#jefferson

You’d come to him willingly, wishing to help. You tell yourself that again as you begin to wake.

The room is quiet enough to hear your own pulse. It’s the smell that hits you first–clove, bergamot, a hint of something like vanilla and old paper. Your head is heavy, fuzzy. When your eyes open, you’re already tied down.

But you came to him. He hadn’t snatched you from the woods or stalked you through the streets of Storybrooke. You knocked on his door. Asked to help, sat down at his table and willingly drank the tea even though you knew it smelled of the familiar sleeping draught that you take before bed.

Not rope or metal. Silk.

Your arms are bound at your sides, ankles crossed, the velvet of the antique chair pressing into your back like a throne that doesn’t want you to leave.

Then– “You’re awake.”  A man’s voice, warm as tea and sharp as broken porcelain.

He’s by the fire, lounging in a wingback chair as though you’re not the one tied up. His legs crossed at the ankle, gloved fingers spinning a spoon in a cup. Eyes pale and piercing beneath a wild sweep of chestnut curls. The top hat rests on the mantel beside him, watching, judging.

You blink in confusion. “Jefferson? I said I would help, but this-”

He smiles slowly, like he’s savouring the sound of his name in your mouth. “You do remember. Good. That saves us time.”

“What–what is this?”

“A test,” he says lightly, setting the teacup aside and standing. His long coat flares behind him as he moves, each step slow and deliberate. “A bit of research. Some creative problem solving.”

You close your eyes, shaking your head in the hope that it will disperse the confusion and cloudiness in your mind.

In truth, this wasn’t the first time you both had played out a scene similar to this. You had been in love with Jefferson for years now, and he with you. The more you got to know him, however, the more you realised just how far he had fallen into the depravity of his insanity. Not that you honestly mind, there were always limits, a safeword, no permanent marks.

This scene could end with a simple three tap, or whisper of the word ‘red’, and yet, you never do because somewhere in the back of your mind, you needed this escape, finding the more intense the scene, the harder you orgasm. So you never stop him, you play along willingly.

He stops before you. Tilts his head, like you’re a painting he can’t quite understand. “See, my hat’s broken. It used to open doors. Worlds. It used to spin and shimmer, and sing. But now? Nothing.”

He glances toward it. “And then you showed up. And something shifted. It trembled. It wanted you.”

“Jefferson, we’ve talked about this. I’m not magic,” you whisper, throat dry.

His eyes lit with amusement. “Ah, but you don’t know that. And I don’t know that. So until we do…”

He kneels between your legs as your breath hitches. He doesn’t touch you, not yet, but his gloved hands rest on your knees, thumbs tracing idle circles. His voice softens to a lover’s caress.

“All you have to do is make it work. One spin. One shimmer. And I’ll let you go.”

You shake your head, “I can’t–I told you, I don’t–”

“Then,” he says sweetly. “You must not mind what happens next.”

He leans closer. “Because if you really wanted to stop me, darling, you’d make the hat work, wouldn’t you?”

Your lips part, panic and disbelief rising in equal measure. “That’s not fair–”

He laughs. Not cruelly. Something worse. Like you said, something adorable.

“Oh, sweetheart, who said I was fair?” His grin widens, and something in his eyes, fractured and gleaming, burns like frostbite.

“You don’t need magic. You just need motivation. And I'm very good at motivating.”

You yank at the silk bindings, but he’s already slipping off one glove, then the other, methodical, theatrical. His hands are pale and elegant. When he touches you, it’s almost gentle. Almost.

His fingers ghost over your inner thighs, dragging your skirt higher as he speaks in a low, hypnotic tone.

“Maybe it’s personal shame,” he muses. “Maybe you’re nervous. Or Maybe–” He slides a single finger along the seam of your cotton panties, teasing. “-You like the idea of being helpless.”

You gasp, hips jerking toward him because in truth, you’re soaked, cunt pulsing, squeezing around nothing and desperate for his touch. He raises a brow. “See? That was a twitch. We’re getting closer.”

