Dressrosa – Donquixote Doflamingo's Palace
A harsh, manic laugh echoed through the grand halls of Dressrosa's palace, causing several of Doflamingo's underlings to glance at each other warily. The man himself lounged in his extravagant chair, the newspaper spread before him like a game board laid bare.
"Fuffuffuffuffu!" His grin stretched wide, tongue running along his teeth as his pink coat slid off one muscled shoulder. Golden lenses caught the chandelier's light as he tilted his head, amusement glittering behind the opaque glass. "I'll be damned. Sir Crocodile, back from the dead and playing house with a woman? Now that's a surprise."
He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, and tapped the grainy image with a gloved finger. Smoke from a nearby ashtray curled lazily in the air, mingling with the faint hum of distant music drifting from Dressrosa's city streets.
"Serapha, huh? That sand bastard never did know how to lay low." His grin widened, teeth gleaming. "Not that I mind. This just makes things interesting."
Trebol, his ever-loyal executive, sniffled loudly, wiping at his perpetually running nose with a sleeve. His large, mucus-covered frame shifted as he leaned closer, peering at the photo. "Doffy, you think he's makin' a comeback, ehhh?"
Doflamingo chuckled, low and dark. "Of course he is."
Men like Crocodile didn't simply fade away. They bided their time, waited for the world to forget, and then struck when least expected. Doflamingo recognized the pattern—after all, it was a game he knew intimately.
"But look at him," he mused, tilting the paper so the light hit the photograph's grainy details. "Relaxed. Comfortable. Soft, even." The word dripped with mockery. "People like him? They don't get to be soft."
The paper crinkled as he tossed it aside, rising to his full, imposing height. Muscles tensed beneath his open shirt as he cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders with a faint pop. The air in the room seemed to tighten as his presence filled the space, commanding attention without effort.
"Keep an eye on him," Doflamingo ordered, voice sharp as broken glass. "If Crocodile's back, he's up to something. And I want to know exactly what that is before he starts getting any bright ideas."
Trebol sniffled again, already shifting toward the door. "Ehhh, what if he's just... settled down, huh? Maybe he's gone all soft for some pretty face—"
Doflamingo's laughter cut through the air like a whip, sharp and biting. "Him? Settled? Not a damn chance."
He paced toward the floor-to-ceiling window that overlooked Dressrosa's thriving streets, hands sliding into his pockets as he gazed down at the people moving below like ants. Their laughter and music drifted faintly through the glass, oblivious to the storm that always brewed above them.
Crocodile was a man who lived for power, control, and ambition. If he had resurfaced, it meant he had something in the works. The only question was what.
...And who the hell was the woman?
Doflamingo's gaze flicked to the newspaper again. She wasn't some fragile ornament—no, the way she walked beside Crocodile, her posture poised yet fluid, suggested something far more dangerous. She belonged beside him, not as a trophy, but as a player in her own right.
If she was an investment, Crocodile was securing an alliance.
If she was a tool, he was planning a move.
And if she was something more?
Then Crocodile had a weakness.
A slow grin curled on Doflamingo's lips. "Fuffuffuffuffu... Maybe I should pay Serapha a visit."
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A Bride for the Desert King | Crocodile
Fanfiction"Marry me," she commanded, almost. Crocodile narrowed his eyes at the impertinence of the woman who stood in front of him. "Ara," he heard Ms All Sunday mutter amusedly. "Who are you?" "Sineka Duskblade," she replied.
