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Warlord meetings were torture, for everyone involved. Gather that many powerful, egotistical, morally corrupt people in one room, and nothing good could come out of it. Warlord meetings were torture for everyone, but they were an especially egregious torture for Fleet Admiral Sengoku. Though the meeting room was calm for now, filled with the dull roar of Warlords chatting amicably amongst each other, the Fleet Admiral could already feel a headache coming on, and was nursing a cup of coffee that may or may not have been spiked with a shot or two of whiskey - Garp’s recommendation, and something that Sengoku would have to thank him for later. 

As his eyes scanned the room, he silently took account of everyone in attendance. Sir Crocodile - the newest addition to the Seven Warlords - Hawkeye Mihawk, and Boa Hancock were quietly chatting in a corner, though Boa was doing a poor job at hiding her look of pure disdain. Bartholomew Kuma and Jinbei hovered next to each other in comfortable silence, and Gecko Moria - the outcast of the Warlords - sat at the meeting table by himself, muttering bitterly under his breath as he carved senseless patterns into the table with his clawed finger.

Fucker. I’ll have to replace that.

Thus far, only one Warlord was not in attendance. A large part of Sengoku hoped he wouldn’t show at all, as he was prone to do. Though it was a severe pain in the ass to have to admonish him for skipping a meeting, these hellish gatherings were far more bearable without someone like Donquixote Doflamingo thrown into the mix, purposefully antagonizing and patronizing everyone he could at every opportunity. 

And just as the thought of the man entered Sengoku’s mind, the massive double doors of the meeting room swung open with grandiose flair. Like a curse descending upon him. Sengoku sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose beneath where his glasses sat. Of course the fucker showed up.  

Doflamingo strode into the room like a king amongst men - which technically, Sengoku thought, he was. Pink feathered coat flowing gracefully behind him and his lips already curled into a wicked grin, Doflamingo strode into the room with that strange, bow-legged walk of his. He paused for a moment, scanning the room, before making his way over to Sengoku. 

Just sit down and shut up for once.

But no, of course, that wasn’t particularly Doflamingo’s style. He strode right up to the Fleet Admiral, hands in his pockets, and grinned down at him. “Fleet Admiral. What a pleasure to see you again,” he crowed, amusement filling his tone. 

Sengoku looked up at him with tired eyes. “Doflamingo. It appears you’ve finally decided to adhere to your duties and show up to a meeting.”

Doffy shrugged, lifting his head to scan the room once more. “Heard there was a new Warlord. Piqued my curiosity, that’s all. Showing up to these disgustingly boring meetings isn’t really my style.”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s your style,” Sengoku hissed. “It’s your job.”

Doflamingo made a dismissive sound and waved his hand around vaguely. “Nothing fun ever happens at these. You could at least hold an execution or something to catch my interest.”

“We’re not gathered here for your entertainment-”

“I’ve been submitting requests for you to provide whores at the meetings for years, and yet…” Doflamingo made a wistful sound and shook his head in disappointment.

Sengoku thought he might burst a blood vessel. I’m getting too damn old for this. He heard Doflamingo make an intrigued sound and sighed, taking a long, indulgent sip of his spiked coffee. I should’ve taken Garp’s advice and put more whiskey in this.

“Is that him?” Doffy breathed, doubling over so that he could whisper the question into Sengoku’s ear. Far too close for his liking, Sengoku jerked away and glared at the massive man. Shaking his head, he set the coffee mug back down a bit too hard, spilling hot coffee all over his hand and making him hiss in pain. He thought he could hear Doflamingo chuckling in amusement at his painful blunder, but he ignored it. Instead, he raised his gaze to find the man that Doflamingo was talking about. 

The man in question was Sir Crocodile, who was still chatting politely with Mihawk and Boa Hancock. The large, golden hook that replaced a missing hand glinted in the light as he gestured vaguely, surely talking about some business venture or other. Crocodile was a very reserved man, but Sengoku knew enough about him to know that he was a cunning businessman. 

“You should already know that,” Sengoku huffed in response to Doflamingo’s question. “It was in the papers.”

Doffy gave a tch and waved his hand dismissively. “In case you’ve already forgotten, I have a country to run. Reading the paper is hardly very high up on my to-do list. I have people for that.” When Sengoku didn’t reply above a roll of his eyes, Doffy took a few moments to leer at the newly-appointed Warlord. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Though I’m not sure why Trebol didn’t mention him to me. He looks… intriguing.”

At this point, Sengoku knew exactly what Doflamingo was thinking, and he needed to swiftly put a stop to it. “Leave him alone, Doflamingo. I don’t want to lose another Warlord to your… antics. That’s how we ended up with fucking Gecko Moria as a Warlord.”

Tearing his eyes away from Crocodile to look back down at Sengoku, Doffy’s smile split his face in a way that was uncanny. “Aw, don’t be like that. I didn’t kill him. He killed himself.”

“Irrelevant,” the Fleet Admiral snapped, slamming his fist down on the table. “You drove him to it. Your Warlord position should’ve been revoked on the spot. If I had any say in the matter, you’d be in the depths of Impel Down right about now.”

A wicked, cruel chuckle rippled from Doflamingo’s chest as he leaned down, still towering over Sengoku. “I’m sure,” he purred, flicking the seagull ornament on top of Sengoku’s cap. “But you didn’t have any say in the matter, and here I am. Unfortunately for you, that decision is quite far above your pay grade.” 

And with that, Doflamingo swanned away, his feathered coat flowing gracefully behind him as he stalked toward the three Warlords chatting in the corner of the room. 

