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Summary
Crocodile shakes his head, his hand cutting through the tension in the air. "I won't play games."
Doflamingo's tongue slides over his gums, the taste of blood feeling playful enough. He's tiring of it too— listening to the man deny him. Rejection isn't real, it's a step on the way, it is part of the game. He enjoys it even, having someone who won't melt in his hand. But it is infuriating. While the man doesn't melt, he spills through his grip, drifting away before he can collect it, nothing left to lick from his palm.
"What a sore loser." He exhales, his posture loosening to lean his hip against the wall.
Their first meeting goes as well as you could expect.