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weirdworldofwinnie · 7 months ago

Text

All Tied Up

Part 2 here

The Wizard/Oscar Diggs x female reader (NSFW 18+ only)

Summary: You've been The Wizard's pet 'plaything' more or less for a while now after ending up in the land of Oz by accident. One night he decides to try a new trick in the bedroom.

Warnings: unprotected sex, age gap (much older man/younger woman), power imbalance dynamic, slight daddy kink, nonconsensual mildish bondage, mentions of kidnapping and imprisonment, drinking, drugging

Word Count: ~6,471

A/N: Ever since watching Wicked when it debuted in theaters, I cannot get over Jeff Goldblum as the absolute sexiest Wizard of Oz and so this was born out of a little self-indulgence that I'm happy to share with others who are also down horrendously bad for this man. Takes place before the main climatic events of part one of the movie and obviously not entirely accurate to canon. Reader is AFAB for this (I might write another fic that is more gender neutral) and no use of Y/N in dialogue. Also, this is my first Oz fanfic, and I haven't written smut in a hot minute, so forgive me if it's a bit rusty!

Oscar Diggs.

That isn't his full name of course; all he ever told you was that it was embarrassingly long and unnecessary. Here in the Emerald City though, he is just known as a godlike figurehead deemed The Wizard. The Great and Powerful Oz. The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. Oz the Great and Terrible. His Supreme Ozness. All that jazz.

You know now he is a farce, a carny drifted the wrong way west, a two-bit con man that you have no business screwing with. But you do not know the extent of his wickedness and besides, he is just too damn good at wooing and making your heart stutter triple its normal rate for you to dig deeper beyond your feelings. He has an inflated ego, sure, but he's fairly quite kind, at least to you.

You first remembered him when you were a small child visiting the traveling carnival at the state fair in Kansas. His warm olive complexion was complimented with a clean-shaven face and a head full of dark hair and he was so, so tall. He still is, but you have a different perspective now. Back then at your low vantage point, he was so up towards the sky that he might as well have been wearing stilts.

He'd crouched down to your level and displayed out a standard deck of playing cards, and exclaimed: "Pick a card, any card!"

You randomly (or thought so) plucked out the Jack of Hearts and he took it back and shuffled the deck with a flurry of motion, then fanned them back out. You didn't see your Jack among them, and you puckered, lower lip jutted out. His eyes went wide at that, and he feigned concern.

"Ohhh, no, where is it? Is it in here?" He dug frantically into the flap of his jacket to no avail, then the bottoms of his tap shoes.

"Hmm, I don't suppose it could've..." He yanked off his top hat to reveal the same card hidden under there.

You'd gasped, equal parts confused and delighted, and he looked relieved at the successful reaction.

"Here, keep it. I have a dozen of these decks. It's something to remember me by and show all your friends." He pressed the colorful illustrated card into your palm with a grin and your eyes had sparkled with wonder and enchantment.

Thinking back on it, you knew he'd probably done that trick with twenty other kids that day, it was just a ploy to make you feel special, like sure he'd picked you out of the crowd to gift that Jack of Hearts to. But that didn't stop you from hanging onto it as a prized keepsake and keeping that card tucked safely in your jewelry box.

Years passed and you grew up, temporarily forgetting about the nice funny carnival man and shoving it to the back of your mind to solely focus on your simple and hardworking life helping your folks manage the acres of farmland and homestead. One late spring day you were out feeding the flock of chickens when you noticed that off in the distance to the west, dark clouds had gathered into an angry mob, a swirling mass of foreboding. You squinted, dropping the sack of feed. That sure didn't look nothing like an ordinary twister...

A vicious wind blew up and you struggled to walk towards the house, your skirt whipping around like a flag in the pummeling gusts. Ma and Pa were in town with the farmhand picking up supplies, so you were all alone and having never been caught out in the middle of a storm that seemed out of the ordinary, you were terrified.

The tornado spun across the fields, churning up the pastures and few buildings and wooden fences in its wicked wake, until it was no more than a football field's length away. There was no time get to the safety of the cellar, there no time to save anything, and with a scream, you bolted into the barn because it was nearest and covered your head as you flattened to the floor. It occurred to you too late that you should've tied or hitched yourself to a post or something...

Within ten frantic beats of your heart, the monster twister was directly overhead, the roaring and gnashing of its raw power nightmarish. Before you knew it, the barn walls around you started to rip and shudder and then the twister had violently sucked you and what was left of the barn straight up into the air and you promptly blacked out, certain this was it.

********

To your immense surprise, when you regained consciousness some time later, you crawled out of the remaining rubble of the barn to have ended up in a strange colorful place where there were joyously curious multitudes of strangers - people that called themselves citizens of Munchkinland. You were certain you had hit your head on the way down and went bonkers, but somehow it was all very real.

After you had recovered from shock and explained your situation, they advised you to head to the imperial capital, named Emerald City, to plead your case to the ruler who resided there, referred to as The Wizard. A kindly older Munchkin couple lent you their horse and a basket of bread with a canteen of water for the journey. For miles you rode through the farmland and north through mountainous regions to what the Munchkins said was Gillikin Country, home to the Great Gillikin Railway. The train station was gleaming and shiny, and the judgmental and disgusted looks from boarding passengers and workers made you feel like a filthy stray dog. You tried your best to ignore them and strode straight up to the conductor taking tickets.

"Excuse me, sir? I need to get to the Emerald City."

He wrinkled his nose and held out a white gloved palm expectantly.

"Oh, but I haven't any money for a ticket; I lost everything from the freak storm that brought me here."

His thick bushy brows had furried together and he sniffed once.

"A storm, you say?"

"Yes, I ain't got a cent. I was told by the Munchkins to go see The Wizard for my troubles."

His eyebrows shot straight up into his high forehead, and he scoffed loudly. You started to turn away, dejected.

"Well, why didn't you say so? It's your lucky day, miss! Come aboard!" the conductor suddenly exclaimed joyfully, ushering you on.

"Only this once though. You'll go straight to Emerald City where our wonderful Wizard can sort you out."

You boarded and found a private seat by the window, instantly falling asleep as soon as the train sped off. You missed out on the wonderous views of rugged thick moody forests and bright fields of crimson poppies and only awoke when the train jolted to a halt. Once let off at the station, you took to exploring the overwhelming oasis that was the Emerald City. You'd never seen a big city before and certainly not one like this...

It wasn't hard to figure out signs of this mysterious Wizard and the most obvious was a huge statue planted in the center of the town square. With a loud gasp, you recognized the figure as the very carnival man you had met as a little girl all those years ago.

After getting directions to the palace from a couple of citizens on the street, you went hurriedly to the entrance, only to run up against the stationed uniformed guards.

"I need to see the Wizard, please," you begged of them.

They'd been extremely skeptical, but after much desperate explaining and exasperation, you were begrudgingly allowed in and warned that if you were told to leave by him, you must obey and that nothing could be done about it.

The stretched-out hallway that was the walk down to where you were supposed to meet this Wizard was ominous and your boots had clacked loudly across the shiny tiled flooring, each step echoing tenfold.

The room itself was enormous and intimidating with bursts of fire and noise almost as bad as the tornado. Somehow, you'd mustered up some gumption to tell off the ghoulish moving mechanical head mouthpiece that you weren't scared off by its overdramatic display and that you weren't going to leave until you saw the voice behind it.

"I know who you are, Mr. Deck of Trick Cards!" you yelled at it and with a great whirring of the machine shutting off, it then clunked silent.

He'd come out from behind the hanging ropey curtain of thick twisted fibers, purely flabbergasted more than angry, and declared in humbled bemusement that no one had ever told him that before. Seeing him in the vivid flesh instead of a dim memory had made you falter. He had aged, yes, but he was actually rather handsome and so well dressed, radiating off quirky charm and charisma. You properly introduced yourself and recounted how you'd recognized him from your memory of that distant festival day.

"I see, but I'm afraid I don't remember you, sorry?" He coughed into his fist while his right shoe tapped restlessly.

Your heart sunk even though it was perfectly logical, and you didn't even know why you expected any remembrance when he never even knew your name, for Pete's sake! You had been just another cute face in the crowd, a country bumpkin kid to play card tricks with at the fair for a minute of his day. He had no reason to selectively recall you at all.

"I figured as much, it's my fault. I guess I'll get going though I haven't a clue on how to get home. But darn it, you know I didn't ask to be swept up by a tornado and plopped into this freakish land! I didn't mean to travel all this way through hot fields and cold mountains and the long railway just to get turned away by a silly man who runs a giant talking head!" You hadn't meant to sound rude and whiny, but you were so tired, hungry (the bread you were given depleted hours ago), dirty, and utterly exhausted. And the hope you had pinned on this one man was extinguished.

The Wizard crossed his arms tight to his chest and his eyes casually roamed up and down your body, perhaps surveying the pathetic condition you were in. If he was offended by your statements, he didn't show it.

"You know, it's funny, I had something somewhat similar happen to me back in Omaha and that's how I ended up here... I made the most of it, though. You came from the great state of Kansas, you said?"

"Yes, sir."

He had smiled at that, perhaps enjoying the way that respectful reply just automatically slipped out from your lips, and then he had waved a hand uselessly behind him.

"I don't know how to send you home. Well, I have a hot air balloon for travel, but it's more strictly emergency purposes and I don't think it would be wise to cause a ruckus and panic the people, so... You know what? How about you, uh, stay the night? You must be so worn out and clearly need a bath."

You winced, knowing you were caked in the unappealing smell of dust, muck, and sweat, but nodded eagerly.

"There's no sense traveling now anyhow, it'll be too dark soon. How about you stay with me for a while, and we'll figure things out, alright?"

You were near tears, yet very grateful, and accepted.

You almost wished you hadn't.

Guards, which were a mix of both normal humans and (bizarrely) blue faced monkeys had come in and dragged you off to a secluded room of the palace where you were scrubbed down and dressed in green pajamas by a small team of maids before being put in a bedroom.

You were stopped at every turn you attempted to leave your room to find an exit and finally they deadbolted it. You spent two nights in confinement with delivered meals before The Wizard had entered and gently explained it was too dangerous to let you leave, that you were safer with him and better off staying with him. At first, you were upset because surely your folks were worried about how you had presumably fallen off the face of an earthly existence, but then you remembered you were definitely an old enough adult to live on your own now and maybe there was nothing left of the homestead anyway if that nasty storm had its way. You didn't miss your work on the farm, nor the pressure your family had been applying to find a young man to marry. You never admitted it out loud, but you had bigger sights than being a simple country girl who let some drunken boyish hick boss you around.

This palace was just so grand compared to anything you'd ever seen in your life, and it was complete with a man you were increasingly infatuated with. It took several weeks of being locked up to come to terms with the realization that you had a raging crush on the man who was playing captor, and you wanted him very badly, but his interactions were limited, and you wondered why the heck he kept you around and alive if all he cared about was hiding his identity.

One night though, he broke down the invisible barrier: as you were knelt down in your room removing your slippers for bed, he grabbed your chin to tip upward and within a matter of two seconds, he kissed you right on the lips before you could make a peep. After a second, you kissed back hungrily without restraint, letting desire overrule fear.

"I'm sorry," you and him both said at the same time when he pulled away.

After that, you shyly admitted your blooming feelings for him and by a stroke of splendid luck, The Wizard reciprocated. He invited you to his private room and you slept with him for the first time. Afterward, he told you a bit about himself, how he really started out just a simple man named Oscar who had become a magician and one day the man in charge because people happened to be so gullible. He was intelligent, inventive, and intoxicating with a dash of cunning.

Of course, you weren't sure if the "love" that he extended was out of pure benevolent generosity or you were merely just a glorified whore, but either way you were happy because you loved him, albeit stupidly. He must genuinely love you back though; what else could all the flowers left on the nightstand and weekly gifts of expensive jewels tucked into tiny ornate boxes with trailing lime green silk ribbons mean? He even gifted you an entire handpicked wardrobe of fine clothing from pressed skirts and beautiful dresses to day-to-day blouses to pajamas and revealing lounge wear, many of which match the colors of Emerald City.

The only downside to this whole odd arrangement was that due to the fact that you already knew too much about him, he'd grounded you to the palace indefinitely. From day one you were not allowed to step even a toe outside the palace walls, you weren't let out to leave the premises even accompanied by guards, and you had to keep to yourself in the designated permitted rooms, of which he had many for a single man. When you asked why he needed the excess of rooms, he chuckled.

"They're for my inventions and all the things I collect. I'm rather sentimental, you see."

"Am I now one of your 'things'?" you asked, to which he had smiled almost impishly.

"You could be, if you want."

********

So it is without resistance that now, many months later, at eight o'clock in the evening (he insists on an earlier bedtime, strictly nine o'clock at the latest) in his grand bedroom, you splay fully naked on your back across the rich emerald green satin sheets like a starfish waiting to be swept away by the power of the tidal force he thinks he is (maybe sometimes he's more of a lukewarm swell but no matter).

The Wizard, or Oscar as he prefers only in private, is a surprisingly fit man for his age with a decent sex drive in bed when he's in the mood, which is at least once a week, but there are dry spells when he's too busy or unhappy. While you spend time reading in the library, he spends hours off somewhere building things and tinkering with models which you've never touched. You sleep in separate bedrooms, but on such nights he's ready for passion however, you're expected to be there and stay the night with him. Enjoying his company isn't hard to do - you've fallen head over heels for the man.

Presently, he's removed his long coat to hang up and is in the process of undressing further, the bits and bobs and chains clinking softly from his vest, when he pauses significantly, humming to himself in the depths of the spacious walk-in closet off to the side.

"What is it?" you ask, perplexed and a smidge annoyed at his distraction. He'd promised - no, ordered - an intimate evening after a long while of leaving too much alone. He's been swamped with work and meetings with other influential folk and plotting and planning that he always keeps quiet and stuffed away from you.

"Do you want a drink, my beauty?" he asks abruptly, turning around and holding a tiny green bottle of his famed elixir that he procured from somewhere.

"What kind of game are you playing at, sir?" you wonder suspiciously, watching candlelight glint playfully off the glass.

"It'll loosen you up, just a sip or two."

"It's just alcohol, isn't it?" You can hear the uncertainty reverberate through your tone and the guilty twitch of his eyebrows doesn't deny anything.

