Chapter Text
“To your newfound freedom, then?”
Pink feathers fluttered in the breeze as the large man raised his chalice of red wine, flashing a characteristic, devilish smile, all teeth and gums and concealed intentions.
Crocodile should have known not to trust it. But he figured there was no new low he could stoop to, now that he’d already lost his land, his power, and his freedom. Entertaining the king of Dressrosa’s capricious company seemed like the least of all evils, and thus he indulged him. The crystal clinked as Crocodile raised his own glass to respond to Doflamingo’s toast, a resigned sigh escaping his lips along with the exhale of cigar smoke. He averted his eyes, not willing to give the warlord more satisfaction than necessary.
“So it seems,” he replied, dismissive of Doflamingo’s attempt at a conversation starter.
To think they’d been at each other’s throats just a few hours prior, caught in the middle of a war neither of them cared enough about to pick sides. Just another occasion to make a show of their strength, settle a debt or two, and, as it was, get a chance to catch up with a former colleague. Not that Crocodile had been particularly elated about the latter, but Doflamingo had insisted on hosting him for the night, and contradicting the heavenly demon often came at a cost he was not sure he had the funds for, seeing as he’d just barely managed to get out of a very sticky situation. Better not make a new enemy out of an old ally, now that the marines were against him, too.
The wind blew to swirl the cigar smoke into the silent air. Dressrosa was breathtaking at night, especially from the palace terrace. Crocodile had missed the feeling of being above it all, having spent so much time trapped under earth and sea. His next breath was deep. He closed his eyes to savor it.
“You’re not giving me much to work with here, Croco dear.”
Doflamingo’s upper body was sloppily sprawled on the table, elbows bent so his hands could support that smug face of his. He peeked up at Crocodile from behind those tacky tinted lenses, but the man did not match his relaxed demeanor. After all, even while messily plopped onto the table and calling him pet names, Doflamingo felt huge, overbearing, invading. Letting his guard down in enemy territory was a mistake Crocodile could no longer afford to make.
Before opening his eyes, he let out a slow sigh and slouched his shoulders, mentally forcing himself to abandon his tense posture. Doflamingo had lured him here with his daunting charm and was now wasting his time with pleasantries. He had better things to do, including— but not limited to— finding his footing in the New World after months of solitary imprisonment.
“How about you get to it?” He said, trying to disguise his anticipation as mere impatience. “Tell me why you brought me here. Or do you believe I’m stupid enough to think you just wanted to buy me dinner?”
Doflamingo’s smirk widened into a wicked smile. Crocodile had cracked so sweetly under his gaze only.
“Are you suggesting I have ulterior motives?” The warlord reclined back in his seat, giving up his share of Crocodile’s personal space to stage one of his dramatic little skits. Looking away with a wrist to his temple and a hand to his heart, he feigned affliction like a seasoned performer. “Ay, I’m offended.”
Crocodile had had enough of the charade from the very moment it began, and he made it known by banging the side of his fist on the table, his aggravation clear in the telltale downcurl of his brow. “We both know you do,” he said, bottling up his more spirited considerations behind a grimace of gritted teeth.
“Can’t I just be fond of you?” Doflamingo said, lowering himself on the table once again, his spindly fingers reaching for Crocodile’s fist. The self-satisfied, shit-eating grin on his face gave away his penchant for using his intimidating nature as leverage to fuck with allies and enemies alike.
Was Crocodile a friend? A foe? Doflamingo knew. But keeping that notion to himself was the key to his little game.
Crocodile decided it was best to err on the side of caution. He retracted his hand from Doflamingo’s before they could touch and wrapped it around the stem of his glass, opting to forgo any unsavory commentary labeling his gesture.
He’d said his piece. Nothing more to do than wait for it to get through to Doflamingo and his thick skull. If it didn’t go in one ear and out of the other, that is.
With a movement of his fingers, Doflamingo summoned a servant to bring along a new bottle of wine, both men waiting silently as the young woman poured a generous amount of its contents inside Crocodile’s freshly emptied chalice and left. Doflamingo purposefully let the silence linger for a couple more instants, unmoving as his hidden eyes surveyed the other man’s expression.
“Fine,” he finally mumbled with a sigh as deep as the ocean, grabbing the bottle and bringing it to his lips to drink from it directly. “I have a proposal for you.” The large man did not miss the way Crocodile’s brow arched in suspicion. “Mutually beneficial,” he added, with a roll of his eyes. “But it will have to wait until tomorrow. Tonight is for celebration,” he concluded, raising the bottle in the space between them to mimic their earlier toast.