Sir Crocodile was already making good use of his position as a Warlord. He’d shown up to the meeting early, and had spent some time idly chatting with Hawkeye Mihawk and Boa Hancock - though the woman constantly looked like she wanted to kill him on the spot. Nonetheless, he was enjoying his chat with the two Warlords. They were professional, polite, and cordial. He had no interest in chatting with the likes of Gecko Moria, and Kuma and Jinbei were a bit too stoic, even for his liking. A good businessman should be able to hold a conversation, in his opinion. Kuma just stood there, still as a statue, like a walking corpse. Jinbei was just far too formal, carrying himself as if he was the pinnacle of morality. 

We’re all still pirates. What’s the sense in trying to portray yourself as just and moral?

He was still chatting with Mihawk and Boa when he felt a shadow draping itself around him, and a massive presence looming behind him. His spine tingled, and he watched Boa’s eyes widen imperceptibly before she swiftly excused herself from the conversation and crossed the room. Crocodile thought she seemed a bit intimidated as her heels clacked in rapid succession across the marble floor of the meeting room. When he turned around, he could see why. 

Donquixote Doflamingo towered over him, his massive body and garish feather coat encompassing Crocodile’s vision. He wore horrifically ugly red sunglasses, curved upwards as if to imitate the eyes of a predator, and a disgustingly toothy grin split his face from ear to ear like an ugly gash. Crocodile hated him instantly.

Of course, he knew who Doflamingo was. He’d read about him in the newspapers, after all. The King of Dressrosa, one of the Seven Warlords of the Sea. One of the most vile, foul, cruel pirates on the seas. And not the sort of man Sir Crocodile had any interest in holding a conversation with. 

“So you’re the fresh fish, huh?” the massive Warlord hummed, leaning down until he was face-to-face with Sir Crocodile. The prideful man bristled at the moniker, but remained silent and defiantly stared back into those horrid sunglasses. “Interesting.”

Crocodile took a step back, politely putting some space between himself and the ten-foot pink monstrosity of a man. Mihawk remained silent behind him, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes flicked between the two other Warlords. 

“I’m not particularly fond of that moniker,” Crocodile replied eloquently, his pride never faltering. “But yes, I suppose. I am the recently appointed Warlord.” He looked Doffy up and down, appraising him and not liking what he saw. “And I assume you are Donquixote Doflamingo.”

Though Crocodile thought it was impossible, Doflamingo’s smile stretched even wider. “So you’ve heard of me,” the man crowed, slinging an arm around Mihawk’s shoulder. “Isn’t that sweet, Hawky? He’s a fan.” Hawkeye slunk out from beneath Doflamingo’s arm and quickly walked away, muttering curses under his breath and leaving Crocodile alone with Doflamingo. 

Crocodile crossed his arms, his molars grinding together as his jaw tensed. “I am nothing of the sort. I simply think it’s wise to keep myself updated on the news of the world,” he replied stiffly, not breaking eye contact with the other Warlord towering over him. Refusing to show weakness or submissiveness.

Doflamingo laughed, a deep and wicked sound that made Crocodile’s stomach swirl with nausea. He’d joined the Warlords for power, not to engage in idle conversation with this massive, ridiculous, flamboyant mess. Doffy’s apparent interest in him was deeply annoying and agitating.

“What was your name, again?” Doflamingo purred, leaning down closer and nearly doubling himself in half. 

Crocodile’s teeth pinched his cigar, threatening to slice right through it. “Sir Crocodile.”

Doffy gave a grin that made Crocodile want to smash his teeth in. “You’ve certainly captured my interest, Croccy-”

“Sir Crocodile,” Crocodile repeated, hissing the words through his teeth.

“-so would you be so kind as to join me for dinner? My treat, of course.”

Crocodile removed his cigar from between his teeth before he could sever it in two. He fought to remain stoic and casual, but Doflamingo apparently had a knack for getting under his skin. “I don’t mix business with pleasure,” he said. He realized the implications of his wording far too late, and Doffy perked up, his eyes lighting up even from beneath those god-awful sunglasses. 

“Pleasure, you say? Why, I didn’t think you would be so forward-”

And like a blessing from the heavens, Sengoku’s voice interrupted Doflamingo before he could finish his sentence, calling all of the Warlords to gather at the meeting table. Quickly, eager to get away from the other man, Crocodile crossed the room to the table and situated himself into the seat next to Mihawk, who gave him a polite nod. He nodded back as the rest of the Warlords took their seats, with Doflamingo still standing in the corner of the room, his smile tight and veins bubbling up on his forehead - enraged that he’d been interrupted. 

When Doffy finally managed to calm himself down, all the seats at the meeting table were occupied except one. The chairs on either side of Crocodile were occupied by Mihawk and Jinbei, and he felt his blood boil as he stomped over to the single empty seat and dropped himself into it with a huff. When he was finally situated, he never took his eyes off of Crocodile. And to his delight, Crocodile never once looked at him. 

Doflamingo loved a good chase.

During the entirety of the meeting, Crocodile could feel eyes on him. Never faltering, barely blinking. Doflamingo was staring at him. He tried to ignore it as he struggled to pay attention to whatever drivel Sengoku was spouting, but the sensation of Doflamingo’s eyes on him felt like a persistent itch, an unnerving crawling sensation covering every inch of his skin. But he refused to look back at him. Doflamingo was clearly testing him somehow, perhaps trying to deduce if he had what it took to be a Warlord. It was an intimidation tactic, nothing more. It was a power play, and Sir Crocodile refused to falter. 

