trafalgar had principles. All the worse for him, then.

The kid was promising, though. They said he could well grow to be just as talented a surgeon as his father, and Doflamingo liked the idea of having his own ace doctor, staunchly devoted to him, and him only. Besides, Doflamingo did like having children in his house.

Roci didn't notice him at first, and the kid wouldn't try to make friends with him. Law Trafalgar was insolent, moody, bookish, and bratty. Doflamingo liked him.

But even he couldn't tell how it all changed. It had been a year or two since the arrival of the kid, and suddenly Roci started smiling.

The smile looked strange on his face—an eight-year-old's wide, honest smile on painted lips. It was still rare, and directed only at Law. The brat would catch it, huff, and turn away, but the corners of his lips would lift, just a bit.

It was like Roci suddenly turned into Law's nanny. They went everywhere together, bickering and teasing each other, they would play and wrestle, and half the time Roci let the brat win. It was strange how he actually was the more childish one. He would laugh with Law, pout at Law, and smile so widely it hurt Doflamingo's mouth to look at it.

"Rocinante found himself a toy," Vergo said. "Good for him. Let him be."

It was stupid to feel jealous of the brat, but Doflamingo did.

Vergo was a cop now, quickly rising in the ranks. Nobody knew about it, not even Roci. Doflamingo liked keeping others in the dark, even if there was no need for it; knowledge added to his power, and knowledge shared was power lost.

Not even he knew, though, that stubbornness wasn't the only thing in which the Trafalgar brat took after his father.

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"Half a year?" Roci repeated in a hollow voice. He tried to light a cigarette, but his hands shook so badly he nearly set himself on fire.

"At the outside," Doflamingo nodded. "C'mere." He took the cigarette from Roci's numb fingers and lit it himself, put it between Roci's lips. They were unmoving, so bright on the pale face. Doflamingo drew him to his chest, but it felt as if he had a statue in his arms.

"Isn't there anything to be done?" Roci stared into his eyes, desperation mixed with pain mixed with grief mixed with wild, insane hope.

"The doctors said they'd try but we shouldn't get our hopes up," Doflamingo quoted. Roci fidgeted in his arms.

"Where is he? I want to see him."

"Hospital, and no, you're not going anywhere tonight," Doflamingo leaned into him, fingers firm on Roci's chin. "Tomorrow, you do whatever the fuck you want. Tonight, you stay."

And Roci stayed. Never before had Doflamingo felt like he was fucking a dead body. The thought was exciting in its own way, though.

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Roci spent nights and days in the hospital, cooked terrible food, and bought medical books in bulk, both for Law and himself. He would play with the sulking brat, he would sing him lullabies in a quiet voice, he would read to him when the brat got too weak to hold a book. It was a good thing the cops seemed to lose them, or Doflamingo would be seriously pissed at Roci for abandoning their business like that.

Roci did win, though. He looked like he dug the disease out of Law's chest and buried it inside his own, pale skin and dark circles underneath his eyes, but Law was now standing, walking even, and snapping at people louder than ever. Doflamingo was satisfied. The kid was an asset, and while it was unfortunate that he had to sacrifice so much of Roci's time to the brat, it would pay off in the long run.

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Now that they were back home again, though, Roci would still somehow stay out of his eye most of the time. Doflamingo was a patient man, but he was slowly getting angry. What the fuck was his brother doing, thinking he could hide from him like that?

And the cops were back again with reignited fervor, which—not. So. Fucking. Nice. They were actually doing noticeable damage. Doflamingo wanted his brother, wanted his advice.

Once he got so exhausted dealing with the shitstorm the cops were causing that he couldn't even make it to the bedroom, falling asleep on the sofa in the study. When he woke up the air was chilly, and his legs were covered with goosebumps. The upper half of his body, though, was warm.

He groggily raised his hand hidden under the thing that didn't let the chilly air get to him. It was a jacket—a black, well-worn one, smelling slightly of cigarettes and Doflamingo's own cologne. His brother's jacket.

Roci was here and didn't wake him up.

Doflamingo suddenly wanted him so much he could barely think. He went through the halls of his grand house, his legs unerringly bringing him to his destination, as if there was an invisible string binding him to the strange, precious being on the other end.

Roci was standing on the balcony, cigarette between his fingers. He leaned into him and turned his head towards Doflamingo's mouth.

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It was a long time that Roci had felt so _there_, it seemed. Like there was nothing standing between them, not even skin and bones. Blue eyes wide open, heart beating trustingly into Doflamingo's chest. Doflamingo had missed this for a long time; he just had no idea how much.

"I wanna watch ya," he threw Roci a bag he fished out of his brother's stash in the nightstand drawer. Just like the old times. Roci raised his eyebrows but obediently reached for his wallet.

Two white lines on the black marble table later, Roci's credit card was wiped on his naked leg and safely returned to its slot in the wallet. A $100 bill expertly rolled up, Roci held one nostril closed and leaned down, inhaling gently.

"Hey Roci, Jola says she wanna talk to you about som—," the words died in the Trafalgar brat's throat as soon as he saw Roci, hunched over the white lines.

"Yeah? Okay, sorry Doffy," Roci got up and stretched, his shirt riding up. "Coming, coming."

The Trafalgar brat watched the white lines without a sound—one line perfect, one half-finished.