"My very own special blend. Take some," he insists, coming over and pressing the cool bottle into your tender hands.

"Why?"

"It's, uh, for a surprise. I promise it's not poison, by golly."

"Not funny." You narrow your eyes but pop the cork and bring it to your lips to take a quick swig. It goes down smooth like syrup, just not as sweet.

"That's my girl," he praises, and you shiver in delight as he climbs up on the bed, holding his hand out expectantly for the elixir, but you aren't done with it. You drink more, feeling the inexplicable urge to quench your thirst. You finally press the nearly empty bottle back to his hands, swallowing before lying back with a flump onto the plush pillows.

Within two minutes, you feel entirely airy and floaty, like your mind has taken an extension cord out of your body to stick somewhere up on the ceiling.

"This'll 'ad better be gooood..." you slur out.

"I guarantee it will, at least for me." He watches in satisfaction as you doze off to dreamland in a daze, a heavy weight of comfortable numb blackness settling over your bones. The room is bathed in a cozy glow from the candles, and it smells deliciously heady.

********

Not too long later, you stir awake from your short-lived nap and when you roll over to your side, you find you can't. Your back is flush against the satin sheets, arms raised up above your head and pinned to the headboard.

"W-Why am I... all tied up?" you ask groggily, looking down at your spread apart legs and ankles, which are stuck in place to the bedposts by a sturdy soft green rope snaked expertly and securely.

"I thought, uh, we'd try something new here..." Oscar says, seeming hesitant now, as if he's two inches away from regretting playing out this fantasy. Or maybe he's not guilty at all and only perceiving the act of being so (you could never tell with a sleazy con man after all).

You tug uselessly at the bindings, which aren't that uncomfortable; the mossy green rope coils around your wrists and ankles snugly, leaving a bit of room for circulation. The only part that truly bothers you is the restricted mobility and lack of control.

Oscar approaches slowly, as if gauging your reaction and his self-preservation if you should decide to fight back... How exactly, you don't know. Yell at him, cuss him out? Bite him like a lowly animal? Scream until a guard comes in to see if you are being murdered?

You writhe slowly, testing the limitations as he settles down at the foot of the bed, a patient parental expression painting his face, coloring with concern yet intrigue. In the time while you were asleep, he's removed his button down and trousers, leaving just a white undershirt and green boxers that pronounce his male package quite well.

He runs a slow hand up along the length of your left thigh and then alternates to the right, his fingers tracing lines of pleasure into your veins. You automatically whimper and he rigs a sly smile up to one side of his cheek.

"Do you like this?"

"I don't know..." you murmur truthfully. It's not exactly unpleasant, but the loss of control is unsettling.

"Well, I happen to like it. You know, the sight of you like this." He gestures a wide sweeping path across the whole of your body, and you grin sheepishly, chest rising and falling with anticipated breaths.

"You can't squirm from me as much."

"I don't squirm," you protest, raising eyebrows.

"Oh yes, you do. I know you don't mean to."

Before you can react to that, he lunges forward and his hands go to your sides, stroking up around to your breasts, fondling them like priceless treasures. You moan, arousal heating your core even more than before, and he rubs a thumb over the hard buds of your nipples while speaking lowly.

"I thank my lucky stars that you were blown in from that storm, it sure was a lonely handful of years before you stumbled into this place. And to have someone so obedient to all my whims..." he trails off, a hungry glint in his eyes.

He bends down to lick and smooch along your throat, inching upward until he nuzzles the nape of your neck with his nose. His close cropped and trimmed mustache/goatee tickles and scratches at your skin as he leans so close, cupping the opposite side of your face with a firm hand. You whimper as he latches onto your mouth possessively, his tongue hot and heavy in your mouth. He tastes faintly like Oz's finest toothpaste and his aftershave should be sold as a candle. Maybe you can suggest to him to market his own line of merchandise; the people of Emerald City will buy anything with their great ruler's handsome face on it even if the product is utter shit.

You feel your hips trying to buck up, needing more contact than of the oral kind, but he's teasing tonight.

"Just keep making those pretty noises, darling..." he whispers, sucking numerous hickeys.

"Please, Oz..."

He moves his head, hot breath on your earlobe as he mutters the words.

"What is it that you desire?"

You struggle to speak, all senses haywire, and he waits patiently as you breathe erratically.

"You-I, please, I need... Oscar, please! Touch."

"Oh, you want me to touch you there? Now we're getting somewhere, darling."

He backs off to run a hand down the length of your body and two of his solid warm fingers slip down into your entrance and out, a give and take motion he does for a bit just to get you hot and bothered. His fingers toy expertly with your moist clit like one does with levers to machines, pressing up and down, rubbing a swiping warm thumb over the knob... When he curls them internally, you cry out cataclysmically, stomach undulating in peaking waves of pleasure as you squirt on his fingers. He chuckles, keeping his grip on your hips, and without the ropes keeping your limbs in place, you'd be thrashing. It's torture, but in the very best way.

When you calm down enough to gaze at him heavy lidded with blown pupils, he focuses on removing his undergarments, taking the white undershirt off first and throwing it to the floor for a maid to pick up later. Then he gets to the main event, the showstopper. You don't focus long on his erect cock because his fingers get in between your legs again. He dips one in, two, then three to stretch you out and your warm slick folds welcome him back in with relief. He holds his free hand down on your stomach and you orgasm once more, yanking in frustration at the bindings that dig into your skin.

"Easy, easy," he says as if trying to tame a wild mare.

"I want... to touch you!" You've fondled his balls and cock before, but even just throwing your arms around his neck would be better than this look-but-don't-touch load of hooey.

"I know, I know. Hey, I'm doing the work here alright? Just enjoy the ride and you'll thank me later."

He looms over before settling down over you and it's strange not being able to grab him in return, to claw at his back, to wind your legs around his waist and claim him as your own for the evening. This power play dynamic is right up his alley, to make you feel utterly vulnerable and pliable underneath him, and it's only fitting for a man who loves to pull the strings of everything and everyone around him. He prefers being on top in bed, but you're definitely known to ride him cowgirl style a time or two (this is your favorite position).

The head of his cock pushes in at a tasteful pace to bottom out and burrow inside that it feels like up in your stomach - and it's taken practice to get to this point; the first time (and a few times after that) hurt and he couldn't get too far mostly because he was just so big. You wonder dimly if taking elixir and being in a relaxed state of mind affects your ability to take his girth. Either way, he never gets angry on nights he can't go all the way; he finds his climax just as well outside. Tonight, though, he's persistent and when he glances at your face which is not screwed up and wincing, he gradually nods in approval to continue.

Oscar moves slowly in rocking rhythm, gentle and deliberate at first, then faster and rougher, nearly growling in pursuit of his own pleasure. His silver hair falls out of its careful coifed style to hang over his forehead, and he keeps his melted milk chocolate-colored eyes dead set on yours as he fucks, a predator to his prey. He has you right where he wants, you can't move away, and you moan as your walls clench tight around his cock. He holds his stare steady, but his frame is shuddering and it's clear he's close to his pinnacle, the one he's been aiming for since you entered this bedroom.

He has made it no secret he has cravings to be a father, even though you're sure he'd be a somewhat inept, possibly even lousy one due to his measurable amount of selfishness. Not to mention the detail that he's old enough to be your own daddy and you oddly don't have a problem with that... But he knows he mustn't intentionally knock you up (a scandal that would cause if word got out) and it was you who had to sadly school him on this fact of life, having been around enough farm animals all your life to know how babies are easily made and knowing friends who had become mothers at the ripe age of 18 back in high school, and you do not want to be that careless. It's lucky there hasn't been any "mistakes" so far in your bedding with Oscar, but you know he almost can't resist spilling inside.

Instead, he pulls out with difficulty at the very last minute, and hot ropes of gooey cum splatter your stomach and splash against your chest. He groans in ecstasy before heaving, out of breath.

"You okay?" you whisper as his lightly sweating chest rises and falls with exertion. He cracks a lopsided smile, steadying himself by using his arms to brace against the headboard above you.

"Are... Are you kidding? I've never been better. Just - just give a man a minute, will you?" He retracts an arm back and holds up a single finger with a dangerous glance.

"And don't you dare make a joke about my age. I'm as fit as a fiddle, just like when I was thirty."

You nod absently, thinking of him as a younger man. The portraits and statues scattered around are decent, but could never do him justice. He's aged like the finest high-quality wine and the silver hair and sprinkling of wrinkles only enhances his austerity.

"You're incredible, your Ozness."

"Flattery always works best, my dear." He ducks his head down and sloppily kisses you softly on the cheek.

"And you deserve to be untied, don't you?" His hands wind around behind your head and with one quick motion, both your wrists are untied. He does your ankles next in a flash and flimsily bundles the short ropes up to toss onto the bedside table.

He climbs off and helps you up ease up to a seated position. You feel suddenly dizzy and droop forward, your brain rushing with slush, and blood flushes into your cheeks.

"Woah, it's okay." He sucks in a breath, catching you against his chest.

"Spinning," you gasp out and he keeps his arms securely around you for a minute before you wiggle, antsy, and he props you up.

"Still on the Tilt-A-Whirl?" he asks, lines deeply creasing his face.

"I... It's gettin' better." You shake your head as though that will dispel the imbalance that you have a strong hunch is a side or after effect from his mystery elixir, not just the sex.

"Thank goodness. You scared me for a minute there, if this is too much..."

"No! I love you," you blurt out and he comfortingly pets your head, raking fingers through and tousling your hair.

"Alright, sweetheart. And to think in addition I was going to experiment with a blindfold and gag- uh, never mind. Maybe that's too advanced; we'll hold off on that one for the foreseeable future."

You gape at him as he gets off the bed with no further word but a grunt and reaches over for a towel on the bedside table to give to you. You take it to wipe up some of the mess while he leaves momentarily off to the nearby bathing chambers to freshen up.

He comes back five minutes later dressed only in a fresh pair of tight fitting boxers predictably of his favorite color that you have to tear your gaze away from lest you foolishly admit to wanting another go around. He clears his throat at your staring, rubbing his jaw and jerking his chin towards the door.

"You can go clean up now," he says a bit gruffly, pointing.

All of Emerald City is extravagant and even the humble washroom is no exception. The first night he'd fucked you, Oscar had given a tour of it.

"See what money and power can buy? It'd do you good to remember that," he'd said as he ran a hand across the shiny marble tiles and gilded gold faucets.

"I came from humble beginnings just like you and now look at me!" He spread his arms out wide in exaggeration and you giggled, utterly enamored.

"Just don't let it go to your head." He chuckled deeply at the ironic fitting joke.

You shuffle off now to wash and wipe down your body in there, using an dark green washcloth that has his moniker of "OZ" stitched on it, and you feel aching soreness all over your body - but it's a good kind, like a full day's work of physical labor accomplishing what you really needed to do.

********

Once you are done in the washroom, you tug on a plush robe the color of jade and return to the bedroom to go to lay back down on the king size bed next to him. He pulls you in with the crook of his arm, the other holding a different bottle than the elixir. This one smells very much like whiskey.

"I should tell you..." he begins with a pause, clearly not in any hurry as he takes a breath and then a couple sips. You can tell by his slightly unfocused gaze and relaxed body that he is getting a tad drunk.

"We're gonna have a special visitor soon from Shiz University, you know Madame Morrible?"

"Yes." You've seen her come and go around the palace, but aren't advised to get within ten feet of the powerful older woman, let alone speak to her. All you know is that she can do impressive magic (unlike him) and is a very close loyal confidant who provides important insider information.

"Well, she invited a very special student with promising magical abilities here for something I'm working on, and I'll need you get out and to stay out of our hair for a while," he explains causally, playing with the neck of the bottle in his fingers.

"You're casting me out?" you ask, disappointment surging up like a muddy river during a flood. This set-up is only too good to last, isn't it? You're so in love that you've almost forgotten all about home, not that you'd really loved your old life there much anyway. But if you truly can't get home ever again, you'll have to start looking for some kind of work in the city to make meager money and hopefully figure out how to cobble a life together if that's even possible. You'll never find another man to depend on like Oscar, that's obvious. Funny that mere months ago, you had been somewhat distraught at the notion of being held against your will in this unfamiliar palace and world. Now you just feel stupid for letting him lead you into a false sense of security and preying on when you were most desperate.

"No, no, of course not," he replies in a scandalized tone, slicing sharply through your spiraling thoughts.

"I greatly value your, uh, commitment to me and keeping my secrets. You're a very delightful girl who doesn't go snooping for trouble and you try to keep out of my business."

You don't mention that you are technically locked indefinitely in this palace, forbidden to go outside off the grounds, and hadn't really had a choice in the first place. But he appears so sad and frustrated, so you nestle and snuggle further into his side, your hand tracing lazy circles on his chest.

"Perhaps only though for your safety, if the upcoming meeting and arrangement doesn't go well, you might have to leave permanently. But, uh, in that case I'll make sure you get you set up with decent accommodations outside the city. Perhaps Munchkinland, Governor Thropp there owes me a favor..."

"Okay," you murmur quietly even though this prospect partially frightens and worries you, and you feel relief oozing from his bones.

"Thank you for always understanding my dear. You know I have such a responsibility and I need everything to go right when this special young lady comes - Morrible is counting on it and you damn know it you don't want to get on her bad side."

"This student of hers must be something else," you mutter more to yourself than him. How much does she know, anyway?

"She sure fucking is from what I've been told. She'll change everything and put me in a greater position than before if I can get her to work with me. Morrible seems cautiously confident and cheered as well by the prospect, which is a sign to be taken seriously. She can often have a stiff stick up her tight ass, huh?" He laughs, deep and throaty, and you know his guard is down when he swears openly in conversation.

"Right." You're silent for a little while, just letting him hold you and trying not to dwell on the implications of whatever this mystery meeting could hold. You could ask for more information, seeing as to how he could be looser lipped from the effects of the alcohol, but you frankly don't care. The post orgasmic state you're basking in is too all-consuming to break out of (plus you are fatigued), and so you let the less business side mood of tonight seep back into the conversation.

"Hey, I liked this tonight, what we did. I really thought the ropes were, um, creative and even though I was nervous at first, it was actually... pretty hot? Maybe we could do that again sometime, sir?"