As Sengoku rambled about their Warlord duties, incoming battles, and all sorts of nonsense, there was movement at the other side of the table. Doflamingo had risen to his feet and stepped up onto the table with ease, and he casually strode across the surface with his hands in his pockets, making a beeline for Crocodile. The other Warlords completely ignored the disturbance, most likely used to Doflamingo’s antics by now. Sengoku stuttered and paused, but then sighed roughly and took several long sips of his coffee before continuing his briefing. 

Crocodile was completely on his own when Doflamingo dropped himself into a seated position on top of the table, directly in front of the logia user. Doffy propped both of his feet up on either of Crocodile’s armrests, trapping him. Caging him in. 

“So,” Doffy began, propping his chin up on his hand and staring obsessively down at Sir Crocodile. Ignoring the meeting happening around them, focusing only on Crocodile. “Where are you from?”

Crocodile bared his teeth at the man. “I hardly think this is an appropriate time for chit-chat-”

“I asked you a question,” Doflamingo interrupted, his usual grin replaced by a slight frown. “It’s not polite to refuse simple conversation.”

Blood boiling, Crocodile hissed, “We are in a meeting.” Ever the businessman.

Doffy huffed loudly and rolled his eyes, if the movement of his head indicated anything. His lips were pulled into a deep frown as he stared down at Crocodile, unimpressed. “Don’t tell me you’re one of those types,” he muttered unhappily.

Crocodile stared back up at him, still refusing to waiver. “And what, exactly, is that supposed to mean?” he challenged, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“All prim and proper,” Doffy replied immediately. “Wah, wah, wah, we’re in a meeting. Wah, wah, wah, it’s our duty as Warlords. Just a bunch of self-righteous drivel. It’s so boring.” He bobbed his head and imitated talking motions with his hand as he mocked whatever previous Warlords had insulted him so.

“Unfortunately, I’m not here for your entertainment.”

“Aww, don’t be like that,” Doffy pouted. Crocodile’s already thin patience was holding on by a thread at this point. “I’m all fun, all the time, baby. Plus, I wanna see what you can do with that pretty little hook of yours-”

“Doflamingo!” Sengoku finally barked, having had enough of Doflamingo’s nonsense to last him several lifetimes. Doffy continued staring down at Crocodile for a few more moments before turning to glare at Sengoku from over his shoulder. Veins bubbled up in his forehead as he grit his teeth in a tight, violent grin. Sengoku said nothing more, just glared Doffy down with hate in his eyes until the massive Warlord relented, standing from his seated position atop the table to stroll once more across the surface until he returned to his seat. He dropped into it with a huff, like a pouting child. 

For the rest of the meeting, he still did not take his eyes off of Crocodile. 

Sengoku kept a carefully watchful eye on Doflamingo throughout the remaining duration of the meeting, intent on keeping him from engaging in anymore of his ridiculous antics. Doffy continued to pout in his chair, occasionally shooting Sengoku nasty glares. When the meeting was over, most of the Warlords resumed chatting and mingling - with the exception of Gecko Moria, who hurried out of the meeting room as he cursed at the other Warlords under his breath.

Maybe they’d want to talk to you if you weren’t such a damn freak, Sengoku thought bitterly as he watched him go. He remained in his seat at the table, still nursing his coffee as he scanned the room.

Sir Crocodile had attempted to strike up conversation with Kuma and Jinbei before apparently growing irritated and bored, and then he wandered back over to Mihawk, who he seemed far more fond of. 

Boa Hancock, however, had been cornered by Doflamingo, who was looming over her with a sickening, leering grin as he purred something into her ear. When she tried to slip out from beneath him he simply caged her again - until, that is, Sengoku began to rise from his chair in order to put a stop to the situation. 

Sensing movement, Doffy’s eyes flicked toward Sengoku before he gave an irritated huff and left Boa alone, instead favoring to tower over and leer at a female server carrying a tray of snacks. As the poor girl found an excuse to scurry away, the Fleet Admiral could hear Doffy calling out to her, “Sure you don’t need a job, gorgeous? Offer’s always open!”

Fucking animal.

Once the meeting was over and Crocodile had bid his polite goodbyes to the Warlords remaining in the room, he made his exit and headed down the grandiose hallway outside of the meeting room. The building itself was massive, labyrinthian, and overly decadent - even for Sir Crocodile’s standards. Of course it would be, being located in the Holy Land of Mary Geoise. After a few moments of wandering around, he sighed gruffly to himself and transformed into a river of sand, snaking and swirling through the halls until he located the nearest restroom. 

As he reformed and stepped into the bathroom, he let out a sharp hiss of pain. Crocodile paused in the doorway, feeling a small droplet of blood slide down his cheek. He raised his hand to assess the damage, however minimal, and found a miniscule, razor-thin cut on his cheekbone. Thin, suspicious eyes traced the doorframe, searching for whatever had sliced him; he had been completely alone in the corridor leading to the bathroom, and there was no sign of a potential attacker. One would have to be incredibly brave or incredibly stupid to attack a newly-appointed Warlord in the middle of the Holy Land. 

After a moment, his eyes landed on what appeared to be a thin, silvery cobweb hanging limply from the corner of the doorframe. 

Strange, he thought, wiping the quickly drying drop of blood from his cheek. A cobweb in the Holy Land of Mary Geoise was certainly a strange occurrence, as the gods of the Holy Land accepted nothing less than perfection. It wasn’t something to concern himself over, however strange of an occurrence it was. 

