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Some time ago, I dreamt that an Italian man turned into a cat had to prove he wasn’t a regular cat by cooking a pot of tomato sauce in front of baffled residents of the house. He struggled, due to cats not having opposable thumbs, and the verdict was that the sauce sucked but it was indeed weird a cat cooked anything at all
i just know your f/o is the most jealous person alive, it eats at them inside like a live wire but you wouldn’t know that because god forbid you would realize just how possessive they can get when it comes to you
the taste of wine and honey // donquixote doflamingo x afab!reader
cw: afab!reader [no pronouns used]; pet names 'pet' and 'little bird' used for reader; alcohol use [doflamingo]; oral sex, fingering [reader receiving]; doflamingo is his own content warning™️
wc: 1.8k
The smell of him hits you before the sound of him does—the unmistakable vapors of cut-rate wine. It’s the kind Doflamingo typically eschews for more extravagant fare, the kind he dumps onto the floor when it’s erroneously served to him with dinner, pausing to sneer before pitching the glass across the room to cacophonous laughter from his group of sycophants. No, he only drinks cheap-wine when he’s melancholy, when some unspoken horror grips him in the middle of the night and slowly wrings him out all day like a damp washcloth.
“What are you doing out here, little bird?” His voice is a quiet rasp—no trace of malice, no condescension, none of the qualities that usually linger in between his words and trail off his tongue. It’s only a question, a simple question…for now.
You glance up from your book to see him leaning in the doorway, bending at the waist to peer out onto the balcony at you.
“Just reading,” you shrug, waving the novel at him and using your thumb to keep your page. “Where have you been all day?”
He takes a long swig from the bottle, red liquid dripping down his chin. “I had meetings.”
Your eyes drift down from his glistening lips, down to his white shirt that hangs open, your gaze settling on the dark purple wine stains that mix with oxidizing blood spray. One of his meetings must not have gone according to plan.
Doflamingo seems to take notice of your concerned glances and sets the bottle of wine down on the concrete, stripping his shirt off and tossing it to the side as he steps onto the balcony. The early evening sun, in its orange and fuchsia hues, highlights the tensile beauty of his musculature, your eyes drawn to the bunching muscles of his shoulders and the corrugated leanness of his abdomen. His jaw is tight and the shadows dance on sharp cheekbones and an even sharper nose. He is a striking tragic figure, magnificent in his melancholy.
He saunters forward towards the balcony railing and pauses there, staring out at the setting sun, his hands hanging at his side, one fist gripping the neck of the wine bottle with such shaking force that you brace yourself for the inevitable pop of glass shattering all over the balcony. Instead, he simply looks at you from behind crimson lenses, his eyebrows relaxed, mouth fixed in some approximation of a pout. He takes a final swig, the last few drops landing on his outstretched tongue, before he whips the bottle off the terrace and you hear the faint tinkling of glass on the ground below.
Doflamingo pauses and turns, his large hand gripping the doorframe as he heads inside. “Come in here, pet. Your king is lonely.”
The low, measured tone of his voice was at least somewhat reassuring; he’s in a mood, but one that doesn’t seem to pose any threat to you—not yet, anyway. You inhale unsteadily and set your bookmark in your novel, pushing your chair back, when you hear him grumble from inside the bedroom, “And take that cheap thing off while you’re at it.”
“Cheap?” You scrunch your nose at him as you fiddle with the tie of the soft pink robe that moves over your form like liquid. “You told me this was the finest silk in all of Dressrosa.”
“It’s not nice enough for you,” he mumbles as he sits on the edge of the bed, carefully removing his loafers. “I’ll buy you something better. Something like you deserve.”
“Oh, is that right?” you tease as you stand before him, slowly letting the robe slip down your shoulders. “And what does your little pet deserve?”
He cackles softly as he extends his arms out wide and tilts his head backwards. “Why—only the world, my dear.”
A satisfied smirk works its way up your mouth as you walk up to him, slotting yourself in between his spread legs, as he grabs you and yanks you against him. You reach up and carefully remove his sunglasses; he flinches every time, no matter how gentle you are, no matter how lovingly you touch him, no matter whether you tell him you’re going to do it or not. The frames settle on the bedside table with a soft clack, as you reach up and place your hands on his shoulders—even sitting, he overwhelms you.
Doflamingo’s large, warm hands settle on the small of your back, and he leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. You slide your hands up the sinew of his shoulders, feeling the tendons in his neck twitching with your soft movements; your fingers lightly trace along the lines of his jaw, and a soft puff of air leaves his lips, the smell of that cheap wine still lingering on his breath.
“You okay, baby?” you whisper as your hands move to the back of his neck, fingers starting to card through his blonde hair.
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” he mutters, his words beginning to slur. “You make it sound like I’m some pathetic thing that needs your pity.”