He smiles tentatively, the gears of his diabolical mind whirring on another track, and your words clumsily snatch him back to the present.

"That's just what I like to hear, sweetheart. That's what I love best-"

"-making people happy," you finish for him, having that line down pat after overhearing him parrot it as part of his political approach.

"Atta girl," he replies with a smarmy smirk and then a contented sigh, ducking his head and resting his chin on top of your head as you lay on his bare chest, listening to the even drumming of his heartbeats.

The palace is delightfully quiet this time of night, the guards in immediate range having been dismissed for the evening so there would be no eavesdroppers. Light from the waxing moon outside the large glass windows curtained with heavy drapes parted a couple inches beams through weakly down, leaving a six inch pale strip to highlight the heavily polished floor.

Kansas and its cornfields feel like worlds away. This is almost like a dream in of itself, but I know it isn't because every day I wake up and I'm still here, you muse sleepily.

Maybe you're staying with the wrong man, and it will end badly between you two. But honestly at this moment, you are too smitten by this lavish lifestyle you stumbled into, his seemingly sincere ongoing affections, and the raw primal love you extract from his flesh on passionate nights like this to give too much of a hoot about it.

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blooms-in-april · 11 months ago

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Sometimes the toxic ships are just more fun.

If I wanted to read about a healthy wholesome safe and sane relationship, I'd read a sex ed manual. Sometimes you just want to watch the world burn.

#sorry antis #daemyra #jaydick #sladick #rastim #batcest #don't like don't read #ao3 author

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scholarlystarker · 5 months ago

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Untitled Starker fic featuring appearance by Deadpool

Rating: Mature for language and content, rating will go up as the fic continues. Pairing: Tony x Peter (aged up, College student!Peter) Words: 2036 ***

Apparently, it was just going to be that kind of night.

“This is… humiliating,” Peter whined, his face red hot below the mask. He tipped his head back as far as it could go within the tube created by his own webbing and felt the back of it hit metal. “Ow.”

“Hey don’t even talk to me about humiliation until you’ve been buck ass in Shanghai with at least two grams of— you know what? Story for another time. Where do those Avenger buddies of your stand on extradition bee-tee-dubs? No reason.” Deadpool was animated as ever despite all of his limbs being bound just as tightly as Peter’s currently were. He swiveled his head left and right. “How flame resistant are you? I might have something up my sleeve that could help us out.”

Peter fought back the urge to headbutt his companion just for a moment’s silence so he could think. He wasn’t wearing the fully upgraded suit tonight because the latest edition was back at the lab where he and Tony had been tinkering.

It hadn’t really needed that holographic field display upgrade but Peter had a running fear that if he ran out of Spidey suits or other projects to throw at Stark, he might somehow lose the older man’s interest.Tony Stark’s attention span was notoriously limited, after all. It had been six whole years now since they started working together, off and on. Peter was no longer the impressive teenage whiz kid.

Which was good, in a way, because he’d long ago lost that frazzled, starstruck feeling (most of it) and even made friends with most of the team. There was a standing invite for him to be an Avenger (whatever that meant these days) once he was done with college. He’d been on multiple missions, including off world, and Nick Fury once gave him a backhanded compliment that was very close to praise itself. There were contacts in Peter’s phone for Sam, Pepper, Clint, Bruce, and even Tony Stark, himself. Not that all of them would answer if he called or texted about anything more casual than a terrorist attack. Still, it was a pretty impressive roster for a broke-ass kid from Queens.

Of course, at the moment Peter’s phone was useless to him since it was back home in a dorm with the rest of his secretly real identity. But he could ask Karen to put out some discreet feelers. There was likely an Avenger nearby who could swoop in for a second and cut through the worst of it.

Peter wiggled again, his lower back suddenly itchy. “I don’t even know how you managed this one, man…” He sighed.

Deadpool wiggled back, the roll of his hips feeling deliberately suggestive. “I just wanna be close to you, Spidey-buddy… in a ‘why do birds suddenly appear’ kinda way, ya know? Quality time?”

Peter scoffed, letting his eye roll reflect on the mask. “I meant literally how. I had this whole thing set up to catch the guy who has been doing fire escape break ins. And then you… and now this.” He tried one more time to press out against the binding but his own work held too strong, which he accepted with a mixture of pride and disappointment. “So now I’m gonna have to call for help like the… like someone who needs help. Which I don’t. Not usually. And then he’s gonna know I couldn’t. Ugh.”

“He?” Deadpool cocked his head to one side.

Ignoring the question, Peter muttered some general non-urgent distress keywords for Karen, hoping against hope that maybe Sam or Rhodey was nearby. Hell, he’d take Natasha seeing him like this over…

“Holy shit it's Iron Man!” Deadpool practically vibrated against him in his excitement.

“Fuck,” Peter muttered, his stomach full of lead.

Iron Man hovered beside the fire escape where Spider-Man and Deadpool were lashed together by a veritable cocoon of webbing.

“Do I want to know?” Tony asked, a hint of amusement obvious even over coms.

Deadpool had no problem jumping in. “Oh you know, just blowing off some steam. Two guys in our tight lil super suits having a lil web-filled fun!”

“I was not having fun, Sir.” Peter interrupted, the embarrassment sinking into his bones as he felt like a schoolboy at the principal’s office.

Six years of teamwork and lab time, late nights hunched over screens together, eating cold pizza as they vollied ideas the way some folks play table tennis, and Peter still couldn’t get a handle on it. This rush of feeling he got when Tony was around, the deep rooted desire to prove himself worthy of that great esteem. The fear that Tony’s favor had somehow been wrongfully bestowed and one wrong move would be all it took for the genius to finally figure that out.

Everyone seemed to think that Peter put Tony Stark on a pedestal, all heart eyes and hero worship. While he couldn’t deny the heart eyes — seriously who wouldn’t have them around Tony??— Peter actually knew perfectly well that Tony was a flawed and fallible human. He liked the man so, so much more than the Iron. Or the Stark, for that matter.

What no one seemed to see, save maybe Bruce (who saw much but said little) was the slippery edge of Peter’s very own pedestal. The one where he toed the line of independent adulthood versus a mentee who still desperately needed his mentor’s guidance and approval. Spider-Man or just… Kid.

And sometimes he wasn’t sure which would be worse.

Iron Man separated Deadpool and Peter’s bound bodies from the fire escape and carried them up to the roof where there was more space to stand.

Meanwhile Deadpool was fussing at Peter. “Tattletale. I know you didn’t mind it that much. Totally felt you getting a lil chub earlier, Spidey. Don’t lie.” He rolled his hips again for emphasis.

Peter, being a young man with heightened senses, could feel his body wanting to react to the stimulation and there was an unintentional note of stress in his voice as he called out; “Mr. Stark, please hurry?”

As Stark silently sawed through the webbing, both of the other men held still. But that did not stop Deadpool from running his notorious mouth.

“Okay wait. You call your coworker mister? Or is it more than that? Is this, like, a kink thing? What did I get in the middle of and how do I get into the middle of you two specifically?” Deadpool turned to look at Iron Man as the webbing finally fell away.

In response, Tony seized Deadpool by the throat, lifting him off his feet like a rag doll and proceeded to dangle him over the edge of the forty floor building.

Deadpool gagged and struggled, holding onto Stark’s metal arm with both hands so he could breathe.

“Shit okay. I get it. No more web pranks. Lesson learned. Coulda just spanked me or something. At least made it fun!”

Stark’s hand tightened slightly and he shook Deadpool bodily as Peter ran toward them both with hands out in a placating gesture.

“Mr…. Tony! It’s okay. He’s not that bad. Really.”

Stark’s voice was difficult to read this time, devoid of amusement but not exactly angry. It was almost colder than anger, precise and clipped. “He’s a vigilante and a predator. Not really a hardship, here. I heard he doesn’t die but this might put him outta commission for a bit.”

Deadpool made a sort of noncommittal sound, swinging his legs. “Hey. Hey now Look vigilante I'll take because it sounds cool. But predator? Pfffbbt. Hardly. Spidey here is a friend. A pal. Maybe with benefits if I get my way, sure! But I’ve never. Y’know.”

“I’ve seen the footage, Deadpool. You cornering him. Rubbing up against him. And tonight’s stunt? No. You need to learn some fucking manners. Boundaries.”

Footage? Peter paused, his mouth falling open. Hadn’t they turned off all of the cams except in case of emergency?

“Wow. Boundaries. Iron Man in therapy or what?” Deadpool shot back, he gave Tony a long flat look. “Cause I don’t think it’s working.”

Taking a step sideways, Peter put a hand on Tony’s shoulder. On Iron Man’s shoulder. “Tony. Put him down. I can handle it from here.”

Deadpool looked down, his mask seeming to grimace. “You know, it’s not the fall that kills you. It’s the splatting organs all over the ground. Which won’t kill me either. Probably. But it will hurt like a bitch. So, I’d really appreciate it if you listen to the Spider?”

Tony’s head turned and Peter wished they could look at one another eye to eye but it wasn’t worth risking his identity. After another silence, Deadpool was hauled back in and dropped unceremoniously onto the rooftop. He scrambled to his feet, brushing dust from his suit and complaining under his breath about bruises that were not ‘earned either of the fun ways.’

Iron Man was aloft once more, staring down at Peter in a way that implied he had more to say but he glanced at Deadpool and took off.

Deadpool made a rude noise and flipped the bird at Tony’s receding back. “Y’know Spidey you coulda saved a guy a lotta trouble if just mentioned that your boyfriend was A. Iron Man and B. The Most Possessive Guy Ever. And maybe C. Goddamn Fucking Iron Man?!?”

Peter shook his head, cleaning up the webbing and dissolving it neatly now that he could access his tools. “Not my boyfriend.” He straightened and looked at Deadpool. “Which is not an invitation for you to keep dry humping me by the way. He was right about the boundaries thing. I mean. Don’t most people at least start with dinner and a movie or something?”

Deadpool touched his forefinger to approximately his mouth area. “Yeah I’m not gonna risk asking out Iron Man’s boyfriend.” He put his hand up, palm out to pause Peter’s reply. “Call it whatever you want but I’ve been dangled over a few roofs before and that guy was seriously considering dropping me.”

“He doesn’t see me like that,” Peter insisted, stubbornly pushing down that childish bubble of hope that arose whenever someone made this mistake.

It had happened a few times in the last few years; people suggesting their relationship might be… more. Especially now that Peter was starting to look a bit less like a fresh faced kid, had the shoulders to fill out a real tailored suit. And yeah, he and Tony had their silly inside jokes, their movie nights (no longer weekly but at least once a month) and sometimes traveled to scientific conferences together.

But Tony had been single since he and Pepper called it a final quits about a year and a half ago and he never once made a move. Peter was around more than probably any of the Avengers, since he’d stayed local for college. He spent enough nights at Stark Towers to have his own room, with changes of socks, underwear, and gym clothes. If Tony was going to hit on him, surely he’d have done it any of the countless nights they’d spent falling asleep on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn between them. Or over those sleepy mornings when everyone else was out and Peter and Tony sipped coffee at the breakfast island in comfortable silence.

Just picturing it now made Peter ache a little inside. It was a foolish kind of self inflicted torture, really, to keep letting himself fall into moments of quiet domesticity with the man he… was very much not dating.

Taking a full, deep breath and exhaling it slowly, Peter sat down on the ledge of the rooftop. “I need to go. You owe me some bad guys for making me miss the break-ins tonight.”

“Oh them? Please. I know where they fence the stuff. I’ll have ‘em tied up in a pretty lil bow for ya by the end of the week. So long as you tell your…Iron Man to lay off me?”

Peter nodded, absentmindedly. “Deal.” He shot his web and took off in the direction of Stark Tower.

#starker #starker fic #tony stark x peter parker #peter parker x tony stark #peter x tony #iron spider ship #nff #don't like don't read #starker fandom #starker fanfiction #ironspider ship #aged up peter parker #not beta read #my fic #my starker fic #tnpt #ironspider

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corazondebeskar-reads · 2 years ago

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the art of breaking (dark!joel miller x f!reader; dead dove do not eat)

the art of breaking part one | part two

very dark!Joel Miller x f!reader

Word Count: 10k

Summary: Your meeting is happenstance, but everything that follows? Well, that’s all Joel. He just knows you’re going to be his perfect little toy. He just has to show you how.

written for the #deaddovedecember2023 event hosted by @romana-after-dark | also on ao3 | dedicating this to @kewwrites, who is a master and icon of unsettling-but-still-romantic dark fic & whose incredible vibes made me feel brave enough to write this. love you ty 🖤

dividers by @saradika-graphics

NOTE: DEAD DOVE: DO NOT EAT.

Seriously, I am saying this as clearly as I can: read the warnings carefully. If anything listed is something you don’t want to read, don’t. The working title for this was “the darkest joel” for a reason (and I actually tamed it down/cut out some of the intense scenes). It’s modern-day/no outbreak, but Joel still lost Sarah and went off the deep end. He was probably a good dom at some point, but now he’s just fucked up.

If you're worried it'll be too dark, it probably will be.

Warnings under the cut:

Warnings: dead dove do not eat, non-con, dub-con, very dark!Joel, BAD bdsm etiquette, not SSC/RACK compliant, sadist!Joel x masochist!reader, coercion, corruption, manipulation, isolation, gaslighting, captivity, sadism, masochism, pain play, extreme punishment, semi-permanent damage (a bone is broken, I’m not fucking around), whipping, spanking, face slapping, tit slapping, impact play in general, mentions of vomit (no description), oral, anal, vaginal, degradation, humiliation, overstimulation, edging, denial, dacryphilia, bastinado (mentioned), restraints, very brief knifeplay, tiny drop of blood play, Joel sees reader as property, inadequate aftercare

Again, I cannot say this enough. This is a dark fantasy and should not be taken as representative of a good d/s relationship—it’s abuse masquerading. Just because I wrote it doesn’t mean I’m condoning it.

Please read responsibly.

I. in media res

-the fracture

There’s one comfort Joel almost never denies you.

Well, never denies himself.

Unless you’ve been real bad, you always take your place in bed with him at the end of the day. You think it’s so he has easy access to you if he wakes up horny, but honestly, that happens a lot less than expected. He works hard all day; he needs his sleep.