As he stepped over to the row of sinks in front of a wall of mirrors, the bathroom door swung open silently behind him. “Well, look who I found,” a familiar voice purred. Crocodile tensed his jaw and resisted the urge to roll his eyes as he stared at the garish pink reflection of his fellow Warlord.

“Doflamingo,” he responded with a curt, polite nod, not keen on stirring up any trouble at the moment. Grinning, the massive man stalked toward him like a cat on the prowl. 

For just a moment, Doflamingo’s grin melted into a playful pout. “Why so formal? Call me Doffy - that’s what my friends call me,” he crooned.

Crocodile shook his head, turning his back to the other man. He’d hardly come into the restroom for a casual chat. Dabbing at the fresh cut on his cheekbone with a damp paper towel, he replied, “I wouldn’t consider us friends. We’re colleagues, nothing more.”

Grin stretched wide once more, Doflamingo took slow, steady steps toward Sir Crocodile until the newest Warlord was backed into a corner, crowded back against the urinals in a way that was entirely too undignified for a man of his status and pride. He remained steadfast however, staring evenly up at Doflamingo with a challenge in his eyes. 

“What a pity,” the larger Warlord crowed, pulling his hands out of the pockets of his trousers and placing them flat on the wall on either side of Crocodile’s head, further boxing him in. “I was hoping,” Doflamingo continued, still wearing that predatory smile of his. “That we could become good friends. You’ve captured my interest, Sir Crocodile.” Though he finally used Crocodile’s full name and title, his voice was dripping with amusement. 

“I struggle to understand why,” Crocodile shot back defiantly. “Unfortunately, the interest is purely one-sided. Now please step aside. I didn’t come here to chat.”

“I did,” Doflamingo retorted swiftly, the hint of a growl in his tone and his eyes dragging over Crocodile’s form in a way that was entirely too lecherous for his liking. “In fact,” the pink feather-clad man continued, his tongue hanging from his mouth and swiping over his teeth. “I came here for much more than a simple chat.”

A suffocating weight settled inside Crocodile’s chest as one of Doflamingo’s massive, lanky hands drifted down to his chest, long fingers digging into the fabric of his suit just beneath his ascot. “In this world,” Doffy purred, leaning down closely into the smaller man’s personal space. “Making the right friends can be crucial. As is making the wrong enemies.” The hand on Crocodile’s chest rose to grip his chin tightly, fingers pressing harshly into flesh. “You seem like a smart man, Crocodile.”

Trapped, cornered, and humiliated, Crocodile had finally had enough. Though he’d been reluctant to showcase his abilities to the other Warlords so soon, he now felt as though he had no other choice. His body dissolved into sand without warning, and a sandy trickle quickly crossed the bathroom floor and through the crack between the restroom door and the floor. Once out from beneath Doflamingo’s crushing shadow, he felt as though he could breathe again. 

Just as he was about to hurry down the hall and get back to Alabasta as fast as possible, he felt a weight on his shoulder. Something cold, slimy, and disgustingly wet seeped through his suit and congealed on his shoulder, causing him to whirl around. He very soon wished he’d just kept walking. 

Perhaps the most disgusting man he’d ever had the displeasure of seeing now stood in front of him, grinning at him with a snide, gap-toothed smile. The man’s hair was greasy and wet looking, drooping down over his shoulders almost as low as the rivulets of snot that dripped from his nose. He wore a pair of dark sunglasses that covered undoubtedly beady eyes, and a cloak that made him look massive - though he was exceptionally tall, taller than both Doflamingo and Crocodile. His terrible posture caused him to have something of a hunchback, so he loomed over Sir Crocodile. The newest Warlord quickly stepped back, somewhat concerned that the man’s snot would drip onto him - as well as dissolving his shoulder into sand to get the filthy man’s hand off of him.

“Seems like the Young Master likes you,” the man sneered, almost in a sing-songy way. “What an honor, isn’t it? Right? Right?”

Crocodile’s expression of pure disgust only deepened when the sand of his shoulder refused to return to him, instead having been coagulated in the other man’s palm due to the sticky, slimy texture of his skin and body. The man himself looked as if he was covered in a thick layer of grotesque mucus. 

“Best not to get on his bad side,” the massive, cloaked man hummed, leaning down so that he was almost face to face with Crocodile. “Dontcha think? Dontcha? Huh? Huh?”

With a disgusted hiss, Crocodile whirled around and stormed down the hallway, not eager to associate any further with Doflamingo or his vile lackey. 

Doflamingo’s smile tightened as his target dissolved into sand and fled the bathroom, quite literally slipping between his fingers. Veins bubbled up in his forehead as he watched the trail of living sand slither across the polished, tiled floor as the newest Warlord fled.

A sand logia, he thought, staring at the small amount of sand left pooled in his palm. Interesting. He rolled some fine grains of sand between his fingers before turning his palm upside down, letting the grains fall to the floor unceremoniously. Still upset that his quarry had escaped him so easily, Doflamingo turned and put his foot through a nearby stall door, crumpling the metal with such force that the hinges snapped and the door flew backwards, shattering the tiles of the wall behind the stall’s toilet. A familiar, comfortable rage bubbled up inside him, externally portrayed only through the tightness of his grin and the many veins pulsing in his forehead. His blood felt hot as it surged through him. 

When he exited the bathroom, Trebol was waiting for him outside and grinning wickedly. Doflamingo was familiar with that sneer. Trebol had certainly run into Crocodile. 

