One Piece x Reader - Book I

107. Let's talk, yeah? (Doflamingo x Male!Reader)

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Here is a little helper:
✏︎(y/n)=your name
✏︎(l/n)=your last name
✏︎(h/l)=hair length
✏︎(h/c)=hair color
✏︎(e/c)=eye color
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⋆The words in italics represent thoughts.⋆
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✎Requested by Rengoku_Darling
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Characteristics of the reader:
✏︎Confused
✏︎Sassy
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Donquixote Doflamingo roams through the sun-drenched streets of Dressrosa, his towering frame wrapped in that unmistakable pink feathered coat—honestly, how that thing survives the heat is beyond you. The thing's practically a sauna with sleeves. The crowd parts for him like waves around a ship, though if we're being honest, the ship is probably on fire and the crew already dead. His grin is fixed, wide, and terrifying, like someone carved it into his face and he just... kept it. His sunglasses are still glued on, naturally—maybe his eyes shoot lasers. Or maybe you just don't want to see what's behind them.

Beside him struts Diamante, clanking like a decorative chandelier that fell down a flight of stairs and somehow grew ego. Shoulder pads sharp enough to puncture egos, medals weighing him down like he's compensating for a personality. Every step he takes is a jingle of poor taste and misplaced pride.

They walk like kings. Like predators. Like you are very much not supposed to be here.

But you are. You, with your half-full notebook, lukewarm coffee clutched like a lifeline, working with Big News Morgans - again: with, not for, thank you very much-, because your life choices are a slow-motion train wreck, and this is just the next carriage tipping over. You've annoyed enough powerful people to fill a prison ship. Doflamingo is just one name on a growing list of people who'd love to see you turned into a cautionary tale. And yet here you are, because you never did figure out how to not get involved in things that could kill you.

And sure enough, the moment you spot that flamingo monstrosity from across the plaza, he spots you. Head tilting ever so slightly, smile twitching with recognition. That slow, spine-tapping grin that says, Ah. You again.

You try to keep your expression neutral, casual, even. Maybe he doesn't remember you that well. It's been a while since the whole "accidentally published something that made him sound like a psychotic diva" incident. But no—he knows. You can tell. He's enjoying this.

You try a smile.

Maybe that'll help.

It does not.

"Well, well," Doflamingo drawls, loud enough for the breeze to carry it straight to your soul. "(Y/n)."

You flinch. You visibly flinch. Damn it.

He remembers your name. Not because he likes you. Not because he's been waiting to shake your hand and discuss honest journalism. No, the only reason he knows your name is because you pissed him off once—just enough for it to stick. Just enough to warrant interest.

And now you're in his line of sight.

You panic.

"I—uh—love what you've done with the plaza!" you blurt, before spinning on your heel and speed-walking like a tourist who's just realized this is the bad part of town. You ignore the onlookers, the pounding in your chest, the cold sweat trailing down your back. You've gotten out of worse situations. Probably.

You dart around a corner, already digging for your den-den mushi, mentally drafting a will you never expected to need. You mutter under your breath, "Okay, okay, new plan: disappear, fake your death, move to East Blue—start a clam farm."