No, he likes the comfort of your warm body next to his. The way you curl up and press kisses to him, no matter how bad he hurt you during the day. His sweet little pet, desperate for every bit of his affection you can earn. He’s always gentle with you here.

It’s part of what makes The Pit so effective.

It fucks with your brain on so many levels, exposes you to so many fears, and then you have to reconcile that you were bad enough for Joel to deny himself the comfort of you in his arms at night. That you’re so undeserving of his love.

Of all of the ways he punishes you, this will be the worst. You can take the humiliation, the pain—not easily, but you can, and there’s usually immediate care after.

But a night in The Pit will tear you down completely.

You hadn’t known what to expect when he said you’d have to spend the night alone, but it wasn’t this.

“No, please,” you scream, stumbling to keep up as Joel pulls you by your hair.

“Shut up,” he snarls.

The soil is loose, clinging to your sweat as you try to right yourself. It’s a futile effort. When you reach The Pit, he holds you down with his boot on your chest while he unlocks and opens the bars.

“Get in,” he says.

You’re sobbing and shaking, skin already gone cold. Somehow, you manage to obey.

The Pit is exactly what it sounds like. It has an open wooden frame with mesh on the side walls to keep the dirt in place. The bottom is bare soil. Mounted to the top of the beams is a grate of bars that sit flush with the ground.

It’s big enough for you to curl up at the bottom—which is what you do now.

“I’m sorry,” you cry.

He shuts and locks the gate.

II. from the start

-intact

It was kismet, really, that he was there that night. He didn’t usually go out for drinks with the guys, not wanting to be the boss who was always cramping their style. But Tommy had dragged him out tonight, and so he was witness (with the rest of the pub) to your relationship falling apart.

And okay, maybe he went outside for a smoke after you moved the fight to the alley so he could eavesdrop. But it wasn’t his fault. How could he not?

You had said, “Maybe you’re just not man enough for me,” to the brawny but pathetic prick across from you in the booth. “Wanting you to be rough doesn’t make me a freak.”

“That’s not rough; that’s fuckin’ abuse. You’re sick,” your boyfriend had practically shouted.

The discussion evolved into a screaming match in the alley, where Joel had been pleased to be right. It was about more than just a little rough sex or spanking.

At the end of it, your boyfriend stormed off, and you went back in the pub. Joel found you at the bar, throwing back another shot and wiping your tears away.

“You did good back there,” he says.

You startle and look at the stranger. The very handsome stranger. Rugged, with a salt and pepper beard and a scar across his nose.

“What do you mean?”

“Standin’ up for yourself. Not a lot of people woulda been confident enough. ‘Specially not a girl lookin’ for that.”

You glare at the bar counter. “M’not a weirdo.”

“Nah, you’re not. Shit like that is perfectly normal. He’s just pathetic.”

You look back up at him, and he sticks one hand in his pocket, trying to adjust himself discreetly. The tear streaks on your cheeks are getting to him.

“I don’t know. He’s probably right. It’s not your garden variety shit,” you say. The tequila and his gentle eyes have loosened your tongue.

“I doubt that. Try me,” he says.

“What?”

“Try me. Tell me what he freaked out over, and I’ll tell ya if it’s weird. Trust me, I’ve seen it all.”

You hesitate, but he looks genuine and kind. “I asked him to hit me. Like, in the face. And to, y’know, pin me down and—” you trail off.

“And make ya take it?” he guesses.

You nod. “He thought I like, I dunno, actually wanted to be raped,” you whisper the last word, eyes darting to the people around you.

Joel laughs. “Honey, that’s so normal, you wouldn’t believe. I’ve helped ladies out with that little roleplay more times than I can count. If that’s your deepest, darkest fantasy, and he couldn’t take it, then you’re better off without him.”

“It’s not,” you mumble.

“Speak up, honey.”

“It’s not my deepest, darkest fantasy. It’s probably one of the least of them.”

He grins. “Then you’re definitely better off. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with likin’ things on the darker side, sweetheart.”

You’re feeling hot all over and are about to ask him more when your phone rings. It’s your idiot boyfriend, who’s realized you have the car keys.

“I better go. Thank you,” you say, standing and offering him your hand.

He gives it a firm shake, tipping his head. “I’m Joel. And if you’re ever so inclined, I’d like to take you out sometime.”

You laugh. “Let me break up with my boyfriend first, Joel.” But you dig a pen out of your purse and write your number on one of the tiny bar napkins.

Your first date was so normal. You’re not sure what you expected. To jump right to hardcore sex?

But no, he turns up at your door in a neatly pressed green button-up, black slacks, and an ostentatious belt buckle. He greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a bouquet of wildflowers, lavender stalks nestled between pink honeysuckle and red salvia. Not a traditional arrangement, but it reminds you of a summer sunset.

“From my garden,” he says a little sheepishly, but you like them a lot better than some generic store display. You tell him as much and his cheeks flush a little.

You return the kiss and pop the flowers in a vase of water before he sweeps you off in his pickup. You aren’t surprised, really, but it’s more charming than some of the other men and their gaudy trucks.

Joel’s is older but well-kept, with minimal rusting around the wheel wells. The bed is open, and you can see streaks of grease and paint spills. A silver tool chest is mounted against the back of the cab. Everything inside and out has a light coating of sawdust.

He isn’t some insecure man with a truck big enough to make up for what isn’t in his britches, that’s for certain. You’d hazard a guess that the corded muscle of his forearms and the breadth of his shoulders are well-earned.

He holds the door open for you, which you tease him for as you slide onto the truck’s bench seat.

“Ain’t doin’ it ‘cause you’re incapable,” he drawls. “Or because you’re a lady,” he adds when he sees the glint in your eye.

“Oh yeah, cowboy?”

His grin is lopsided, a little dark. “Nah. I just think you deserve to be taken care of, s’all.”

You flush, the back of your neck burning, but you don’t fight the smile that threatens to break out. “Thank you, Joel.”

He shakes his head. He’s pretty sure, now, that if he plays his cards right, he’s found somethin’ special.

He waits three whole dates to take you to bed, and even then, it doesn’t start dirty.

“Let me get to know your body first, baby,” he urges when you ask him to fuck you rough. Instead, he takes you apart piece by piece. First with his tongue, and then his fingers. He brings you to the edge over and over, but never lets you fall.

After a while, you’re a broken record, pleas and sobs spilling from you.

“That’s music to my ears, darlin’,” he says, pulling his fingers out abruptly to see how your cunt throbs for him. He spits on your clit and watches it drip down to join the mess between your thighs.

“Please, please, Joel,” you beg.

“Please who now?”

“Please, sir,” you try, and are rewarded with his sharp grin. But not with an orgasm.

He slaps your cunt. “That’s more like it, baby. You remember who you’re talkin’ to, alright?”

You nod. “Yes, sir; thank you, sir.”

He shakes his head, sucking on your clit for a moment before pulling back to get a good look at you. “You do like a little pain, huh?”

“Would like more,” you say.

“Oh yeah? What would you let me do to you?”

“Anything, please, sir.”

He clicks his tongue at you. “Don’t go sayin’ that to someone you barely know. It’s okay to mean it when you trust somebody, but you’re gonna end up in more trouble than you bargain for if you pass that out like candy.”

“I do mean it.”

“Yeah? You’ll let me do this?” His open palm smacks across your face, leaving a sting tingling on your cheek and a lightness to your brain.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you nod frantically.

“What about this?” he grabs a nipple in his calloused fingers and yanks, twisting.

You yelp, but it trails off to a moan, and you nod.

“Goddamn, baby. S’good. But what about this?” He flicks open the switchblade he keeps in his pocket.

You jerk and whine, eyes wide and wet as he brings it to your breast. Your breathing falls shallow as you try to hold still, the point scraping the delicate skin as he circles it. But the look you’re giving him almost has him cumming in his pants like he were twenty years younger.

“Fuck, you weren’t kidding. I mean, you’ve gotta have limits; everyone does. But you just want me to hurt you, huh?” He digs the tip of the blade in a little on the side of your breast, cock throbbing as you gasp, and you both watch a tiny drop of blood bead and trickle down the blade.

He puts it away. “No,” he says when you whimper. “Not today. I ain’t prepared for all that.”

Joel doesn’t like to break his toys. Not permanently. Just enough that he can put them back together how he likes and then do it all over again.

“Don’t need to be prepared; just do it,” you whine.

He slaps you again and wrenches your head up with a hand in your hair. “First of all, I fuckin’ told you no. Second, I know you want to be a stupid little cunt for me, but I’m not about to cut you open without any goddamn first aid shit.”

He leans back and smacks the breast he had cut. He hits you over and over, alternating sides, until your chest burns, and you’re sobbing.

He looks you over briefly and then shoves his hand between your thighs. “You’re wetter than a slip ‘n slide, baby.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” you whisper.

“I know,” he says, and wipes the tears from your cheek with his thumb. He feels your cunt twitch when he brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks it clean.

It’s the last straw for him. He’s not opened you enough, but he has a feeling you’ll like it better this way anyway.

You cry out, back arching when he shoves into you. He meant to go slow, he really did, if only to drag out the anticipation. But you’re so warm. So wet. So he just stuffs himself inside.

It’s not that he doesn’t believe you love the pain; it’s just that he can’t resist feeling the evidence for himself. He slaps you across the face while you’re still processing his cock, and the resulting clench and jerk of your body drag a moan from him.

He holds back, regulates his urge to pull each whimper and scream from you, but it’s still so fucking good. It’s been a long time since he’s doled out real cruelty to a slut like you who loves to suffer.

When he finally lets you cum, it’s when he’s about to. He pulls out and spanks your cunt, granting his permission. As your pussy flutters desperately around nothing, he cums on it, watching the way it gets prettier as he paints it.

You black out for a minute. When you come to, he’s wiping you down gently with a warm washcloth, wicking the sweat off your face and chest before cleaning his cum from your curls. You whimper, and he grins, leaning over to steal a kiss.

Even after that first night, he goes slow. He can’t scare ya, not while you still have someplace to run. Plus, it’s so much easier if he starts planting the seeds for your training now.

He knows you’ll beg for it, anyway. He’s been getting the nastiest text messages from you. Part of it is the dopamine; he’s not stupid. But part of you really wants this shit. And the rest? Well. You’ll get there.

It’s the little things. He orders you a black decaf at the drive-thru when you ask for a latte. You start to correct him, like you think he’s made a mistake, but he gives you a look, and you shut your mouth immediately.

When he pulls away from the speaker, you look over at him again. “Sorry,” you mumble.

“Sorry…?”

You squirm a little, heart pounding, unsure if he’s really doing this at the Dunkin’ Donuts. “Sorry, sir.”

He smiles and rubs his hand on your thigh where it peeks out from your skirt. “Thanks, baby.”

And that’s all it takes. You take the cup when he hands it to you and you’re quick to say, “Thank you, sir,” even though the kid at the window is still passing things through to Joel and can clearly hear you.

-fissured

It goes on like that for a couple of months, but it doesn’t all go so smoothly. One night, he picks you up from work and takes you to a restaurant, saying he wants to treat you. Halfway through the meal, he asks for your panties.

“What?” you say, shocked at his vulgar language in the dining room.

“Take ‘em off and hand ‘em to me.”

You go to stand, probably thinking you can go to the bathroom to obey.

He shakes his head, clicking his tongue in disapproval. “Right here, right now, baby.”

“Joel,” you hiss, sitting back down, “I can’t do that.”

He fixes you with a calm smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, raising one finger in the air. “I’ll give ya three choices. The first one, the one I’m going to advise you pick, is that you do it right now, and I’ll only punish ya for talkin’ back.”

“The second one,” he holds up another finger for emphasis, “is you can go to the bathroom to take ‘em off, but you’re gonna pay for it when we get home. The third one is where you don’t listen, we leave right now, and you learn to fuckin’ regret it.”

Your breathing is shallow, and your pretty eyes are shining. If he wasn’t fully hard before, he is now.

“I-I can’t,” you whimper. “Please, sir.”

“You got about thirty seconds to make up your mind.” The softness is gone—from his voice, from his face, from the set of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you whisper, and you stand up. You’re only in the bathroom for a minute, and when you sit back down, you try to hand them to him under the table.

“Nah, that was only a choice if you were good,” he says, smirking and laying his expectant hand on the white linens.

Mortified, you ball them up tight in your fist and press them into his hand. He slides them into his pants pocket.

He doesn’t say anything else about it for the rest of dinner, asking instead about your projects at work and your visit with your parents over the holidays. You feel sick, barely eating a thing, and biting your lip to stave off the tears.

As soon as you’re in the truck, you start to cry. “I’m sorry, I was just scared and—”

“Shut up. You made your choice. You’re not sorry. You’re just afraid of the consequences.”

“N-no, I am sorry, I mean it.”

“You’re gonna have to prove it.” He doesn’t look at you on the drive home, doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t even turn the radio on; just listens to you sniffle.

When he parks, he sets his hand on your thigh. “Don’t worry, baby. I know you can be my good girl. All you gotta do is take your punishment and learn from it, okay?”

You sniffle again and nod, blinking through tear-laden lashes at him.

“So pretty when you cry for me,” he murmurs. He gets out and comes around to open your door, offering a hand to help you step down from the tall truck. You take it, and he holds on, leading you inside his house.

He sits sprawled on the couch, thighs parted wide to make room and waits until you’re comfortably kneeling between his legs. You’re sat in silence, head bowed, arms folded behind your back.

“Tell me what you did wrong today.”

This is a first, but not a last. Even on days when nothing egregious has happened, you will follow this ritual. He’ll ask for your sins, and you’ll confess. There will always be something you’ll owe him for.

“I argued when you gave me orders. I was disobedient.”

“Anything else I need to know about, baby?”

“No, sir.”

“Why’d you argue?”

“I was afraid. I’m sorry.”

“Save your grovelin’ for after, baby. Why were you afraid?”

“I didn’t want people to see. I didn’t want to get kicked out or arrested.”

“You think I’d let anything happen to you? You think I would have given you an order that put either of us at any kinda risk?”

Your face burns. “I—”

“I thought you trusted me.” He sounds hurt, and you’re a little nauseous when you look up to see his eyes wide and sad, lips turned into a wounded scowl.

Your shoulders slump. “I didn’t think. I panicked.”