“Well?” Doffy barked, a deep frown on his face as he shoved his hands back into his pockets. Trebol sniffled and grinned, pulling a little baggie filled with silver powder out of the folds of his robe. He looked positively giddy as he opened the bag and dipped one long, cracked fingernail inside of it. 

After snorting the powder off of his fingernail, Trebol snorted, cleared his throat, and finally replied, “I saw him, Young Master.”

“And?” the Warlord snapped impatiently. 

“He’ll be lots of fun,” Trebol giggled, sniffling aggressively to clear the powder from his sinuses. Doflamingo’s violent anger slowly subsided, being replaced by excitement. The chase was on, and Crocodile seemed intent on making it a fun one. 

With Trebol following at his heels, Doflamingo made the short trek to the lifts that would take him down the Red Line and back to his ship, the Numancia Flamingo. He took a few precious moments to look back at the Holy Land as he and his loyal follower waited for the lift to ascend. 

“Over there,” Doffy blurted suddenly, raising one hand to point towards the outskirts of Mary Geoise. “That’s where my mansion was.” The sudden confession came as a surprise to the both of them, but Trebol’s eyes dutifully followed the direction that Doffy was pointing in.

After a moment of peaceful silence, Trebol looked down at his leader with an expression of sympathy, but said nothing. There was nothing to say, and he’d been with Doffy long enough to know that nothing he could have said would be something that Doffy wanted to hear. The ride down to the sea was silent, the calm between them disturbed only when they stepped aboard Doffy’s ship. 

Months passed after the Warlord meeting, and Crocodile had neither seen nor heard from Doflamingo since. Truthfully, he hadn’t thought anything of it, having been kept sufficiently busy with his plans for Alabasta. Of course, good things never lasted. 

That’s how he found himself sitting at his desk with a cigar pinched between his teeth, sifting through paperwork when Doflamingo himself came bursting through the doors of his office. He strode into the room with a wide, confident grin, and Crocodile nearly shot out of his seat when he saw who Doflamingo was dragging into the room with him. Feet scrabbling on the tile flooring of the office, held up high enough that she could barely touch the ground, was Miss All Sunday. Doflamingo had her by the throat, and was parading her around in front of Crocodile as if she was some sort of prized fish. 

It made Crocodile’s blood boil. 

“Call off your bitch,” Doflamingo barked, squeezing Robin’s throat tighter as she clawed at his hand. Though she was being held by her throat and nearly suspended off of the ground, she regarded Doflamingo without fear. Instead, her eyes were full of defiance as she stared at him, struggling in his grip but refusing to make a sound. Crocodile was secretly grateful for the woman’s seemingly unbreakable composure. It made it easier for him to wrestle some semblance of control back into the situation. 

Crocodile set his jaw, staring challengingly into Doflamingo’s shielded eyes. “Miss All Sunday,” he began gruffly, not bothering to spare a glance in Robin’s direction. “Your services are not needed here. You are dismissed.”

With that, Doflamingo released Robin and she dropped to the floor, wheezing and coughing as she clutched her bruised throat. After taking a few precious moments to cough and gather her composure, the woman slowly got to her feet and gave Sir Crocodile a professional nod before making her way out of the office. Doflamingo watched her go, grinning wickedly. When the doors of the office closed behind her, and the two men were finally alone, Doflamingo’s grin turned toward Crocodile. 

“ Good boy,” he purred, mischief and amusement clear in his tone as he began stalking toward Crocodile’s bulky desk. “I didn’t know you took orders so well.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Crocodile snapped back, baring his teeth. “What are you here for?”

Pouting petulantly, Doffy stalked around the desk and plopped down on its surface, directly in front of Crocodile. “Just passing by. You act like you don’t want to see me.”

“I have no interest in you,” Crocodile said swiftly, puffing a cloud of acrid smoke directly into Doflamingo’s face. He watched the veins in the other man’s neck and forehead bulge, his smile tightening in irritation. Good. “State your business, or I will remove you from my property myself.”

Doflamingo laughed. He threw his head back, one hand going to his forehead, and let out a long, self-indulgent belly laugh. When he was finished he leaned forward, obsessively memorizing every feature of Crocodile’s face. “I like you,” he purred, reaching forward to cup Crocodile’s chin. The older man jerked away with a glare. “You really know how to rile a guy up.”

“State your business,” Crocodile barked, his patience waning with every second. “Or leave my country.”

Doflamingo’s eyes glimmered behind his sunglasses and he leaned forward with interest. “ Your country?” he hummed, boldly taking the cigar from between Crocodile’s teeth. He put the butt of the cigar to his own lips, taking a long and indulgent drag. “That’s a little presumptuous, don’t you think?”

Crocodile resisted the urge to snatch his cigar back. A small, paranoid part of him wondered what exactly Doflamingo had meant by that. He leaned back in his chair, his expression carefully impassive. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he finally responded. Crocodile reached into his suit pocket and produced another cigar, which he promptly snipped and lit. Doflamingo seemed displeased with this, as he huffed roughly and took the cigar from between his own teeth, snuffing it out on the desk with no regard for how it might ruin the surface. 

“Quit playing hard to get,” Doflamingo suddenly snapped. It seemed as if his patience was waning. Crocodile couldn’t care less. The sooner this feathered bastard was out of his hair, the better. 

“State your business,” Crocodile repeated carefully, a violent edge to his words. “Or leave.” Much more of this, and the World Government would have an irritatingly Warlord-shaped hole to fill within its ranks. He considered himself a patient man, but Doflamingo seemed to have a knack for irritating him. 