“Please,” you breathe.

“Still not spinning,” he pretends to sigh, placing a dramatic hand over his heart. “Pity.”

He hooks your underwear aside with one finger. Cold air kisses your skin before his warm breath replaces it.

“This could be all over,” he whispers, lowering his mouth. “But since it's not…”

His tongue slides against you, slow and obscene. Your body jolts, traitorous, heat building with humiliating speed. He hums against your clit, lapping deliberately, rhythmically–like he’s tasting a fine wine, letting it linger.

You clench your teeth. “Jefferson– wait–”

He pauses just long enough to smirk. “I will. Just make it work.”

You can’t. Of course, you can’t. So he keeps going.

His mouth devours your cunt. Wet and relentless, coaxing moans from your throat no matter how hard you try to bite them back. You didn’t want to listen to how good your body felt, tried to ignore his tongue pressing into your cunt, but you still feel yourself climbing faster, harder, your thighs trembling, wrists straining uselessly in the silk.

“Cum for me,” he purrs, smirking like a maniac. “Give me what the hat won’t.”

And when you do, when the orgasm hits you deep in your abdomen, you’re crying out his name before you even realise it, hips rocking against his face. 

He pulls back, lips glistening. Blows softly on your oversensitive cunt just to watch your flinch. Then he stands. Straightens his black waistcoat. Picks up the hat. He holds it over your head like he’s offering a crown.

Waits. Nothing. No shimmer. No spin. His smile returns, wolfish and delighted.

“Oh, dear,” he goads. “Still broken.” He sets the hat back on its pedestal with care. Then he turns to you, undoing the first button of his coat and removing the thick scarf around his neck, until the silver scar around his throat is revealed.

“Well,” he says brightly, “I guess that means again.”

The silk cuffs remain tight, but the panic in your lips has dulled. Not because you’re calm. Because you’re tired, your body betrayed you once already. He made sure of that.

Jefferson hums as he paces behind you, coat now discarded, waistcoat snug against his lean frame. He’s unhurried and precise like a cat playing with its meal.

His boots tap lightly against the hardwood as he circles. Hands behind his back, head tilted, eyes gleaming and something unholy. “I must admit,” he says, voice syrupy and amused. “I rather hoped you’d get it right the first time. Would’ve saved us both a lot of… well–”

He stops in front of you and flashes a grin, eyes flicking toward your trembling thighs. “--distraction.”

He crouches. Strokes a single finger down the side of your face with eerie tenderness. “But alas. Still no spin.”

His thumb drags along your cheek. “Now, the optimist in me says: try again. Let her focus. Let her breathe.” His smile widens into something darker. “But the realist? The scientist? He knows something more stimulating may be required.”

He stands again. Crosses to a nearby cabinet– glass-fronted, etched with swirls–and unlocks it with a small brass key that jingles like a charm bracelet.

Inside: leather, steel, satin. Tools that appear elegant and terrifying in equal measure. A flogger, velvet blindfolds, wands, restraints, gags, a collar, and clamps. And scissors. Not normal ones. Giant, gleaming Victorian tailor shears, black-handled, polished to a mirror shine. They look far more suited to cutting bone than thread.

He lifts them with excitement. Weighs them in one hand and looks over at you. “Now,” he begins, “hold still.”

“Jefferson–wait–I need to catch my breath–”

The scissors click open. “I told you. It’s Hatter.” You flinch as he leans down and snips – the first cut severs the fabric at your shoulder. The strap falls.

He inhales, pleased. “You wear too much,” he decides, slicing the front of your blouse with the calm precision of a man trimming ribbon. Each cut exposes more of you. Your bra. The slope of your stomach. “How am I supposed to read your energy if I can’t see you?”

You’re breathing hard now, skin prickling in fear and heat. “You don’t have to–”

“You could stop me,” he coos. “Just make the hat spin.”