“Hmm. Okay, I can work with that.”

You look up at him, brow scrunched and lips pouting as you try to parse his words.

He smiles. It’s cold, and his eyes are steel.

You swallow hard, and his grin widens, quirking into a smirk.

“Alright, baby. I got just the thing.”

He leads you into the ensuite. You kneel on the little rug by the tub while he fills it. You’re too afraid to ask what’s happening, so you just sit quietly. He leaves the room and doesn’t come back until the tub is nearly full, and you’re starting to worry that you were supposed to be monitoring it.

He comes back in, and once it’s nearing the lip of the tub, he turns off the faucet. He has you kneel on the top of the three steps leading up to the edge. It’s the most luxurious thing in this house, and you suspect he installed it custom so he could soak his aching muscles.

He bends you over the edge so you’re leaning close to the water and crouches down behind you. It’s a pleasant surprise when he spreads you wide and licks from your clit to your asshole.

He stays there for a few minutes, indulging in your wet cunt and the cries it draws from your lips. After he’s had his fill, he stands up and lubes up his cock before pushing his way into your ass. He’s generous with the lube but rarely preps you, since you both like it better when it hurts.

You’re writhing a little beneath him, wriggling your hips to try to ease the passage. Once he’s fully seated inside you, he grabs the back of your head and shoves it under the water before fucking hard into you.

You thrash, displacing water from the tub, until he yanks you back up.

You gasp for air and scrabble to get a grip on the wet tile, but he pushes you back down and groans at how tight you get while you’re struggling.

He pulls you roughly back up. “Gonna keep going until you stop makin’ a fuss.”

You go to protest, to panic, and he pushes you back down.

The next time he pulls you out, he spanks you until your skin is burning. “Fuckin’ trust me. You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

“No, sir,” you cry, but it’s garbled as he pushes you back down. You’re still fighting him each time.

He pulls you back out and repeats the beating. “Relax, or we’re gonna be here all night.”

He continues the process a few more times and then gives you a reprieve, letting go of your hair so you can rest your cheek against the cold edge of the tub while he pounds into you. He reaches and rubs featherlight circles around your clit until you’re softly moaning.

“You gonna trust me?”

“I’m trying, my body panics,” you pant.

“I’m not gonna let anything happen to ya. You hear me? You know you’re panicking, so focus on me instead.”

“Yes, sir.”

It shouldn’t make sense, but you think he’s long warped your brain anyway. The next time he pushes you underwater, you clench your fists tight and focus on what oxygen you do have, even if he knocks a little out with each thrust.

His hand in your hair is your anchor and buoy. You tense when you feel your body start to jerk, trying so hard to control it.

He pulls you up. “Just like that, baby. Again.”

It gets just a little easier each time. He leaves you under longer, until your lungs are burning, and you’re on the edge of gasping in water, but he pulls you out in time.

“Fuck, you’re doing so well.” He’s a little fascinated. He hadn’t really been sure it could be done or if your survival instincts would go into a frenzy. But here you are, letting him almost fucking drown you.

Not that he would.

Despite being balls deep in your tight little asshole, he isn’t trying to reach his orgasm. Not yet, staving off his pleasure so he can keep a clear head.

He keeps it up just a little longer. You’re getting tired and tolerating less and less time underwater. The last time he pulls you up, he pinches your clit and tells you to cum while he fills you.

He dunks you again while you cum, and you clamp down on him tighter than you have before, convulsing on his cock. When he pulls you back up, you’re gasping and sobbing. He pulls out and wraps you in a towel, easing you to the wet floor while he cleans up.

When he comes back to you, he helps you stand and dry off, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“So?”

Your brow furrows. It’s not what he usually asks after a punishment, but you think you know what he means. “I’m sorry. I trust you, I promise.”

“I know. M’so proud of you for taking that. You’re turning out so nicely, sweet thing.”

In the morning, you’re almost late to work after sucking him off when you should have been getting dressed. He’s about to walk out the door to head to the site when he hears your frustrated voice from the bedroom.

“Joel, where are my underwear? I need to fuckin’ leave.”

“I told you, baby. There was a price to pay when you picked the bathroom. Y’ain’t wearing ‘em anymore.”

“What?”

He doesn’t need to see you to smirk at the shocked expression he knows is on your face. “We’ll talk about it more tonight; I gotta run.”

-avulsed

“Y’know, baby,” Joel says, leaning forward to rub your shoulder. “They just don’t fuckin’ appreciate you.”

You’re bent over, elbows on your knees, crying with your face buried in your hands. You sit up and sniffle, wiping the tears. “It’s fine; it’s not like I need to be coddled at work.”

All the stress of the PR world is getting to you, and you hate it, you fucking hate it, but you dropped 50k on a degree, so now you’re stuck.

“But they make you work all this overtime, cut your team in half, and then berate you when you can’t meet the client’s deadline? You do not deserve that, baby.”

You let him coax you into his lap, facing him so you can bury your face in his soft, worn tee. He rubs your back and holds your head to his chest.

“You’re too good to me,” you mumble.

“Nah, darlin’, I’ve told ya a thousand times. You deserve to be taken care of.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I, well. I was thinkin’...”

You wait, but when he doesn’t pick back up, you sit up and look at him.

“I dunno. It’s nothin’,” he says.

“Please tell me?”

“Alright, fine. Now, I don’t want ya to feel any pressure. It’s just a thought. But maybe you should just quit and stay with me a while, ‘till you can find something better?”

You can’t tell if he’s joking. He must see something on your face, because he tips your chin up so you’re looking into his eyes.

“I know it’s sudden, but I mean it. Let me take care of ya while you figure shit out. We don’t gotta treat it like living together if y’ain’t ready. But I’d be open to that conversation, too.”

It doesn’t take much more than that. The first couple weeks, he lets you give it a try—searching for new degree programs, applying for jobs you know you’re overqualified for just to try something different.

After nothing pans out, he suggests you both take a week off. Him from work and you from the burden of trying to escape unemployment. Just relax, like a little staycation.

It’s bliss. You go on dates, eat pizza and marathon the “Jurassic Park” movies, and fuck like crazy.

On the third night, he sits you down. On his cock, of course. While you’re bouncing and brainless, he cups your cheek. “Baby, you’ve been too damn stressed still. What if we… well, what if we tried out a day or two like we’ve been talking about?”

Sometimes, you whisper to him in the darkness, usually while he’s balls deep, how you wish you could be his all the time. His good girl. His pet. And he whispers back, lures you right in with promises of taking care of everything, of you not having a worry or care in the world. Just him.

Now, he fondles your tits while he murmurs to you. “We can just wake up together, and I can take care of ya. Everything you need, baby. All you’d have to do is be good for me, yeah?”

You moan and grind down harder on his cock. “Please, sir. I want it more than anything. Just to be yours.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

Joel had no patience for brats, so he usually broke his toys in sooner into the training process. He liked ‘em nice and obedient—scared, if that’s what it took, but devoted. But you had been from the start—you wanted to be good in all the ways you could never seem to be to other people. Your family, your job, the world seemed to just demand more and more.

Joel was the first person to make you feel like you had actually, really, truly pleased him. There wasn’t a higher mark you should have made. There wasn’t any expectation for you to give more and more.

His orders were complete, always. You learned that very quickly. Attempts to go above and beyond were rebuked.

“If I wanted that, I woulda said so,” he told you. And like everything else, you committed his words to memory.

It helped that he gave praise freely. You didn’t have to wonder if he was satisfied, if you should have licked him differently, if you should have made prettier faces while you came. He reassured you until you believed him, and then kept going anyway.

It made it easier for him to slowly peel you away from the ungrateful world.

“You don’t have to take that,” he’d say after watching your face fall further and further while on the phone with your mom. “Family ain’t supposed to make you feel like shit.”

They made it too easy, really, and your relationship with them would have likely just fizzled out. But in the end, he had to step in and snap it off.

You asked him to come with you to dinner at their house. He was hesitant. He wasn’t really the boyfriend type. He wasn’t really even your boyfriend. That was too weird a word for either of you, not when he owned you.

But he knows you didn’t want to go alone, and he has a feeling he’ll be cleaning up the mess anyway.

You want to give them a chance. Things have been so tense, and they said they missed you. But they didn’t even make it through the entrée without ridiculing you.

When your father asks how work is going, you quietly confess to quitting, hastily reassuring them that you are looking for a new position. Though, and you keep this part to yourself, you maybe haven’t been trying that hard.

“What do you mean you quit? How are you paying your bills? You better not have come here to ask for money,” your father says, setting down his fork to glare at you.

“Well, I’ve been living with Joel,” you mumble to the tablecloth.

“I didn’t raise you to be a gold digger,” your mother chides.

Joel tries to bite his tongue and let them dig their own graves. But your father calls you a “fucking whore,” and he can’t stand it. Can’t stand the way you’re cowering in your chair, fighting back tears.

“You watch your mouth,” Joel snaps at your father.

You look up, mouth agape, eyes darting from Joel to your parents.

“Mind your business,” your dad tells him.

Joel stands up and throws his napkin on the table. “She is my fuckin’ business. I wouldn’t stand by and let anyone talk to her like that. You’re not an exception just because you managed to get it up long enough to cum in your wife.”

“Joel,” you whisper, tugging at his sleeve. You’re burning, melting on the spot, from the vulgar way he’s talking to them. For him, someone who’s always strict about manners and proper hospitality, to talk back like this? God, you think, he must really love you.

He puts a hand on the back of your neck and holds firmly as you lean into it. He rounds back on your parents. “You treat her like fuckin’ dirt beneath your feet, and I’m tired of it. You don’t deserve the fuckin’ dirt beneath her feet.”

He shoves his chair back and grabs your hand. “C’mon, baby; we’re leaving.”

You take it and stand up, letting him pull you along. Your father follows you into the foyer, and you try not to look at him while you shove your shoes on.

Joel holds your coat out while you slip into it, and you tune out whatever your dad is yelling now. You don’t want to hear it; you know it’s nasty, and your whole world has narrowed to Joel anyway.

He holds out the key. “Go wait in the truck, baby.”

And you do.

He comes out about five minutes later, red-faced and huffing with fury. He doesn’t say a word when he gets in; just throws the truck into reverse and pulls away. You both ignore the blood on his knuckles.

Once you’re on the road, he looks over at you and sighs. “C’mere, sweetheart.”

You unbuckle and slide over to the middle seat, tucking your hand between his warm body to curl around his arm. “I’m sorry,” you whisper.

“Whaddya sorry for? None of that was your fault.” He kisses the top of your head and cups your cheek at the stoplight. “It was gonna happen eventually, anyway.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the ride home is silent while you breathe in his comforting musk and try to relax. But the tension is unrelenting, the horrible rotting feeling eating away at your spine.

He knows. Knows what you need, knows what he can do to seal this moment forever. He waits until he’s unzipping the pretty little cocktail dress you’d stressed over.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs, breaking away from where he was sucking his claim down your neck to swap out your delicate necklace with his collar.

He unhooks the bra and kisses the marks he left behind with the cane, your penance for being allowed to wear it. It leaves you bare to him, and his hands turn greedy. He presses biting kisses against your lips while digging fingers into your bruises, swallowing your whimpers.

He grabs you by the neck and squeezes the sides of your throat, holding you to him while your vision blurs. When he lets go, you stumble, but his arm around your back holds you upright. He slaps your face with quick, sharp blows in rapid succession to keep you unsteady.

“Knees, hands behind your head,” he says, and lets go.

You fall but are quick to right yourself and take the position. He wastes no time, giving you another harsh smack before grabbing your hair and shoving his cock into your throat.

You choke and gag but keep your hands in place even as your head spins. You feel limp and grateful that he doesn’t seem to require any effort from you as he uses you without mercy.

“Look at you. You’ve got my whole cock down your throat. You’re so fuckin’ good for me.”

Your eyes are already glazed over, and you moan your appreciation around him.

He pulls out and hauls you to your feet. “I know what you need, sweetheart. Get your ass downstairs.”

He fucks you, beats you, uses you wherever he wants. But the basement is where he keeps the heavy equipment and where you know you’re about to have your mind and body pushed to the absolute limit.

You’re ready, he thinks, when he gets down and finds you waiting perfectly in place for him, eyes wide like he’s descended from on high. He jerks a thumb to the wooden post, and you meet him there.

“Forget about what they want you to be,” he murmurs as he closes the steel cuffs around your ankles. “You know what you want, baby. Right?”

“Mhm,” you nod, already slipping away into that safe place only Joel can get you to.

“What do you want to be?” he asks, binding your arms up over your head to the eye bolt at the top of the post.

“Yours.” It’s half-whisper, half-whine.

“Yeah? You just wanna be mine? You don’t want to get a new job?”

“No,” you finally confess. “But—”

“But what, baby? If you say somethin’ about money or bills, I’m gonna be mighty unhappy.”

You bite your lip. “I’m scared one day, you’ll wake up and not want me anymore.”

“That’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever said, sweetheart. You think I put all this work into helpin’ you, into teaching you how to be mine, just to toss ya out? You’re hurtin’ my feelings.”

“I’m sorry,” you say automatically.

He slides a silicone cock into the bracket lined right up with your mouth. It’s a fairly standard size, since he knows you’re going to thrash around and doesn’t want you gagging too much and throwing up.

Your torso gets tied to the post by your tits, the wood nestled between them and rope woven around. Securing you there forces your head onto the toy, but he doesn’t make you take it all the way. You keep your mouth open and don’t move closer or further, waiting for his command.

“Suck on it whenever you’d like. You’re going to need it.”

Your eyes roll back a little at his promise. If he thinks you’re going to need something in your mouth to self-soothe, you’re in for an absolutely amazing time.

“Focus on me. That’s all you’ll need to do from now on, baby. No more worries in that pretty little head, okay?”

The first strike is a warm-up. When you feel the lash of his favorite whip lick your ass, you moan. It’s a moderately short signal whip that he wields like a fucking pro. His warmups are quick but thorough, and you’re squirming when he moves on to your thighs and shoulders.

“Already?” he says, laughing when you whine around the silicone cock.

You’re absentmindedly sucking on it when he starts a harsher assault. A particularly sharp strike stings at the valley where your ass meets your thighs, and you yelp, jerking a little and gagging yourself on the dildo.

