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.”
me being mutuals with someone but not talking to them is the same as a cat existing in the same room as a person and considers it socializing. me liking and reblogging posts is like the cat purring
Obsession (2026) does a wonderful job at making the audience uncomfortable, because it’s in those moments you can see from Nikki’s (the real one) perspective, how she doesn’t want this and he’s making decisions for her, making her co-dependent and making her love him to the point of self destruction, the scene where she stands still all day, the scene where she hits her head against that bottle, the scene where she hits her head into a brick and threatens to shoot herself. It was either the real Nikki trying to get out and kill herself on her own accord or the entity that was possessing her trying to show her devotion.
The entire movie is just an allegory for SA and taking away someone’s autonomy for your own selfish desires, Bear will always be the selfish one, the antagonist, the villain or whatever you want to call him, when he didn’t save Sarah he was selfish, when he didn’t kill Nikki he was selfish, when he tried to kill himself then throw up the pills HE WAS SELFISH. And even then in the end when he does kill himself he leaves Nikki to deal with everything he’s done to her and what he’s made her do.
Sorry we really went from free the nipple, take back the night, slut walks, and ending gender/sex segregation in sports being fucking milquetoast feminism 101 concepts to fucking girl dinner and "I just worry about fairness if we let trans girls play against cis ones" and "it was right of that woman to call the cops on a black man for existing near here in public during the day time because men are all violent monsters" and "radical feminism isn't transphobic we just need to kill all men including trans ones those oppressive traitors" and I will legit never be able to be normal about it. What the FUCK happened. I'd say I wonder what the feminists of my youth would say about this but I'm one and lemme tell ya I want to throw up. Go fucking read bell hooks or do something else useful please because all of this learned helplessness, gender essentialism, and transphobia dressed up as feminism is actively holding us back.
If you're a new writer and you're asking yourself "is this too personal, is this too much, will people think this is weird" that feeling is the exact location of your actual voice. The stuff that makes you want to close the laptop is the stuff nobody else could write. The safe version is always worse. Always. I have never once read something and thought "this would have been better if it was a little less honest." go further. It's always go further.
It's not r*pe, it's rape. It's not su*cide, it's suicide. Not unalive, dead. The backbone needs to be reintroduced en masse because softening the blow of these concepts with advertising language does absolutely nothing but allow people unaffected by them to feel not even a sting of what they can do, prompting inaction.
And it's been proven that on certain websites, you don't even face a repercussion for using the words as they are. People just started censoring themselves because they feared the potential lack of views and likes and followers which is so nasty itself.
I attended an anti-suicide seminar in college. One of the big takeaways from it was that stigmatizing suicide increases the rate of suicide, because people who are feeling suicidal feel like they can't ask for help. Every time I see babytalk garbage like 'unalive', I think of that.
"No, you're not coping the way I want you to!!!1!! You're not the Perfect Victim™️ I came up with in my head, so you deserve what happened to you!!!1!! I'm the normal one!!!1!!"
shoutout to the words "overmorrow" and "ereyesterday". english losing these words was stupid. "the day after tomorrow" "the day before yesterday" clunky-ass constructions. revolting. i'm bringing overmorrow and ereyesterday back in my idiolect and there is nothing you can do about it
good morning to horror fans, fat bitches, people with psychosis, they/thems, people who can’t drive, trans women, witches, and single dads. the rest of you... you’re on your own
germansingergirl
yousharknotpass
turnnoffyourmind
prguitarman
andulkaphoto
ellievsbear