You shake your head, eyes closing. “I can’t.”

He gives you a mock-pitying look. “Then you can.”

The final cuts expose everything. Your ruined clothes are falling to the floor. You’re left trembling in your underwear, chest heaving, goosebumps littering your skin. “Better, “he admires, rubbing the cool flat of the scissors down your sternum before tossing them aside with a metallic clang.

He turns back to the cabinet. You hear soft leather, zippers, the low buzz of something mechanical. Then, he returns, holding a small black vibrator wand and a length of silk rope.

“Oh,” he says innocently, catching your eye. “Did you think I was done?”

You try to shrink into the chair, but the bindings don’t let you. He kneels again, this time straddling your legs. Clicks the wand on. The sound alone makes your thighs twitch.

“That’s the thing about behaviour,” he whispers, brushing the wand’s tip along the inside of your knee. “It’s shaped by consequences.”

He glides it higher. “You failed your test.” The wand meets your underwear, already damp. He doesn’t move it yet. Just let it hum against the fabric, watching your expression change. 

“So now,” he leans close, lips against your ear. “You learn.”

He presses it harder. You jolt. The first wave builds fast with the device. You try to hold back, shame and adrenaline and fear warring in your chest, but he’s relentless. 

“You’re making such lovely noises,” he praises sweetly. “That moan right there–sublime.”

You squirm, eyes fluttering, breath coming out in quick bursts. And then you cum. Helpless, shaking. Heat flashing down your limbs. He doesn't stop.

“Still broken,” he drawls, voice maddeningly sweet. “You really must want me to keep going.”

You try to speak, but your words blur. “Oh no, no,” he scolds genly, pushing your panties aside once more, and turning the wand up. “No faking. No stalling. You want this? Own it.”

The second orgasm hits harder. Your head drops back, tears slipping down your cheeks from the intensity. He still doesn’t stop. By the third, you’re half-gone. Floating. The world is blurring at the edges. His voice becomes a distant melody. You can’t move. Can’t think.

He cradles your chin in one hand as he turns off the wand. “Look at you,” he praises, genuinely awed. “My little puppet. All wet and wild and weightless.”

He brushes damp hair from your forehead, voice dipping into something almost caring. “You’re slipping already, aren’t you? Right into the dark. That lovely quiet place. That’s called subspace, darling. Isn’t it delicious?”

You blink up at him, dazed. Then–softly, from your lips– “Emma…”

He stills. Then, very slowly, he smiles. But it’s not kind.

“No, no, no.” he strokes your cheek. “She’s the saviour. I don’t need saving. I need you.” He kisses your temple, soft and sinister. “You don’t get to leave me.”

And then, with a laugh that could shatter porcelain, he stands. “We’re just getting started.”

The silk cuffs are gone. Not out of kindness. Not out of mercy.

Jefferson untied them with a flick of his wrist and a smile that made your stomach twist. You’re free now – but only on a technicality. The velvet chair is gone too, replaced by something more cruel in its simplicity.

A desk. Heavy and old. Walnut and brass. The kind of desk that kings wrote war letters on. Its surface gleams under the chandelier light. At its centre, on a deep red cushion, sits the hat. 

Still and silent. Almost mocking. You sit before it like a student awaiting examination.

Jefferson is behind you. You can feel his eyes on your neck, his breath drifting across your shoulder.

“Isn’t this better?” he says in a sassy tone. “No restraints, no games. Just you, me, and her.”

He taps the hat lovingly. “Go on, then. Concentrate. Think very, very hard about making her spin.”

You glare at the hat, fists clenched in your lap. Your pulse is already rising, not from magic, but from the weight of his presence. Every part of your body feels too hot, too aware.

“I am trying,” you insist.

“Try harder,” he singsongs. “Or maybe, you want me to help.”

He disappears behind you. You hear the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of knees hitting carpet. And then, his hands slide up your calves. You freeze.