His smirk burns into your back as the cry melts into a moan, and you writhe a little, trying to get friction where you need it most. What you get, though, is the tip of the whip against your cunt.

By the time he moves around to your tits, they’re covered in spit, heaving with the effort of holding back your orgasm. He comes up to you first, and pinches at your nipples.

“Aw, does my dumb little cunt want to cum?” He croons, tugging and twisting until you moan. He laughs when all you can get out is a muffled “mhm.”

“Tell ya what. You can cum all you want while I hurt you tonight, okay?”

He punctuates it with a particularly cruel pinch, and that, combined with his permission, is all you need to let the pleasure shudder through you.

“Yeah? You gonna get off to being my little toy? Gonna let me do whatever I want?”

You moan around the fake cock, easing it further into your throat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He doesn’t give a warm-up on your tits, figuring you’re already so far gone it doesn’t fuckin’ matter.

He’s right. The first lash is harsh, a welt blooming across the top of your breast in its wake, but you groan, trying to press your cunt up against the post for any relief.

You don’t need it, though. He brings you to your peak again with the skilled flick of his wrist, landing blows across the fat of your breasts. He waits until you’re mid-orgasm to bring the whip hard across your nipples.

The resulting wail almost makes him cum in his pants. He does it only twice more, relishing in your agony, but restraining himself from just letting loose. Not with the whip, as much as he’d like to. Maybe later with a flogger.

Once he’s taken it as far as he’s willing to risk, he moves back around to give the rest of you the same treatment. The hardest hits push you over the edge, and by the time his arm is getting tired, you’re sobbing and writhing in your restraints, overstimulated in every way.

He unlatches your ankles first, helping you find steady footing before untying your wrists and torso. You drop to your knees and open your mouth, throat aching for his cock after the tease of the toy.

He doesn’t have the willpower to torment you by denying it tonight. Instead, he nearly pops the button off his jeans in his urgency to pull his cock out and shove it as far down your throat as he can.

Your arms find their place behind your back, and you just take it. He fucks into you without restraint. It’s filthy, from the mess you’re making to the wet choking sounds he pushes out of you with each thrust.

You’re shaking, and he pulls out abruptly.

“I said while I’m hurting you. You don’t get to just cum from getting facefucked.”

“Then hurt me, please,” you sob. It’s right there; you’re so close.

He slaps you across the face and laughs as you cum, shoving back into your throat while you’re still riding out the aftershocks.

He pulls back out, and you whine until he yanks you up by the bicep and pushes you over to the padded bench, bending you over it and shoving into your sopping cunt.

“Still disappointed?” he teases.

“N-no,” you pant. “Please hurt me.”

“Beg me properly, greedy little cunt.”

You clench around him just at the words, but obey. “Please, sir, please hurt me so I can cum. Please.”

“I’ve been hurtin’ you all night, baby,” he says, voice thick with false pity. “Don’t you want me to be gentle with you now?” He can feel how hard you’re trying not to cum as he mocks you.

“No,” you sob. “No, love me, hurt me, please.”

It’s got an edge of desperation and heartbreak to it that he just loves.

He smacks your already bruising ass until you sob harder, shaking uncontrollably as you cum. He wraps his hands around your throat and fucks you through it until he cums, hips stuttering, and filling your cunt with his spend.

He lets himself collapse a little on top of you, pinning you with his weight against the bench with his softening cock still buried in you. “Feel loved now?”

You’re still crying, and when he folds his arms around your chest, elbows resting on the table, you cling to him. “Love you,” you murmur over and over, pressing kisses up and down his forearms.

He nuzzles his face into your neck, kissing and sucking at you. “I know, baby. You know I love ya.” He’s half-hard—not something that happens a lot anymore at his age, so he’s not gonna waste it. He pulls out just to manhandle you up onto the bench on your back, climbing up between your legs and shoving back in.

It’s a little sloppy until he’s fully hard again; your combined cream making things a little too slippery. Once he’s erect, though, he sets a punishing pace, folding you in half with your legs up by your ears. He works your clit with his hand, relishing in the way you’re fucking exhausted and overstimulated, but your poor clit’s been neglected. It means he can twist and pull on it, tugging until you give him more and more, until you’re sobbing for mercy that you know you’ll never get.

He doesn’t ease up until he pulls out to cum over your tits and face.

“Mine,” he snarls, shoving his fingers into your swollen cunt and feeding you what’s left of his first orgasm and your… well, he’s not really sure how many. A fuckin’ lot. “You’re all mine. Little fuckin’ toy to do whatever I want, right?”

You’re still gasping for breath, having been half-suffocated in that position, but when you look at him, it’s like he’s a fucking god. “Yes, sir.”

-broken

The day had started out fine.

He’d laid out a dress for you to wear. Sometimes, he made you go around bare for a while, just to fuck with your head a little, but he prefers to unwrap you like a present.

Plus, the sight of you crawling around in nothing but a slutty, barely-there dress is picture-fuckin’-perfect. He’d know; he’s got a bunch of ‘em on his phone.

And crawl, you do. You haven’t been allowed to walk further than a couple of feet in a long time. There’s penance to be paid if you can’t avoid it.

Joel collects your penance whenever possible, gathering what’s owed for your sins and dealing out forgiveness when it's settled. It’s how he shows his love.

And he does love you. How could he not? Such a perfect little toy. He’s spent so much time training you right to be his prized possession.

He knew it’d happen eventually, so when you commit one of the worst offenses, he has to make it count. You were testing your limits, of course; he had expected it. He had expected it months ago. It was worse now, after you’d been so good and earned so much trust. But now that you’d been nothing but his for two months, you had finally fucked up.

Your punishments were never painful. Okay, they weren’t pain-focused. Sometimes, he had to put you over his knee to let his frustration out before he could give you a proper punishment. But the pain wasn’t the point—you both liked it too damn much. No matter how much farther he took it than a regular session, and no matter how sick you were with guilt, you were always a soaking wet mess after a beating.

This time would have to be different, though.

It was time to finally break you.

He knew as soon as he got home. Not the particulars, but that you’d made a huge mistake.

On the surface, nothing was amiss. You were knelt by the door in your pretty little dress, a short number in navy blue. You had your head down and arms folded behind your back in perfect posture.

But something was off. It didn’t feel like you were happy he was home. And he was pretty sure there would only be one reason for that.

He hung up his keys but didn’t bother to take off his shoes, coming to stand in front of you. “What’d you do?”

You flinch and have to re-tense to hold the position as a sob escapes you. Your hands are balled into fists to fight the urge to cover your face. “I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were sorry. I asked what you did.”

If it were still the early days, when this shit usually happened, he might have been just a little softer. At least until he coaxed the confession from you, anyway. But you were in too deep, now, too entangled in this life that he had little patience for your reticence.

“I—”

“I recommend you spit it out. You’ll tell me in the end, anyway.”

You start to cry. “I can’t say it.”

“You better figure it out pretty fuckin’ fast, little girl.”

“I had an orgasm,” you blurt, whimpers escalating to sobs.

He pauses. It’s worse than he thought. The rush of disappointment and anger sends his heart racing, and his fingers flex in longing for a cane.

“Did you enjoy it?” he says.

It catches you off guard. “No, I promise.”

“That’s too bad, ‘cause it’s the last one you’re gonna have for a while.”

You aren’t surprised; you’re actually relieved. Of course, of course he’ll fix you.

He finally takes his shoes off and sets his phone on the counter, beckoning you to follow him to the living room. Taking his seat on the couch, he waits until you’re settled at his feet.

“Why’d you do that, baby?”

“I-I didn’t mean to. I was edging for the last time today, and I don’t know what happened. It was just there, and I knew it, I knew it was coming, and I—” You choke on the guilt, the grief.

“You what?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t stop it. I couldn’t convince myself to stop. I kept thinking ‘no, you stupid cunt,’ but I couldn’t pull my hand away.”

He regards you for a moment. He’s burning inside, but trying to calculate the most effective approach.

“Thank you for telling me right away,” he says, but even though he means it, the words are cold and clipped. “Which hand?”

You look at him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. “What?”

“Which hand did you use? Give it to me.”

You lift up your right hand, and he cradles it in his.

“Listen close.” He waits until he’s sure you’re focused on him, on his words.

This is where things have fallen apart in the past. No amount of training and manipulation can get someone across this hurdle; they have to mean it. The last thing he wants is someone running to the police because they don’t fucking understand how serious he is.

“This is going to be your last chance to back out. I will stop right now and let you pack your shit and leave. But if you stay, you’re agreeing to anything I do to you past this point.”

You bite your lip, stomach churning. “You’re scaring me,” you whisper.

“Good. You should be scared. What you’ve done is one of the worst things you could have. That’s got some serious consequences, baby.”

“What’re you going to do?”

“I gotta hurt you. Bad. Y’ain’t going to like this; I can promise you that. I can’t punish your cunt because you’re such a stupid pain slut; anything short of permanent damage is gonna make you wet. And I’m not lookin’ to do permanent damage.”

Your lip trembles, heart pounding. You’ve never been so afraid, but you’re also enthralled. Lured in by the timbre of his voice and the salvation it’s promising.

He squeezes your hand where he’s still holding onto you. “I’m going to break one of your fingers.”

Your heart falters, blood rushing. “Oh god,” you whisper, shaking your head. Instinctively, you tug back on your hand, but he grasps it tight, tight enough that you feel the bones grind under his large fingers.

“It’s up to you. That’s half the price for forgiveness. The rest is gonna be spending the night alone.”

Somehow, that sounds worse. You can’t breathe.

“Gotta choose, baby. You wanna go? I’ll pay for a cab. You can walk away, but you can’t ever come back.”

You think you might be drowning. Leave? How could you leave? There’s no debate in your head; you have nothing without Joel. Nowhere to go, no one to turn to. And the idea of losing him feels catastrophic.

You’re crying again, and you’re vaguely aware of his soothing voice trying to coach you through breathing. When you focus on him, just like he’s taught you, you start to calm down.

It’s Joel, you think. He’ll take care of you. And he said he didn’t want permanent damage. You just have to suffer for your betrayal and he’ll forgive you.

“I think I might throw up,” you warn him.

He sighs, the fear of losing you flooding away, taking some of his anger with it. “We’ll do it in the bathroom.”

He stands up, and you follow, albeit slowly, as the wave of nausea rises. You do throw up as soon as you get in the bathroom, thankfully making it to the toilet. He holds your hair and rubs his hand across your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay, baby, get it out of your system. You’re being so brave for me,” he croons. He helps you up to sit on the edge of the tub and gets you a little cup of mouthwash.

“I’ll help you brush your teeth after,” he promises. “I’d do it now, but, well. You’re probably going to puke again.”

When you’re done swishing the mouthwash, when it’s all turned to foam and you’ve spit it back in the cup, he swaps you for water. You rinse and spit that, too.

He’s laid a few things out on the counter. You feel dizzy all over again. Something tells you the comfort you feel is wrong, but he’s prepared an ice pack and medical tape, and has four little ibuprofen out next to another cup of water.

The other, louder part of you is whispering, see? He’ll take care of you. The act of wondering what’s wrong with you feels like a farce. You’re thinking it because you think you should, just going through the motions.

He takes off his belt and brings it to your mouth. You clench it between your teeth, letting a shaky breath through. His hand cups your cheek, and you lean into the warmth.

“I knew you were somethin’ special,” he whispers. You’re not sure he meant to.

Your whole body is shaking uncontrollably. He watches you for a moment, worried you’re going to faint, and then sits on the floor with his back against the tub, pulling you into his lap. He lays you back against his chest, caging you in with his arms and thighs. The ice pack sits to his right, already popped and frozen. Waiting.

Gently, he lifts your hand and brings it in front of your chest, taking it in his left. It’s a macabre mockery, the way he cradles it in his palm, fingers wrapped around the sides. In his right hand, he notches his thumb on the knuckle of your middle finger, bringing the other fingers in below it.

He doesn’t drag it out, doesn’t take pleasure in your terror. When he moves, it’s faster than a gunshot. Your scream is raw, breaking free from the spaces between your teeth and the belt. The taste of leather will remind you of this moment for the rest of your life.

He has the ice pack on it before you mentally register that it’s over. You’re sobbing. Horribly, he’s right, and you are sick again. He holds your hair in one fist, holding the ice pack to your mangled hand in the other.

When you’re done, he pulls you back against him, wrapping his limbs around you in a perverse embrace as you shake harder. With his free hand, he brings a damp, cool cloth to your face, cleaning you of the viscera of your sickness.

He’s shushing you, head bent close to your ear. “It’s alright, baby, it’s over. You did so good. I’m so proud. I love you so much.”

It’s good that he doesn’t expect an answer because he doesn’t get one. You’re too lost in the pain and shock.

When it’s time to take a break from the ice, he grabs the medical tape and wraps it around your index and middle fingers. You cry out again as he jostles the break. Once he’s splinted it, he lowers your hand gently to your lap so he can grab the medicine.

“I can’t; I’ll throw up again,” you say, voice cracking.

“Don’t have a choice, baby. Gotta keep the swelling down.”

He feeds you each pill, one by one, chasing them with sips of water.

You look so sad and precious that he almost feels bad. Unfortunately, he’s also rock fucking hard, so he shifts you a little to pull his dick out.

You don’t say anything when he lifts you to lower you on it. He’s careful, trying not to shake you around too much. He was right; you didn’t enjoy this pain. You’ve never been this dry for him before, and you whimper pathetically at the pinch and sting of his girth.

You may be worn out and in agony, but your cunt doesn’t get the message. He grins when he feels you getting wet and clenching around him. He doesn’t push it though, doesn’t torment you, just fucks up into you gently until he fills you.

You’re limp against him now, and he presses a kiss into your hair. “You may have to walk for a bit,” he muses. “But I’ll cap your penance at ten.”

You wince. Ten strokes with the cane on the soles of your feet every day until your finger heals? You usually only owe enough for two or three. It is a mercy, though, so you nod and thank him.

Joel can hardly contain the way his chest is flooding with warmth. You’re so close; he can feel it. So close to being completely his to put together just the way he likes.

He can’t wait to take you to The Pit.

-kintsugi

You’re cold. So cold. You’re curled in on yourself, tucked into a corner in the hopes that you’d be able to keep warmer. Your whole right hand throbs.