"Hey kid. You wanna try?" Doflamingo grinned.

"Um—no thanks, I have to go," the brat muttered, but Doflamingo was in a good mood today.

"Why so shy, kid? Come up and try some. C'mon," he waved his hand at the table.

The Trafalgar kid slowly walked up to the table, eyeing the coke as if it might bite him.

"Well? I assume you know what to do—you live in _my_ house, after all." It wasn't like Doflamingo to hide who he was and what he did. He might have told the brat that his father was Doflamingo's bosom friend, to avoid extra hassle; he also might have kept his less innocent business in the dark even from most of his family. But everybody in the neighborhood knew he was a drug lord; it was something Doflamingo not only never denied, but was actually proud of. After all, a true man must only do what he loves.

The kid awkwardly snorted the snow, making a sound like a pig. Doflamingo guffawed and demanded:

"Finish the other one! Never let the good stuff go to waste, kid."

And Law did. There was a call for breakfast, and Doflamingo gave a lazy nod dismissing the boy.

He watched him through the entire breakfast, idly at first, but then more and more disbelieving. He _knew_ what someone high on coke looked like. And Law fucking wasn't.

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"The fuck's that mean," he snarled, squeezing Roci's throat tightly. Roci clutched at his wrist, eyes bugging out.

"Doffy, we looked through his stuff, found this shit," Vergo threw the bags and bottles on the table. "Baking soda and saline solution. Not a fucking trace of drugs."

"Roci," Doflamingo forced through his teeth, "explain."

Roci watched him with wide eyes, still wheezing, hand on his neck.

"Doffy, listen to me," Vergo said. "I thought it was weird that the cops backed off exactly when this fucker was in the hospital with the brat. You _know_ there's a rat, you fucking told me about it. What if that's _him_?"

Doflamingo looked at his brother. Roci stood eerily calm and still, like a snake ready to strike.

"You heard him. What are you gonna tell me?" he didn't want to think about it, but denial never got anyone far.

Roci was involved in every single deal they made, Roci knew the tiniest details of their business. Human trafficking, organ trade, child laundering—every fucking pie Doflamingo had his fingers in. Roci fucking knew _everything_.

And he was a real good actor. Good enough to pretend to be a junkie for _years_.

It was no surprise they were almost at their limit. Were the cops just a tiny bit smarter, the whole Donquixote family would've been behind bars now.

Clever Roci, Doflamingo thought. His clever little Roci. What a fucking bitch.

Roci was silent. He knew Doflamingo figured him out. He waited, and said nothing.

Doflamingo finally took a step back from him, and turned around.

"Bring me the brat," he ordered.

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"You gonna talk?" Doflamingo asked sweetly. A knife slid down the thin neck, for now just caressing the skin with its cold surface.

Roci slowly shook his head.

"Good. Because this is starting to look like _fun_," the tip of the knife slightly pricked the neck, right above Adam's apple. Roci winced.

"What shall we do with you?" Doflamingo purred. The knife kissed the thin, unhealthy-looking skin, leaving a necklace of small red beads in its wake.

"Stop!" Roci's voice rang unexpectedly loud. "I'll talk. Let him go, Doffy. Please."

Doflamingo nodded to Vergo. The kid stared at him, pale and shaking. The long cut on his throat was an angry shade of red, just like Roci's smiles.

"What are you looking at? Silly kid," Doflamingo affectionately ruffled the mop of dark hair. The kid flinched. "What, do you think I was going to seriously hurt you? Don't be stupid, boy."

Of course Doflamingo wasn't. He was going to kill the brat, shred him into ribbons if had to, to get Roci talking.

The kid looked back at them as he was led out of the room, silent desperation in his eyes. Roci… smiled at him.

He fucking _smiled_, with fucking _warmth_ in his eyes.

Doflamingo was _livid_.

"Speak," he hissed, teeth bared. And Roci started talking.

He looked so calm, so distant; he sounded so impassive. He didn't sound like his Roci at all.

The man who smiled at the shaking kid, the man who talked, evenly and without a trace of remorse, about how he betrayed Doflamingo, was not his brother at all. Which ones of him were the masks, Doflamingo wondered, covering his eyes with his palm for a second. Which one was the true Roci—had Doflamingo never known his brother at all?

The stranger looking at him with cold blue eyes wasn't his, even though this body used to be.

Doflamingo tore at his shoulder with his teeth, and pushed him against the wall, and the stranger dared to push him away—something Roci never ever did.

Fabric ripping—muffled yelling—sharp teeth against his palm—thin wiry body trying to slither away—so easy to overpower—so easy to control—lust bubbling with wrath—an abrupt shove, instant pain, a short desperate scream—push, push, push, push inside, until there's nothing left of the stranger but him, him, _him_.

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Doflamingo looked at the body prostrate on his bed, blood and blue on the skin mapping out Doflamingo's own hands and teeth. Blue eyes looked back at him, fearless and resigned.

There was a stranger in his bed, and a gun in the drawer. So simple, really.

Roci watched Doflamingo with clear blue eyes, and didn't try to stop his hand.

**Notes:**

*humbly points out that the fic isn't complete yet*

(As if Dofla'd let Roci get away so easily!)


End file.

One Piece, Drama, Romance