With a wide grin spread across his face, Doflamingo leaned forward until he was hovering just inches from Crocodile’s impassive face. His toothy grin was animalistic in nature, greedy. Crocodile disliked it immensely, which was unfortunate seeing how much Doflamingo enjoyed smiling. “My business,” he drawled, letting his tongue loll out and dangle from his lips. “Is you. I’ve taken quite an interest in you. I understand that a man like you must value his time well, so allow me to make a proposal.”

Now that got Crocodile’s attention. He narrowed his eyes at the other man, taking a contemplative drag of his cigar. A proposal sounded interesting, and it seemed that Doflamingo had done at least some research on him before coming here, since he could apparently appreciate and respect Crocodile’s businessman nature. Though he was indeed interested, he had no patience to draw this conversation out longer than was strictly necessary. “State your proposal,” he ordered gruffly, placing his cigar back between his teeth so he could steeple his ringed fingers together. 

“Dance powder,” Doflamingo began simply, leaning back to study Crocodile’s reaction. Instantly, Crocodile’s attention was hooked. Keeping his expression carefully unmoved, he removed the cigar from between his teeth and gently placed it into an ornate golden ashtray on his desk. When Doflamingo saw that he now had Crocodile’s full attention, that irritating grin of his widened impossibly. He continued. “I have access to it. Plenty of it. A little birdie tells me that you might appreciate having an unlimited supply.”

Carefully schooling his expression as to appear unbothered, even a little bit curious, Crocodile crossed his burly arms in front of his chest. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.”

Doflamingo scoffed. “Let’s not insult each others’ intelligence. You want dance powder, and I happen to have it.” A slow smile crept across his face, annoyingly triumphant. “So, let’s chat.”

It was then that Crocodile decided to stand, picking up his cigar and placing it back between his lips. He took a few moments to cross the room, making his way toward a minibar on one wall. Slowly, with grace and poise, he poured two glasses of whiskey, two fingers each, neat. He crossed the room once more and placed one of the glasses on the desk in front of Doflamingo, and then walked around to reclaim his seat in his large, comfy leather office chair. “Very well,” he sighed, raising the glass to his lips. “Entertain me, then.”

“All I ask for is a little bit of your time,” Doflamingo began, swirling the contents of his glass around absentmindedly. “Allow me to wine and dine you for a night, and I’ll supply you with enough dance powder to make you see stars.”

Crocodile scoffed, entirely unamused and unconvinced. “I fail to see what you would gain from this arrangement,” he stated curtly, followed up with a small sip of liquor to whet his appetite. Doflamingo’s lips curled up into a predatory smile.

“Entertainment, maybe. A man can only collect so much wealth and power before he starts to get bored.”

Though the not-so-subtle brag irritated Crocodile, he was sure not to let it show. He wasn’t going to let this little brat just waltz in here, make all the demands, and leave with exactly what he wanted. Crocodile was not that kind of man. He leaned back in his chair, taking an extra long drag of his cigar just to keep Doflamingo on edge for a little longer. When he exhaled, the acrid smoke billowed right into Doflamingo’s face, but that irritating grin of his didn’t falter. 

“Unfortunately for you,” Crocodile began cooly. “I’m not in the business of succumbing to petty threats. There is nothing for you here. I suggest that you leave.”

Doflamingo’s smile disappeared, and his face darkened. Crocodile could feel his murderous gaze from behind those horrid red sunglasses. “I don’t like being told no,” the younger Warlord stated simply. Though it was clearly meant to be received as a threat, Crocodile couldn’t hold back a snort of laughter, no more intimidated than he would be staring down a particularly petulant child. 

“Then it seems you’ve come to the wrong place.” Without further warning, Crocodile leapt forward. His hook glittered in the lamplight as it swung through the air, landing heavily against Doflamingo’s clavicle and sending him flying backwards.

The younger Warlord was fast, though, Crocodile would give him that. He adjusted in midair, sending strings from his fingertips to attach to the ceiling and using them to swing himself upright, landing on his feet several meters from Crocodile. Not wanting to give him a moment to orient himself, Crocodile shot out his hand and aimed it for Doflamingo’s throat, intent on finishing this fight by drying the man out into a mummified husk. 

Just then, Doflamingo swung his clawed hand through the air in an arch, sending razor-sharp strings speeding toward Crocodile. He didn’t bother dodging, reliant on his logia powers to help him, and that was a mistake. Each string slashed into Crocodile’s flesh like claws, tearing his clothes to tatters.

Fucking Haki!

Blood spilled freely from the wounds and Crocodile sucked in a pained hiss between his teeth. Before he could recover and counterattack, Doflamingo was already behind him and holding him painfully upright with a fistful of his hair. He could feel the man’s shit-eating grin without having to see him. 

“Getting a little cocky in your old age, are we?” Doffy chuckled, giving Crocodile’s head a little shake. “It seems your hook’s getting rusty from disuse.”

Mind working quickly for some way to salvage the situation, Crocodile hurriedly dissolved his lower body into sand, as much as he could before Doflamingo’s grip shifted to his throat and he coated his arm in Haki. Crocodile swore inwardly, unaccustomed to dealing with Haki since most of his time was spent in the Grand Line as opposed to the New World. 

Doflamingo just couldn’t be more tickled. He kept fucking giggling, still holding Crocodile’s half-formed upper body up by his throat. Unbeknownst to him, Crocodile had no intention of simply giving up this fight. The sand that he’d been able to transform was slinking through the halls below Raindinners, trickling across the floor until it slipped below a certain door. All he needed was a small S.O.S. 