“Tomorrow?” Crocodile asked, flatly. He hadn’t expected this to be more than a soirée. But, as it seemed, it was going to be a stay.
“Yes, tomorrow.” Doflamingo chuckled at his own joke before even saying it. “Why? Forgot your pajamas?”
Not wanting to dignify the other with a response, Crocodile simply snatched the bottle from Doflamingo’s hand and brought it to his mouth. If he had to tolerate the man for more than an evening, he would need much more alcohol.
“Whatever,” he said after carelessly drying his lips with the back of his hand. “I’m gonna have to borrow some suppressants, though.”
“Rut?” Doflamingo’s head tilted to the side. His reaction seemed rather tame, considering the topic. That was unexpected.
“Spontaneous,” Crocodile resumed, then took a drag from his cigar. “You know, a prison escape, a war. Lots of adrenaline. But whatever. Been on suppressants for a few years anyway.” He exhaled the smoke that hadn’t exited his mouth with his words. He was starting to feel less tense. Hopefully Doflamingo wouldn’t take the chance to try one of his ruses.
“You weren’t always?”
Doflamingo’s curiosity was tinged with something Crocodile could not decipher. As always with the man, it was almost impossible to detect his genuine motivations.
Before answering, Crocodile got himself a new cigar from his coat pocket and proceeded to light it, his lips kissing the stub as the green flame from his lighter danced around the tip. Typical Crocodile, basically being kidnapped by a warlord with a limited supply of suppressants on hand but an infinite one of cigars. Priorities.
“No,” he started once he was satisfied with the burning end of his cigar, a small smile forming on his lips for the first time that night. “Even got a kid running around somewhere.”
True. But why would he give that up? Maybe it was because the wine loosened his tongue. Or maybe because he knew that Doflamingo could almost sense lies, and that once he did, he would pester and manipulate his way into prying much more than the truth from him. It was not like he could do much with this information anyway. Not without the whole story.
“Well, I don’t have any. I don’t really use them.” Doflamingo was sincere. No rut suppressants lying around the palace.
Crocodile quirked a brow. “At your age? What, you sterile or something?” Of course, that was not the only plausible explanation. It was not unheard of for youngsters to go around all hormonal and crazed in the New World. But a 39-year-old world noble and warlord? He’d have to be such a maniac that— ok, Donquijote Doflamingo might actually fit the description.
“Let’s just say… I have everything I need in my palace.” He punctuated this with a filthy smile and a wink, the innuendo not lost on Crocodile. It did still paint an off-putting mental image he’d rather not have conjured.
Crocodile was about to answer with a frustratingly mitigated version of what he really thought about the other’s debauchery when Doflamingo seemingly gave up his usual theatrics and spoke again. “I’ll have a servant bring you some by morning. Will you be fine until then?”
Somebody who didn’t know the man could almost think he was being sincerely thoughtful, maybe even a good host. But Doflamingo himself broke character with a hearty laugh. “Or will I find you humping someone from my staff in the middle of the night?” He added.
Crocodile visibly shook his head at Doflamingo’s wild laughter. “You’re disgusting,” he said under his breath. Maybe he shouldn’t have. Maybe he’d had a bit too much to drink. But Doflamingo didn’t seem to have taken it to heart. If anything, he looked pleased. God, was it impossible to wipe that arrogance off his lips?
Crocodile took another look at the kingdom around them. What was Doflamingo’s lurid little secret? How did a man with such a childish temperament maintain his hold on such a prosperous, flourishing land? It could not just be about cunning and resolve, or even about his illicit liaisons with marines and pirates. There was something more. Something innate about his ability to always get his way.
A quick look at the subject of his speculations and his squinted eyes were met with unphased pink glass. As intense as Crocodile's stare could be, there seemed to be no way to penetrate the other man’s meticulously crafted veil of deceit.
“Prison really did a number on you, huh?” Doflamingo broke the silence, taking another liberal swig from their shared bottle of wine. Crocodile’s fists tightened on top of the table as Doflamingo dove into his personal space once again. This time, sinuous arms snaked their way toward him, large hands coming to caress Crocodile’s in suggestive strokes. Doflamingo’s mouth was close to his ear now, and he whispered. “I think a good fuck would do you better than suppressants.”
Crocodile’s control over himself snapped. His hand moved at lightning speed, and with a violent anger he’d previously tried to contain, he forced Doflamingo’s hands to stop wandering by blocking his wrists with a bruising grip. He almost bit off his cigar gritting his teeth. “I thought I made it clear I’m not in the mood for your bullshit, bird. Stay in your place.”