“Jefferson–”

“You’re not concentrating,” he tutts. “Your mind’s all fuzzy and tense.” He pressed a single kiss to the inside of your knee. “Let me help.”

Your chair jerks slightly as he nestles fully underneath the desk until you aren’t able to see him. You slam your hands against the surface. “No– this isn’t – this isn’t fair!”

“Fair?” his voice, muffled under the wood, is teasing. “Oh, darling. You’re still clinging to that word like it ever meant something.”

He hooks his fingers around your thighs, dragging you forward. Your knees bump the underside of the desk. Your heart continues to race.

“I told you…” His voice darkens. “All you have to do is make it spin. But you haven’t. Which tells me…” His lips press to the inside of your thigh. “You want this.”

“Wait…,” you whisper, voice shaking, but have no answer for him.

The first swipe of his tongue silences everything else. You slap a hand over your mouth, fighting the moan that threatens. His mouth is warm, even on your already sensitive cunt, tongue flattening against your throbbing clit, licking you like he’s starved.

“You say wait,” he murmurs between licks, “but your body says yes, yes please, don’t stop.”

You tremble violently as he sucks your clit into his mouth, humming like he’s enjoying a fine meal. His fingers dig into your thighs, keeping you spread and open, your ruined underwear pushed aside.

“You could stop me right now,” he says. “All you have to do is spin the hat.”

You shut your eyes. Your hips twitch. The climax is blinding again, fast and shameful.

“Jefferson–”

“You keep saying that name like it’s a prayer,” he purrs. “Try ‘Hatter’. See if it tastes better on your tongue.”

You cum with a broken sob, your whole body jerking, hands digging into the edge of the desk. He moans against you like he’s the one receiving pleasure. When you slump back, legs shaking, he doesn’t stop. He nuzzles in deeper, tongue flicking over your overstimulated clit, another orgasm already blooming like fire under your skin.

“I can’t– Please,” you beg shamelessly.

“But you haven’t tried to stop me,” he coos. “Still no magic. No spin. Which means…” He pauses, licking his lips audibly. “You must want another.”

You take in his words, reading between the lines, realising that your hands aren’t even tied up anymore, you could have pushed him away if you wanted to, could have said your safe words, but you don’t want to.

You cry out as his mouth continues, you aren’t even sure how many orgasms you’d had now. You’re not even thinking anymore. Words are just sounds.

He finally crawls out from under the desk and crouches beside your chair, his lips swollen, eyes glowing with something manic and possessive. He cups your cheek. “There she is. Look at you, my poor little creature. You’ve barely blinked. Can you even hear me?”

You nod faintly. But you’re floating again, spaced out. Subspace yawns below you like a velvet pit. He strokes your face, leans in close. And you whisper it again–barely audibly. “...Emma…”

He goes still. Then stands slowly. His jaw ticks. “You want her?”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

He laughs. Bitter and dangerous.

“You think she’ll save you? That golden girl? That walking prophecy in leather boots?” he leans over, palms on either side of the desk, his face inches from yours. “She’s not the one in your head when you scream. I am.”

He grips your chin and kisses you, hard and claiming. His tongue pushes into your mouth like he owns it until you can taste yourself.

When he pulls back, he’s panting softly. “No more desk games,” he says, voice low. “No more little tests.”

He steps back and slowly undoes his belt. “If you won’t make the hat work, darling,” he says, licking his bottom lip, “then you’ll have to take what comes next.”

You don’t remember how you got into bed. One minute, you were still slumped at the desk, your muscles too weak to hold you upright. The next, you were floating again, head lolled back on a mountain of silk pillows, the chandelier spinning softly above you like a cracked halo.

Your limbs are heavy, your brain even heavier. You hear his voice before you see him.

“Not the Saviour,” Jefferson mutters from somewhere near the foot of the bed. His voice is calm, though, despite his manic appearance. He’s shirtless now. Lean, pale, marked in the way only madmen are.

He tilts his head as he looks at you. Then lets out a soft chuckle. “Look at you.”