Unfortunately, Crocodile wasn’t sure for how much longer he would have to stall until reinforcements arrived. In the meantime, he was stuck with a giddy and giggling Doflamingo, and was currently being suspended in the air by his throat. So, not much to work with. Doflamingo was facing him now, face flushed and red with both excitement and slight exertion, looking like he couldn’t quite decide what he wanted to do next. A horrible, wicked grin grew across his face as he leaned in close, until their noses were almost touching. 

“I probably have time for a little fun before your guard dogs get here. Right?”

Crocodile’s stomach sank. Shit. He hurriedly calmed himself down and kept his expression neutral, but Doflamingo certainly didn’t miss the way his eyes had widened barely, almost imperceptibly. He wouldn’t have noticed if he wasn’t so damn close.  

Doffy giggled like an excited schoolgirl, having gotten his answer from Crocodile’s minute, but there, reaction. “That’s what I thought. I did really try to do this the nice way, you know.” His free hand lowered, and Crocodile couldn’t bear to watch where it was going. 

Skilled fingers working at the laces of his trousers, he continued, “But after that little tantrum of yours, I might think you were asking for this. It’s not fair, getting a man all excited and leaving him disappointed.”

Crocodile’s head was lowered until he was staring at Doflamingo’s erect cock. It was large, intimidatingly so, just like the rest of the man’s body. If Crocodile was a lesser man, a less prideful man, he might’ve started begging. He might’ve thrashed around, debased himself to the likes of a fearful prey animal and pleaded for Doflamingo to stop.

That damn pride.

When he refused to open his mouth, strings tore through his lips and forced his jaw open. Doflamingo’s hand shifted from his throat to cup his jaw, the other hand coming behind to steady the back of Crocodile’s head. With no warning, Doflamingo pushed in. 

It was suffocating, overwhelming. Tears pricked Crocodile’s eyes as his jaw was stretched past its limits, and Doflamingo just kept going. Hot, salty flesh filled Crocodile’s mouth to capacity, and then pushed back to fill his throat, too. Above him, Doflamingo was moaning and groaning like some two-bit whore, completely unashamed in his pleasure as he violated Crocodile’s mouth. His thrusts were stuttering, uncoordinated and impossible to adjust to, turning the prideful Warlord Sir Crocodile into a gagging, drooling mess in his hands. That ego boost alone was nearly better than the hot, wet spasming of Crocodile’s throat, in Doflamingo’s opinion. 

Crocodile thought he could hear footsteps - and if there wasn’t already a cock lodged in the back of his throat, he might’ve choked. He’d completely forgotten about the S.O.S. he’d sent to Miss All Sunday’s office. If she and Mr. 1 had responded to it, and were on their way, about to burst into this scene…

Right on cue, the double doors of Sir Crocodile’s office splintered and burst open, and Daz Bones launched himself into the room. He didn’t even stop to survey the scene, moving so quickly and surely that Crocodile wasn’t sure Daz had even processed what was actually happening inside the office. Instead, he flung himself at Doflamingo, the blades along his body glistening in the light. Doflamingo had barely a split second to process what was happening and he reacted accordingly, flinging Crocodile’s body away from him and dodging, landing safely on the other side of the room. Grinning. 

Daz adjusted, using his martial arts techniques to swivel on one foot and launch himself forward again, relentlessly attacking Doflamingo head-on so that he would have less time to think and strategize. His blades were sharp and deadly, slicing through the air and barely missing Doflamingo’s left ear when the larger - but somehow more agile - man dodged yet again, propelling himself through the air with his strings. He managed to get behind Daz and lifted one hand, fingers twitching erratically as they sent a flurry of strings toward the man, aiming to wrap him up and restrain him. 

Instead, Mr. 1 was attacking again. Doflamingo blinked, barely dodging the next slice - in fact, he saw a flurry of diced pink feathers out of the corner of his eye. He’d nearly been hit. Daz had moved. It only took Doffy a moment to figure out what had happened - it was the blades. The blades that entirely made up the other man’s body had effortlessly sliced through the strings - so effortlessly, in fact, that it seemed like Daz hadn’t even noticed Doflamingo’s attempt to restrain him. 

Readjust. He landed on the ground for just a moment, baiting his hook. Sure enough, Daz launched toward him again. Instead of dodging, Doflamingo met him head-on, flying through the air and flipping his body at the last second to meet Daz’s slicing arms with a powerful armament-coated kick. 

One blow was all Doflamingo needed to win the fight. Mr. 1 was sent flying backwards, crashing into Crocodile’s thick, sturdy desk and reducing it to splinters with the force of the impact alone. He didn’t get back up. 

After taking a moment to catch his breath, Doflamingo stalked toward the desk to finish the job. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Crocodile’s body slowly reforming, the older man groaning in pain as his wounds bled freely. His dog was covered in blood too, barely breathing from within the destroyed heap of what was once Sir Crocodile’s desk. Doffy loomed over him, raising a foot with the intent to crush the other man’s skull like a melon and have this nonsense over with. 

He couldn’t see. 

There were hands over his eyes. No, that wasn’t right. Not just his eyes. Hands were covering his mouth and nose, too, cutting off his airflow. Doflamingo staggered backwards in confusion, slowly but surely realizing that he couldn’t move his arms. The hands were everywhere. Over his face, restraining his arms behind his back, grabbing at his throat and slowly pulling down, bending him backwards at an uncomfortable angle. 

