Sinking into the Sand

third drabble: choke

another one of those spur-of-the-moment drabbles. blatant incest and slight nsfw, ft. biblical undertones and references to murder. doffy's in a dress too.

I hereby disclaim any rights

i.

Three minutes to four and the cold curt click of his door falling shut resounds uncomfortably loud in the confines of his bedroom. Rocinante trembles through the aftermath, trembling toes and trembling thighs.

It's never warm enough, because Doflamingo never bothers to adjust the covers when he leaves.

And he never minds the covers when he comes either.

ii.

Sometimes his brother looks so stunning, his throat closes up and his brain shuts down. And whatever air he gasps for would choke him in the end. So his teeth clank together when his jaw snaps shut and that's the only sound he makes.

Doflamingo idly plays with the right strap of his dress, idly crosses one leg over the other. His profile looks regal, from the angle of his jaw to the sharpness of his nose. Sunlight falls onto him, glows him golden and untouchable.

"How do I look?" Such a question doesn't need posing. He is godlike in pink silk.

But Rocinante can't disregard the hole the bullet tore through the fabric, nor the frame of dried blood around it, nor could he forget the poor woman's face when Diamante shot her.

His brother tilts his head and looks over at him, grinning wolfishly, with a dab of tongue swiping over his teeth. He casually props his elbow on the armrest and sinks deeper into the recliner.

Rocinante doesn't want to notice the woman's dead body on the floor anymore.

iii.

He pulls the dress over his brother's head and he touches his neck and the defined structure of his collar bones and his sternum and he touches his ribs and the dip of his spine at his lower back and his sharp hipbones.

There's a faint waft of perfume stuck to the juncture of his neck and shoulder, like a love bite or a memory. It reminds him of whorehouses, overpowering and with a sour sweetness. Like rotten pomegranates with sallow yellow seeds.

Doflamingo is seated on his lap, with his long legs folded around his waist, his hands cradling his jaw. He chuckles at him and kisses him, fully, wholesomely.

To Rocinante, a chokehold would've been kinder.

iv.

There's a semblance of their mother in his brother's face. Something about the slope of his nose and shape of his eyes that's so breathtakingly familiar, heartbreakingly beautiful.

Three to four and he slips off to the bathroom, retching and dry heaving above the toilet. Thoughts like these are damning, perhaps more so than the things he's done to his older brother.

Or is it: that what his older brother allowed to be done to him?

He doesn't know who's doing who anymore.

v.

There is no ichor running through their bloodstreams.

But whatever Rocinante is swallowing down right now tastes even better than godhood, than apples. He looks up at his brother, who digs his nails into the armrest and tilts his head back and bites his bottom lip subconsciously.

Afterwards, he helps washing Doffy's feet and ankles, before f-u-c-k-ing him in the cold marble bathtub until his knees bruise and his skin has goosebumps.

He kisses his cheek before they go to bed.