He straddles your waist, bare chest gleaming faintly with sweat, curls a little damp from exertion. His top hat is still on the table. Watching, always watching.

“You should’ve made it spin,” he emphasised. “You could have.” he leans over you, one hand sliding up your exposed body, trailing fingers along your ribs, your breasts. His touch is delicate.

“But instead,” he says, voice lower, “you chose this.” he brushes his thumb over your nipple, watching it pebble under his touch. “You’re so quiet now,” he muses. “So obedient.”

He reached the bedside table, the same drawer from which the wand now sat. This time: two gleaming silver nipple clams, joined by a delicate black chain.

You don't even flinch as he pinches your nipple and fastens the first clamp. The metal bites, the pressure sharp and mean. Still, you don't make a sound.

He pauses. Then does the second one. Again, no reaction. His eyes narrow with interest. “Well, well,” he breathes. “What a good little doll you’ve become.”

He drapes the chain across your chest, the weight subtle but present. You blink slowly, the world still gauzy at the edges.

He kisses you in a deep, possessive way. But, when he calls back, he whispers against your lips, “You’re not thinking about Emma anymore, are you?”

You manage a soft exhale. He strokes your hair. “No. You're thinking about me. You're thinking about how it feels when I break you open and put you back together again.”

He shifts down your body, pressing kisses to your thighs, then crawls back up, rutting his hard cock against your trembling pussy. “You feel that?” he growls. “That's mine. You’re mine.”

And then he's inside you. No more slow teasing. He sinks in deep and fast, and the stretch is too much, too perfect, your body arching instinctively. The clamps tug just enough to sting, and still, you barely react. You whimper, but there’s no resistance left in you.

He groans, watching you take him. His thrusts start slow but heavy, grinding into you with each push. His eyes never leave your face.

“You’re so quiet,” he pants. “You were such a fighter. So full of fire. And now look at you.” he presses a hand to your throat, not choking but claiming. “Look at what I made.”

You whimper again, vision swimming. He leans down and licks a tear from your cheek. “I knew,” he whispers. “I knew you’d be perfect for me.”

He snaps his hips harder. The chain between the clamps jostles with each thrust, sending pulses of sharp sensation across your chest. Your body shakes, tears slipping from your eyes, mouth open but silent.

He doesn’t slow. He loves it. Loves the tears, the silence, the way you give him everything now without even realising it. And then you cum again. Silently. Fully. A full-body quake that makes your eyes roll back, your fingers clench in the sheets.

He follows right after, groaning deep in his chest, burying himself inside you like he belongs there. When he collapses against you, it’s not rough. It’s gentle. Too gentle. He kisses your forehead. Removes the clamps with surprising care, even calming you as you scream as all the blood returns to your nipples, which is more painful than them going on. 

You tremble beneath him, body boneless and dazed. Jefferson brushes the hair from your face, watching you like a precious, broken thing. When he speaks again, it’s in a lover’s tone, sickly sweet.

“You did so well.”

Your lips part. A soft, whimpering sound escapes. Your mind is fogged with pleasure, pain, exhaustion, your body doesn't know what to do, except reach.

You lift your arms, barely, and he catches your wrists, pulling your body closer. He cradles you to his chest, rocking you gently. “You get it now. You finally understand.”

You nuzzle into his chest. “Good girl. My girl. My perfect little dream.”

You know the aftercare will come, the drinks with electrolytes, the sugary snacks, the washing away of sins from you and plenty of reassurance. But, something stays in your mind, a name that you’d been trying to communicate to him.

“Emma has magic, Hatter.” You’re finally able to breathe the words to him, only half awake.

You’d heard the rumours from town, and with any luck, she could be the answer he was looking for, creating magic for his hat.

He freezes for a second beneath you, then his lips curl into a grin against your temple. “Well,” he breathes, “that changes everything.”

He tucks the blanket tighter around your body. You sigh. Sinking deeper into sleep.