Moonlight only cuts across the corner, but it’s a comfort still. The soil is loose and you keep shuddering, feeling the tickle of a dozen phantom insects.

Worst of all, your chest aches, like he may as well have hewn you open. Dry sobs work their way free every now and then, leaving your mouth tacky and your throat full of cotton.

The only rest you get is when you blessedly pass out. Every time you close your eyes voluntarily, you see the heartbroken look on his face when you begged him not to leave you there.

“I wish I didn’t have to. I wish you hadn’t broken my trust and I could keep you close, baby. But you’re never going to learn how to be good if I don’t show ya.”

Bad, I’m bad, he doesn’t want me anymore, you think to no end.

When the sun starts to rise, you’re limp, still in your corner. You barely turn your head when a shadow falls over The Pit, but your heart starts to pound when the lock clicks, and Joel raises the gate.

“Oh, baby,” he says, soft and sorrowful. “C’mere.” He reaches out a hand, and you scramble to him, letting him take your left arm in his grasp and pull you out. You move immediately to your knees, body bent forward as your knotted muscles protest. He scoots his boot out of the danger zone near your broken finger.

You keep whispering, a broken record of “Sorry, please, I’m so sorry.”

He picks you up and holds you to his chest, shushing until you fall quiet. It doesn’t take longer than a few seconds as your brain desperately clings to any scrap, any way you can be good for him.

He brushes the loose dirt from you before going inside and upstairs to the ensuite. He sets you on the little rug next to the full garden tub, and he tests the water with his fingers before peeling his clothes off.

You flex your left hand, balling it in and out of a fist. You’ve never been particularly ambidextrous and wonder how you’re going to wash him without falling in or hurting your hand.

Before he gets in, he feeds you four more little red pills. Once he’s settled, he reaches out and guides you carefully by the waist, pulling you into his lap in the warm water.

That’s all it takes for you to start crying again. He doesn’t try to quiet you; just holds you there against his chest and lets you sob.

By the time you’ve calmed, the water has cooled, but instead of getting out, he just drains a little and runs more hot water.

Joel tips your chin up gently with the knuckle of his index finger. “You ready to be my good girl again?”

You nod, lip trembling.

Joel does nothing you hadn’t asked for. The trouble for you was that you asked for too much. Gave him too much. And it was far too late to get any of it back.

He gave what he could, though. Couldn’t replace what he’d taken, so he pours himself in the cracks, puts you back together with a firm hand and loving care. Sure, his love doesn’t look like what you’re used to, but he knows you see it for what it is.

“I know, baby. You took that all so well. Don’t worry,” he pauses to kiss you, “I forgive you. My perfect little toy.”

pls be nice, I'm so nervous about this.

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #dead dove do not eat #dead dove fic #dddne #tw noncon #non con #dark fic #tw abuse #seriously heed the warnings #don't like don't read #deaddovedecember2023

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cr33pz-mck3nna · 8 months ago

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hi! could you please write jason the toymaker, laughing jack, and candypop for the yandere prompt?:3

YANDERE HEADCANONS WITH THE CARVINAL TRIO

Ft: My vers of Jason the Toymaker, Laughing Jack and Candy Pop(credits for the images to the OPs on Pinterest)

Jason the Toymaker

Yandere level/intensity: 8/10

Love language: Giving gifts, physical touch, words of affirmation(receiving)

• Once this man lays his eyes on you it's over, they're never leaving you again

• He will disregard his job for you, has gotten in trouble with his fellow crps for this

• Once he has you he is never letting you leave, will whine if you have to go shopping and finds a reason to hate every last one of your friends

• If Slender was to find out about you and order your death his genuine response would be "Pardon me Slenderman sir..but I'd like to see you try."

• Started making you your favorite kind of toy(doll or stuffie) immediately after seeing you, would send them to you in a cliche "secret admirer" way, calls those toys in particular your children

• He would bring you around certain crps but would not bring you to live in the mansion, you would live in his workshop with him and his toys

• He would not trust you around the other two in the carnival trio, especially Jack, if you're ever around while they also are you are ALWAYS holding his hand, he trusts Candy around you if anything but Jack is a 100% no like..he'll never leave you alone with Candy, or anyone really, but he will not even allow you in the same building as Jack

• This man is possibly worse than Tobias when it comes to his self esteem and needs a constant stream of verbal and physical love to not loose his fucking mind due to his own thoughts

• His favorite time? Cuddle time of course! This man LOVES his physical attention, he's very anti touch with every person around him except for you so be prepared to have absolutely no personal space anymore, the bathroom will become your sanctuary-

• If you ever tried to leave him he would not be the type to kill you, not his precious, never his precious, he WOULD break your legs The Promised Neverland style tho and drag you home, best case scenario you learn to not run again, you heal and live happily ever after(kinda), worst case scenario though...he paralyzes you and takes you to Puppeteer for help turning you into a living doll, his now favorite doll.

Laughing Jack

Yandere level/intensity: 10/10

Love language: Violence, Physical touch, Giving/Receiving gifts, Nicknames

• You were his victim, of course, Jack ain't one of the crps like Jason or a proxy who could've met you on casual terms y'know-

• If you were unphased by the deaths of your friends then that probably would've made him intruiged with you, if you were hiding your fear though...that would've made him even more intruiged

• I do hope you are not an empath because this man LOVES to see you cry, one way or another, finds your angry tears the most beautiful though

• Can be very rough with his physical attention, I'm not sure if you cried if that would make the situation better or worse for yourself

• As much as he loves seeing you cry if it's not caused by him WHOOO BOY whoever caused it better start saying their prayers

• If Slender found out about you and ordered your death, again, I see this man CACKLING HYSTERICALLY at Slender and anyone else around, like they actually have a fucking chance-

• Likes bringing you around the other crps because he knows none of them are dumb enough(except Jeff or BEN) to touch HIS human, will definitely keep you at the mansion because I don't see him liking the victims at his carnival seeing his posessionhis weakness

• Loves bringing you around Jason and Candy just to flaunt you like a prized dog he also loves having someone around while he calls the two colorful men all sorts of snide gay comments

• His idea of gifts are either candy, toys or human/animal body parts so..it's like a game of russian roulette every time he gives you a "gift", he is also the type that if he doesn't like your gift he will tell you to your face but secretly keep it forever

• Probably has a nickname for you like "flea" or "maggot" that he'll call you when around people but he definitely loves calling you "sweetheart"

• Now if you tried to leave then all bets are off. Of course, all humans are the same after all! He would immediately kill you, he spared you when he should've killed you alongside your friends and still you do this to him!? He would never speak of you again and his hatred for humans might be even worse this time

Candy Pop

Yandere level/intensity 7/10

Love language: Quality time, physical touch, words of affirmation(giving), nicknames

• When he first saw you...nobody else did after that day- Absolutely is the impulsive Yandere who takes you immediately

• Absolutely a lovebomber but doesn't do it out of malice, honestly I don't think he knew he was yandere until you explained to him what that even was-

• A constant flow of emotional and physical attention attention from him, if you came from a very emotionally connected family then you immediately feel at home but if you had a more distant family who wasn't very loving then I wouldn't be surprised if early on you broke down in tears

• Probably the most loving yandere out of the three of them, will most probably accidentally give you stockholm and have you convinced it's a healthy relationship until you see Jeffrey walking by and get a MASSIVE reality check

• If Slender finds out about you and orders your death this man can and will drop every form of a life he has built with the crps and go off the grid with you, he is NOT taking any chances with your mortal life

• Will most definitely keep you in his dream dimension most of the time, if you want to go back to the human world he'll see if one of the boss's cabins are available

• He only brings you around Jason and Jack because he considers them his best "friends", if you felt uncomfortable around any one of themJack he would stop bringing you around them but if you took to one of them he would bring that one to you to hang out, so bring them to his dream dimension more

• Most favorite nicknames would probably be "sugar", "gumdrop", "honey bun" and "my love"

• This man does not trust ANYONE around you, somehow has more trust issues then Jason, though he'll allow people you trust around you

• Definitely the "pleaser" type of yandere, is never happy unless you are happy and will do anything to make you that way, even if it means making himself uncomfortable, anything for you

• Definitely has taken a kid or two as his newest "present" for you, will reluctantly return them if you ask him to, what can I say he loves playing house with you, gives him the closest feeling to what he thinks might be humanity

• This man has nightmares about loosing you and his dreams aren't much better as they're always filled with "What if's" about your relationship if he was human like you or you a monster like him

• If you tried to leave this could go one of two ways, he could finally snap and drag you back into his dream dimension, never letting you see the human world again and never letting you out of his sight, you don't have the right to do that anymore after breaking his trust, or he could let you go but believe me that till the day you die you'll never truly be alone again, he'll always be watching his love.

AHHH I LOVED THIS REQUEST! This was SO FUN to write and I hope y'all enjoy(and I hope this was sufficient enough to your request anon)! Sorry if any one of them is a little shorter than the others, I just wrote as much I could think of so I hope it's enough. Let me know if you want any more(or full fics, or a poly version of these headcanons) and remember requests are open just read the somewhat rules/introduction pinned on my page and maybe go read my list of characters and prompts if you don't have a very custom request. Tata for now my lovely little gremlins! -Creepz

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young-dumb-and-vaccinated · 3 months ago

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Newcomers to fandom are weak as hell. Someone on tiktok was complaining about the Sammie x Remmick fics and asked why AO3 is "so fixated on toxic mlm ships" when "Pearline is right there". So, thinking she was looking for an answer, I introduced her to the idea that mlm ships pop up when the canon female love interest is underdeveloped. I guess she wasn't actually looking for an answer because that warranted a VERY pointed video response with the tag "ytqueersshutupchallenge".

This is the Lily-Orchard-ification of fandom discourse. In this essay I will

#sinners #sinners 2025 #sinners movie #sammie moore #sammie x remmick #who tf cares #don't like don't read #what's the point in even complaining about it #it's ao3 #they like vampires and don't think too hard about it

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the-silverdew · 1 year ago

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A/N: I've been a fan of the POTA trilogy for years and now i decided to start writting after a long time of thinking about doing it :)

This is the first writting piece that i have shared, so any positive feedback is welcomed!

Also, english is not my first language, forgive me if i make any mistake.

(I feel so weird for writing this 😂, i'll probably delete later)

______________________________________

What do the ape men like the most about their human?

notes and warnings: Pota (small) Headcanons, sfw

pairing: pota Characters x human! Reader

Caesar

Everything. For the Ape King, every part of his mate is perfect and can't really choose something.

Koba

For him, at first you were like any other human, an ugly creature that annoyed him to no end. But as your relationship with him develops and you become closer, is when Koba starts paying more attention to all the details about you.

He decides, even if it embarrasses him to do so, that your smile is what he likes the most, even more when it's directed at him.

Blue Eyes

Hair. Long or short, just fascinating to him, the way you can put it in many different styles or seeing the wind ruffling it.

He likes to brush his fingers through you hair and feel how soft it is.

Luca

Hands. It's because compared to him, they are just so small, so delicate, he likes to compare sizes between his hands and yours, hold them, feel them stroking his fur.

#planet of the apes x reader #don't like don't read #caesar x human reader #koba x reader

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eyra · 6 months ago

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February - eyra - AO3

Fandom: Harry Potter Rating: Explicit Warnings: Major Character Death Relationships: James Potter/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/James Potter, Sirius Black/Lily Evans Potter, Sirius Black/James Potter/Lily Evans Potter Characters: Lily Evans Potter, James Potter, Sirius Black Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Historical, Gender Roles, Character Death, Religious Guilt, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat She was used to watching them.

Please check all the AO3 tags before reading.

This was born of anon pissing me off. If you want miserable, I'll give you miserable.

Happy Valentine's Day! x

#my writing #fanfiction #lily evans #james potter #sirius black #i'm being serious when i say check the tags #don't like don't read

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navybrat817 · 2 years ago

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First, nonnie, it's "You're".

Second, I'm more than aware that there are better writers on this site. I also know there are writers far more popular than I am. Why should I let that stop me?

Why can I not tell my stories, too?

Don't like my takes on Bucky? Don't read them.

That fucking simple.

Thanks for stopping by.

#navybrat answers #no hate here #don't like don't read #feel free to block #anon ask #don't be an askhole

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weirdworldofwinnie · 6 months ago

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Bend To My Will

The Wizard x gender neutral reader (NSFW 18+ only oneshot)

Summary: Being the personal assistant to The Wizard of Oz isn't so bad, at least until you get in trouble... And even then, it comes with an unexpected perk.

Warnings: unprotected anal sex, age gap (older man/younger reader with height difference), power imbalance dynamic (unprofessional boss/employee), slight degradation, humiliation

Word Count: ~3,430

A/N: Because I can't get enough of Jeff Goldblum's Wizard, here's another shameless smut fic (you can read my other fic here, it's not related to this one and is fem!reader). I tried to make the reader here as gender neutral as possible and there's no use of Y/N in dialogue. This one also takes place before the main climatic events of part one of the movie and obviously is not entirely accurate to canon.

"Hey, is there a letter from Shiz in there somewhere?"

"Yes, sir, there is." You hurry up to the Wizard with this week's bundle of post, just delivered to the palace via flying monkey.

Sometimes a mechanical balloon he invented himself is used along with a monkey for delivery, and mail comes weekly, both in and out. It's the fastest method and his untidy loopy scrawl regularly trades with others' contrasting elegant scripts. Today one such letter is indeed from Madame Morrible, the headmistress of Crage Hall at Shiz University in Gillikin Country, complete with a large, stamped wax seal bearing the school's emblem. You can't help but notice he is always eager to receive her correspondence and then later he's often disappointed as if she never told him what he wanted to hear. If you didn't know any better, you'd presume he fancies the older woman. From your limited observed interactions, you're not sure if it's a reciprocated feeling. Her typical look is a glacial gaze and aloof presence, and often seems impatient with him, like he gets under her skin, but sometimes she merits him a seemingly true smile and he acts all giddy. It doesn't take much to please him.

"Did you make sure my last letter got out? I haven't heard back," the Wizard asks idly, distracting you from private speculation. He's seated down in his rich crimson tall-backed chair and hurriedly splitting open the ivory envelope with the sharp blade of a letter opener. He never opens his mail in front you or any staff for that matter, so it must be rather urgent. His eyes rake through the written contents hungrily and something sparks in there, as his mustache twitches with a spreading smile.