Crocodile coughed from his position in a heap on the floor, uneasy with the sudden silence. All he could hear was his own labored breathing, and Doflamingo’s quick, muffled breathing. He sounded a little panicked. With a pained groan, Crocodile slowly lifted his head from the floor. 

Doflamingo was over Daz Bones’ body, bent backwards with multiple pairs of arms sprouting from his body and keeping him forced into an uncomfortable position. Sure enough, when Crocodile’s eyes slid over to the opened doorway of the office, there was Miss All Sunday, with her arms crossed over her chest and a fierce, determined look on her face. She glanced at Sir Crocodile, and the two of them shared a silent agreement. She couldn’t restrain him forever. 

As if in agreement, Doflamingo ripped his arms out of her hold and began scrabbling viciously at the hands over his face, fingernails digging into flesh and stripping it away. Miss All Sunday let out an accidental hiss of pain, and Doffy’s reaction was instant. 

A thick column of string shot from one of his palms in the direction of the noise. It was almost too quick to see, crashing violently into the remains of the splintered door and exploding through the wall at the other end of the hall. Robin yelped in surprise, jumping back, and the column swiveled in midair, right on course to impale her through the midsection. 

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Crocodile roared, using the last of his strength to do so. 

Shockingly, everything stopped. 

The room was quiet and still. 

Crocodile forced himself to breathe.  

This had gotten so spectacularly out of hand. He couldn’t lose Nico Robin. He refused to. 

Damn it all!

When he looked up, Doflamingo was staring at him. His expression was impossible to read, but for once he wasn’t smiling. 

“Whatever you want…” Crocodile croaked, preparing to put his pride to the side for perhaps the first time in his life. Instead, Doflamingo cut him off with a casual wave of his hand. 

“Doesn’t matter. I was just leaving.” The grin had crept back onto his face, and he couldn’t help but stalk back over to Crocodile once more, if not to gloat his clear and overwhelming victory. “You have some pretty excitable dogs, Crocodile. That was fun.”

With a flourish of his coat, he turned away and began striding to the office doors. He paused his departure for a moment to leer down at Miss All Sunday, a curious look on his face. “Do I know you from somewhere?” he asked. “You seem awfully familiar.”

Bleeding from several scratches and bruised around the throat, she did not back away from him. “I don’t believe we’ve met,” she replied professionally. Doflamingo hummed for a moment, tilting his head to the side like a bird, before waving the thought away and finally departing Sir Crocodile’s office - leaving a fucking disaster in his wake. 

The office was destroyed, Crocodile was severely injured, and Mr. 1 was close to death. They had lost, overwhelmingly so, but Doflamingo had not left unscathed. And that, in and of itself, was a victory. 

It took a long time for anyone to move once Doflamingo finally left. Miss All Sunday was the first to shake herself out of her stupor. Her high heels clicked loudly against the floor as she crossed the room, kneeling next to Mr. 1’s bloody and unmoving body. She pressed two fingers to the inside of his wrist to check for a pulse. Faint, but there. 

“Fuck…” she hissed, shaking hands fumbling with her phone. “We have to call an ambulance.” 

Groaning with exertion, Crocodile struggled to sit up. His hand clutched his chest, where blood flowed freely over his fingers. “No,” he grunted, coughing wetly. “Call Kureha.”

“But Sir-”

“ Call Kureha,” he hissed, finding it painful to speak. Miss All Sunday stared at him for a few precious moments, her expression unreadable, before she sighed in exasperation and went back to frantically tapping her phone screen. Crocodile laid back down, allowing his body to rest but willing his eyes to remain open. He really wanted a cigar. 

When Robin was finished fretting over Mr. 1, she made her way over to Sir Crocodile. He tried to wave her away, too prideful to accept her worrying, but she smacked his hands away and went to work cataloguing his injuries the best she could, so that Kureha could hopefully tend to her patients quicker. 

“I’m fine, Miss All Sunday,” he insisted with a pained hiss. The wounds in his lips stung with every word. 

Robin shot him a concerned glare, gingerly pulling back the scraps of his button up to expose the wounds on his chest. They were deep, but the cuts were clean. “Respectfully, Sir, you’re not fine.” She hesitated for a moment, a question weighing heavily on her tongue.

Crocodile did not want to hear it. “If you ever speak a word of this-”

“I understand, Sir,” she interrupted, uncharacteristically unprofessional. Her voice was thick with emotion, and she refused to look him in the eyes. Crocodile preferred it that way, anyway. 

Dr. Kureha arrived impressively quickly. When she entered the bloody and destroyed office, she didn’t react other than to push her sunglasses up onto her forehead. Her small, but expert medical team poured into the room around her, heading straight for Daz, Robin, and Crocodile. 

“What the fuck did you get yourself into this time?” Kureha snapped, stomping over to Crocodile. While waiting for her arrival, Crocodile had convinced Robin to prop his desk chair back up so that he could collapse into it and smoke a cigar - the cigar which Kureha promptly ripped from between his lips and stomped beneath her boot. 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle,” he replied boredly, blowing out a thick cloud of smoke off to the side. 

Kureha glared at him, gently prodding at his wounds with gloved hands. He winced, but otherwise kept his reactions to a minimum. “You call this handled?” she snapped. “You and your goddamn pride will get people killed, Crocodile.”

Bristling, Crocodile warned, “You’re beginning to feel far too comfortable in the way you speak to me, Kureha.”

“Find another physician, then,” she shot back instantly, harshly dabbing his wounds with antiseptic. “When you do, I’ll wash my hands of you forever. Trust me, you’d be doing me a favor.”