Doflamingo’s reaction, for a fraction of a second, was unlike him. He audibly gulped, his eyebrows an unreadable straight line. But then he forced a small grin, regained his composure, and freed himself effortlessly from Crocodile. “I see you need some rest,” he said, getting up with urgency and grabbing the bottle of wine once again. “It is getting awfully late, I fear.”
Doflamingo nonchalantly walked away from the table, unbothered by the fact Crocodile was still staring daggers at him. With his back turned, he spoke again. “I will send a servant to escort you to your room.” After a charged pause, he continued, “See you tomorrow.”
***
But sleep wouldn’t come that night.
Crocodile’s thoughts raced. He regretted his impulsiveness, but all the more he resented Doflamingo. The way he made him feel subservient and weak. Like he had to weigh his words to please his whims.
He could try to convince himself he posed no less of a threat than Doflamingo did, but his mind inexorably brought back the very real fact that he was the one who had been defeated by a rookie. The one who had been stripped of his title and spent two years in hell while Doflamingo played king— and the world let him.
His closed fists clenched around nothing as he felt a droplet of hot sweat run down his temple. Fuck. Now was not the time.
He tried to ignore his fanned breath and exorcise those haunting memories from his mind, but his efforts proved to be pointless. The temperature rose with his every movement between those lavish silk sheets, a pang of that indescribable sting which preceded every harsh rut making itself known at the pit of his stomach.
In such cases, Crocodile knew it was best to act before things took a turn for the worst.
Reluctantly, he got up on his legs and made for the high door on the opposite end of the room. He shivered as his warm, barely clad body came into contact with the cool air.
Some servant must have been awake, even at that time of the night. Or so he thought, but a few minutes of roaming the silent hallways of the palace proved him wrong. These people really cherished their goddamn sleeping time.
He figured the next best solution was to go outside and get a breath of fresh air. Clear his suddenly unfocused mind. His hips and legs were starting to ache.
As he continued to make his way around the maze-like corridors of the castle, it hit him like thunder. The sweet, pungent smell of heat. Needless to say, his feet automatically turned him around, as if they had a will of their own. The scent was more intoxicating than any of his expensive cigars. And oh, how long it had been since he’d let himself breathe it in.
His eyes closed instinctively as he examined it further. It was dark and strong. So strong, it must have come from more than three different omegas.
Come to think of it, Doflamingo had hinted at relieving his own ruts in a more natural way. Did he really have a fucking whorehouse in the palace? All hints suggested that. There was no way now that Crocodile would be able to wait until morning to get suppressants. Not with the prospect of fucking multiple omegas in one night frying his brain. And not with his cock already tenting his underwear at the thought.
He could deal with Doflamingo’s tantrums in the morning.
Crocodile barely perceived the icy cold of the stone floor as he walked quickly to follow the scent. It was getting stronger and stronger, as his mind summoned lascivious images of dozens of omegas, bare and soft, and warm, lined up and pleading for him. His breath was heavy when he finally found himself standing in front of a large and ornate wooden door. No light seemed to filter through the gap at the bottom of it, save for a few stray rays of moonlight that must have bled in from a window on the other side of it.
He took a deep breath and opened it.
As he stepped inside, his foot hit something on the carpeted floor which caught his attention. In the darkness, he could make out a small, clear, cylindrical bottle, its contents haphazardly spilled on the ground along with what seemed to be a mess of medicine blister packs and vials, syringes and towels, all scattered in front of a wooden cabinet that had one of its doors seemingly ripped off the hinges.
It looked more like a crime scene than it did a whorehouse. And Crocodile would have loved to be turned off by it, but the smell was still very much there, its sickly sweetness now clearly overrun by a sour current of desperation and fatigue that he had not been able to distinguish before entering the room.
Then he heard it. A choked sob, followed by a grumble of irritation.
He turned his head in its direction on reflex and could make out the vague silhouette of an omega, straddling a smooth cushion between muscular legs while surrounded by a mess of hastily discarded clothing and thin bedsheets.
A speckle of light seemed to reflect where the person’s face should have been. Glasses.
Crocodile got closer with unsure steps until he could clearly see it. The king of Dressrosa on his knees, forehead damp with sweat as he pathetically humped a pillow and pistoned as many of his lean fingers as he could into himself, lewd wet noises rampaging through the wide room from the merciless drag of those crudely slicked hands.
Crocodile advanced again, until the faint hint of his shadow was cast on the man below him.
He hissed. “You reek like a dump.”