"Ah. Golly, that's good. Very good indeed," he mutters to himself before tucking the paper back in the envelope and stuffing it deep in the nearest drawer.

"Did you hear what I asked of you?" he asks a bit irritably, shuffling the other less important letters around in front of him into a neat stack and you quickly gather your bearings.

"Oh, yes, um, I..." You trail off embarrassingly, racking your brain for the memory of the last delivery.

It had been the prior Friday and all you remembered was it had been a very long day of errands back and forth around Emerald City (the Wizard never leaves his palace, so everything is brought to him) in addition to daily "housekeeping" duties. You suddenly recall your regrettable encounter with the mail carrier monkey.

"I-I'm afraid not, s-sir," you stammer in ashamed admittance.

"What?! How could you forget!" His voice pitches up two notches in panicked disapproval. It's not like you're known to make mistakes, after all.

"I'm very, terribly sorry your Ozness, it was an absolute mistake, I did pick it up and bring it to the monkey, but he was in a foul mood and we got into a tussle, so then I decided to just take it to the post office instead, but it must've dropped out of my satchel when I ran... The clasp gets loose sometimes and..." You give up explaining, watching his face cloud over in stormy disappointment and it's better to shut up before you're struck with a nasty bolt of verbal lightning.

He sighs heavily and flicks a finger out to play with a spinning model of the solar system, poking and prodding at the little gold planets.

"There's no excuse for this. Let's dearly hope that letter is only lost in a gutter or bin somewhere and not in the hands of enemies. Damn those animals and Animals, the lot aren't to be trusted, I'll have to have Chistery smack that troublemaker around or I'll have a stern word with him myself... And as for you..." He frowns deeply, dangerously, and without further words, you take this as a sign to retreat, backing away to the door with your head hung low. You wonder if your pay will be docked for this. Maybe you should knock off early today and go straight home and count what savings you have to prepare in case he decides to sack you. You'd been so fortunate to get this position after a rigorous interview process (and mostly due to your family's connections to wealthy socialites) and now you've blown it because of a dumb monkey and it's a stupid mistake that - if he's right in the worst assumption - could get people killed. You don't even know what was in the letter, if it was seriously political or not, but judging by his reaction, it wasn't casual correspondence.

"Get over here," the Wizard commands abruptly, loudly rapping the wood top of the grand desk with his knuckles in clear annoyance.

You scuffle closer, afraid of his possible wrath; he could yell at you or even use a type of magic? Dread wells up deep in your bowels and every step closer feels like impending doom.

He's intimidating to be in front of. Much too tall and far stronger than you even for an old man, and for a moment, you see clearly, etched in his features, the inspiration from where the threatening mechanical head display comes from. His long coat has been removed and drapes over the back of the chair, leaving him in his vest and high collared shirt, and you try not to focus like a magpie on all the shiny bits and bobbles and chains attached to the front. He's appropriately stylish yet eccentric and unpredictable enough to throw off an edge.

"Yes, sir?" you croak out as you stare up, now only two feet away. He reaches out and you instinctively flinch, but he means no physical harm.

His fingers surprisingly land tenderly upon your cheek and trace along your jawline, slowly, as if inspecting your bone structure and skin. Frozen in place, you stand numbly before him, staring at the neat trim of his mustache and goatee patch because you can't make contact with those intense brown eyes boring into your face. Your gaze wanders to stick on his lips and for a crazy second, you long to touch them, to feel the perfectly full soft shape. Somehow, he's even more handsome than you'd ever realized before. You catch a whiff of his heady cologne and just that does something to your brain, making you slightly woozy.

"You, uh, understand this 'mistake' is unacceptable, right? That I don't allow slip-ups often especially when it comes to business correspondence?" he asks in a low, nearly guttural voice that makes you quiver in... forbidden feelings.

He doesn't seem quite so cold and frightening up close like this, and you can see in his eyes he isn't a man to cower in fear from. There is some strange vulnerability to him, like you should be the one comforting him, but that doesn't make any sense.

"I understand. Please, I promise I'll be more diligent. Don't blame the monkey too much."

He grunts in approval, dropping his hand from your face and slipping it into the pocket of his patterned green pants. He wavers on his feet slightly, as if in indecision, and you start to open your mouth to speak when - with a single swift motion - he spins you around in a 180 and you fall straight forward onto the desktop. Something scatters and clatters to the ground. A gasp slips from your lips and the air heaves from your lungs as your head spins to reorient to this new position, stomach cringing from the coolness of the hard wood. The Wizard grips your waist hard from behind and you feel his hot breath in your ear as he speaks in a purring warning.

"You're good at pleasing me because your job requires it, right? Well, now here's a chance for me to please both of us. Of course, it's still a punishment for your silly error, so don't be smiling about it. And if you keep up this new habit of ineptness and getting into fights with my nonhuman staff, it is going to be your downfall and you'll find yourself groveling and licking my shoes in desperation to keep on living comfortably, understand?"

You can only barely nod in shocked disbelief, and he pauses for a second, still breathing on your earlobe.

"You like me a lot, don't you?"

"Yes, of course your Ozness. You are very admirable and wonderful."

He clucks his tongue, and a hand playfully smacks your ass. Lightly, but makes you jump, nonetheless.

"No, no, not that trifle crap that everyone says. You want me in the worst way, don't you? You always wonder what's really behind the curtain?"

Your cheeks burn hot as coals in guilt. Yes, you maybe had fostered a teeny tiny crush on him only weeks into the job and still really do actually, but it means nothing, right? He's everything and you're just another meager staff member drawn into his power and charisma, his caring (almost paternal?) presence.

"Well?" He sounds impatient and the increasing hold around your middle demands an answer.

"Y-Yes," you finally admit quietly, feeling as though the Unnamed God might as well strike you down now.

"Right, I thought so. You aren't quite like the other folks around here, I can tell. So, uh... Let's get this show on the road, shall we?"

You're speechless as he proceeds to unzip and tug your pants down, and they pool around your ankles, fainting fabric.

"I've had to see you walk around in these tight fucking pants for two years straight and resist the urge to bend you over this very desk... Think my job's easy?"

You let out an embarrassingly strangled sort of noise that makes him chuckle dirtily as he continues undressing you, peeling off your underwear with his expert fingers, slipping it down to your ankles and you gape as your privates are exposed to the air of the room and more importantly to him... Oz the Great and Terrible!

This was completely indecent and unprofessional, and frankly disgustifying of you to allow. What if guards came in for no reason and caught this act? There would certainly be no encore.

As if he reads your mind, the Wizard speaks in assurance.

"Door's locked, darling. Nobody's gonna find us, but you better keep any profane noises down to an acceptable level. Those damn monkeys eavesdrop, I swear, and we don't want your vulgarity rubbing off on them, do we?"

You let an uncontrollable guffawing laugh loose and then a groan as he grabs you tighter, squeezing your bare skin in sure, secure hands. He murmurs into your hair at the crown of your head.

"Shh. Don't get hysterical now. We've barely started anything and already you're crumbling to pieces. You're kind of pathetic, aren't you?"

You nod meekly again because you're in no position to challenge him and let him continue.

He removes his vest and tosses it carelessly on the chair and then rolls up his starched white shirt sleeves to his elbows. You hear him fumbling around in a desk drawer and your face twists in confusion when you hear the popping lid of a bottle.

"This is, uh, just some lubricant to help. I could cure a drought with this stuff," he explains jokingly, and you hiss in discomfort when you feel a very slick gel-like cool substance being slathered on your skin and most intimate parts from behind. You wonder briefly why he keeps that in his desk in the first place. Shouldn't this be taking place in a bedroom, not his office?

When he's applied enough lube, you listen to him unzipping and stripping off his own pants which also fall to the floor, and then you feel a solid stiffness emulating from a particular region as the fabric of his green boxers rubs against your buttocks.

"Now hold still while I free this big puppy," he says, somehow with a straight face you presume by the tone of his voice, and soon enough, there isn't shielding fabric anymore.

You can feel his thick fleshy cock against your ass, already beaded in precum, and starting to push forward. His purring husky voice is in your ear again, echoing around in your very head.

"If you tell a single soul about any of this we're doing, I will fire you and have you exiled to the outermost sandstone desert. Understand, gumdrop?"

You gulp at the threat and raise your brows at the random sweet nickname.

"Yes, sir."

"That's what I expect to hear."

You yelp as he thrusts into your ass, and you scramble to grab the sides of the desk for support.

"Hey, hey, it's alright, no hollering, okay?" His words clumsily mean to comfort, but his body continues, and the motion shakes and rocks the entire desk. All his trinkets and paperweights rattle or roll or fall down to the floor noisily.

Your nerves are set on fire and gradually a wetness leaks from unmentionable areas, both yours and his. The office feels stifling in temperature, but maybe the heat is actually emulating from just you and him, friction banging together. He ruts against your body in an animalistic frenzy that must look not very romantic from the outside, but on the inside, you are feeling a soaring pleasure you didn't think was possible. It's true, then, what they say. The Wizard does please people - just not in a way you ever expected. You always have been one to try to keep your head down, don't draw much attention, just do your job and get through the day, but he makes you feel like you're suddenly on top of the fucking world.

You grunt and moan as he goes harder and faster, pushing in and out of your tight hole, and finally he growls out a very gentlemanly "Oh fuck!" as he spills outside.

You cum just before he does, and the mix of fluids splatter part of his desk and run down the side, just missing a tiny toppled figurine of the Wizard himself by inches. You almost laugh again at the shocking absurdity of this moment. You've seen a side of this man in power that you never thought possible before and now you're not sure if you should be entranced or horrified that he really is just a purely biological man.

The Wizard is panting and clutching you like his life depends on it, and you catch your own breath that has fled to the other side of the room, scaling the walls for escape. When you finally capture it and the air fills your lungs once more, he lets go and steps back. You wretch yourself off the desk, wincing in pain and aching from the intrusion and uncomfortable positioning, but sick pleasure is still throbbing through your veins rushing with pulsing blood.

His desk is, respectfully, an utter fucking mess: immediate papers that have been spared the cum are crumpled or fluttered to the floor. Quills, ink bottles, and accessories are scattered everywhere, and micro inventions will probably need a tune-up.

"Here, clean yourself up." He offers out a clean handkerchief to you for wiping as he does himself with another cloth from a drawer. You try not to stare at his swollen balls and sizable cock deflating from its peak.

"Not bad for the first time, huh? Maybe we'll see what else you can do later."

Your mouth gapes openly and closes like a fish out of water, and then you drop the handkerchief, and he rushes forward as you stumble, off balance. You get your underwear up as he awkwardly tries to put his arms around you, but you hobble away from him in shame, legs like jelly. You bend over to grab hold of the waistband of your pants to hitch them back up too, but you fumble fruitlessly while he quickly gets his boxers up and then puts his own pants back in their proper place at his waist.

"Do you need help with that?" he asks patronizingly, and your face crimsons.

"I can do it," you reply like some determined kindergartener tying their shoes for only the second time.

But you're trembling so much from nerves and the after effect of being bent over the desk and orgasming that you cannot do so very successfully. He sighs dramatically and you hear him cross over to bend down on one knee in front of you, hands snatching the pants and pulling up. He secures them around your waist and then pats the front of your crotch with his large warm hand, which makes you almost topple over. If someone had told you last week you'd be in this position with your boss, the ruler of Oz, you'd laugh in their face.

How did this happen? How did the line of professionalism get so completely blurred and smudged? What made you so lucky? Or unlucky if this went south?

"See, that's not too hard, is it?" He smirks in satisfaction, moving up to smooth down the entirety of your uniform. His hands linger for too long, and you feel on the point of wishing to collapse on the spot and melt through the floor, pretending like none of this ever happened.

"You're speechless. I have that effect, don't I? Everyone says that, but I just don't see it. People expect it but then they don't know how to react when they are. Okay, this might be a bad analogy, but tell me, if you go to a burlesque or, uh, club as they call them here? Well, you expect to see a striptease, right? And by that assumption, one would think they'd be prepared to deal with a lap dance or something, right? They wouldn't not know what to do or feel or..." he rambles on, and you mumble incoherently and step backward, nervously running a hand through your hair. He stops, inhales, and rubs his chin thoughtfully.

"Gosh, you're kinda cute, I never noticed before. You know that don't you?"

You have no answer to give, there are simply no words. The Wizard turns to his desk with a distracted frown before back to you.

"Can't have the maids seeing this mess you made. Guess you're gonna have to clean that up yourself," he says, and you don't mention his desk was pretty darn cluttered to begin with. His whole office is a constant work in progress, a place for all his ideas (and this isn't even his workshop), and the fact that he chose this place to do such an inappropriate act is laughable. Internally you almost want to punch his stupidly dashing, smug entitled face even though he's absolutely right about the maids. But this was all his idea, after all!

"Here, I'll get rags," he offers quickly, perhaps reading your disgruntled expression and he moves to the door, opening and shutting it fast behind him with a click.

You can't look at the indecency of the desk, so you move away to peruse his collections, many books and knickknacks lining the shelves wrapping around the office. There are countless scrolls of schematics and at your feet, wooden crates full of sample bricks for the Yellow Brick Road construction. You start to swipe your fingers across the rough painted surface of them.

"Hey, don't touch any of that now!" his gruff voices barks from behind, startling you.

The Wizard's holding clean rags, and you immediately move to him, taking them and gingerly begin to clean. His fingers ghost over yours as you wipe his desk free of inappropriate fluids, guiding every move and it feels just sensual enough you can barely focus on the task. He wants it spotless, and you spritz the desktop with a bottle of some kind of cleanser, making the space smell like bright citrus. You reorganize the objects and papers back into a fairly organized setup and when you're all done, he takes away the soiled rags to dispose of. You wait patiently until he comes back, and when he does, your heart automatically sputters as he strides back into the office, clapping his hands together briskly.

"Well, back to work, amirite? And this time you'll certainly deliver the new letter I write with no issues? I'd hate to, uh, have to do this again... Right, gumdrop?" he asks with a wink and that devilish generous grin tells you nothing is ever going to be the same again between you two.

You've been changed for good.

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