He slides one hand up to your face, his palm engulfing you, as he captures your lips with a ravenous urgency, as though he has something to prove to you—that he’s not weak, not deserving of your condescension or scorn. He is the King of Dressrosa, the Heavenly Demon, a god manifested on earth.
As he pulls away from your kiss, shining threads of saliva connecting you like his strings, he flits his eyes over your face. “Don’t make that face, you look dreadful.”
“You taste dreadful,” you grouse exaggeratedly in response, wiping at your lips. “That wine is so acidic.”
A momentary flash of viciousness lights up his eyes, fading just as quickly as it appeared, as though your possible fates quickly ran before his eyes. “Is that so, little bird?”
You pause, chewing on your lip as you analyze him, deciding how far you’re willing to push your luck today. “It’s bitter. I don’t like it.”
“I see.” He moves to stand and you back up, his towering height frighteningly apparent. Doflamingo bends down to you, picks you up by the waist with a frightening ease and sets you on the edge of the bed. He kneels before you, grasps you by the ankles and slowly, achingly, kisses up the length of one leg, then the other, before setting them upon his broad shoulders. “Lay back—let me get that taste out of my mouth.”
He splays his hand between your breasts and presses you back onto the plush bedspread as he licks a slow, greedy stripe up your slit. The low whine that falls from your lips is all the encouragement he needs to devour you, and he begins to lap at your cunt voraciously, no patience for careful licks or gentle kisses—he wants to consume you.
His long tongue pistons in and out of your dripping hole, his thumb moving to press against your swollen clit; you squirm against, the assault of sensations both overwhelming and intoxicating, but Doflamingo only grasps you harder, his fingertips sinking into your soft flesh, presses his face more eagerly against you and moans wantonly against your cunt. Your hips buck of their own accord and you thrust against his face, and he pauses, pulling himself away from you long enough to offer you a smug grin, his mouth glistening with your juices.
“You’re so needy, sweetheart,” he coos, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.
You want to respond, spit out some biting little quip about how he is just as needy, how he clearly craves the taste of you on his tongue just as badly as you crave the warmth of his deceitful mouth, how charming it is that the king humbles himself to worship between your thighs. But the words never come, only strangled sounds of pleasure, guttural cries and aching whines, as his mouth eagerly finds your cunt once again, and he makes circles over your clit with the firm tip of his tongue.
Your fingers fumble to grip the sheets, your back arching up with every jolt of pleasure that runs through your limbs, every quiver of your muscles as the tension coils and coils inside you. Doflamingo groans long and low as he feels you tensing, knows he has you just on the precipice of pleasure, so close to the edge that it won’t be long before you’re pleading and begging, jumbled words of want and need tumbling from your trembling lips.
But he won’t make you debase yourself, not this time at least, and he slides two of his long, slender fingers inside your cunt, curling them upwards to stroke that most sensitive spot inside you as he sucks and laps at your clit. At once, air is forced from your lungs as you convulse into a chain of delicious spasms, crying out with unabashed abandon as your body is wracked with warm waves of pleasure. Doflamingo lets out a satisfied groan as you ride out your orgasm on him, your hips rolling against his sinful mouth, cunt fluttering around his fingers as they stroke your walls.
It’s only when the quivering begins to subside that he pulls himself away from you and grins, making a show of licking your slick off his lips, sucking every drop of you off his fingers as rivulets run down his tanned forearms. He stands, towering over the bed, and through bleary, tear-filled eyes you take him in—a marble-sculpted figure of a god that grants you paradise, only requiring your utter, unending devotion in return. A fair bargain, you think as you try to slow your erratic breathing.
Doflamingo leans over you, caging you in on either side with steely arms, and reclaims your mouth with a fierce and urgent kiss, his long tongue sweeping against yours, almost choking you, and you taste yourself on him, with only the faintest notes of acrid, low-priced wine left lingering. He bites at your ear and neck, teeth just grazing your pulse point before soothes your skin with gentle kisses.
“Well?” he murmurs against your collarbone. “Is the taste gone now?”
You sigh and press your lips to his temple, deciding to push your luck. “I think I still taste it a little…”
Doflamingo moves with a frightening quickness and grasps your wrists, pinning your arms above your head. He cocks his head and stares down at you for a good long while, long enough to make your heart race and ice-cold dread run through your veins. At last, a predatory grin creeps up the corners of his mouth before he frees your arms and starts to lower himself between your thighs again. “Then I suppose I’ll have to be much, much more thorough this time.”
so youre telling me that some asshole can just throw together meaningless shit and get notes and attention yet when i put actual thought into the things i say nothing happens i am so fucking done with this bullshit god damn fuck
gotta plan out what kind of vacations I’d take with my f/os…would we do a cabin the beach, swimming and lounging in the sun each day? a cottage on the lake, reading by the fire and skinny dipping late at night? a winter chalet, skiing or spending time at a spa? a hotel in a city center, exploring museums and shopping all day long?
