#oz x reader

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.

┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐

Oscar, unfortunately, is a bit lonely. Madame Moribble isn’t in the Emerald City all the time, so he’s mostly left to his own devices. I imagine he created the Oz of Tomorrow so he’d have something to do. Of course, lonely in the past tense, because with you he doesn’t feel lonely anymore!

He would immediately have a little figurine made for you, one for keepsakes and the other to go with his in the Oz of Tomorrow. Speaking of, he would love just explaining every detail of it and sharing everything he wants to add to it. He would want to hear your ideas, too, and hear what you think about it.

His favorite color, as we know, is green. If you wore green, he would love it. It doesn’t matter what; shirts, pants, dresses, lingerie, whatever. If you really wanted, he would get you a completely brand new, all green wardrobe. Just for you.

A little farther into the relationship, he’d want to tell you some of the things he remembers about Omaha, though it’s not much. Things about life before he was the wizard, but he might leave out the parts about him not actually being magical. He wouldn’t want you to think less of him. If you were also from somewhere far from Oz, he would be a little more comfortable with you since you have the shared experience of being somewhere completely new.

He’d be clingy, mostly unintentionally. Now that he has someone to actually talk to and spend time with, it’d be hard going back to doing things alone, even if it’s for a short while. There would be plenty he’d want to talk to you about, and he will just talk and talk if you let him, even if you stop responding. When he has to do his wizard work, like.. signing documents and such, if you wanted to come along and hangout in his office, he would happily let you.

Would absolutely gift you nice, custom jewelry and accessories whenever. If he knows gifts make you happy, expect them a lot. If you gave him gifts back, he would definitely cherish them.

Even though he tends not to venture outside the palace, if you wanted to, he’d go out to the Emerald City and explore it with you. Sometimes in a disguise, sometimes not. Sometimes the attention of all the citizens becomes too much. He loves the attention, of course, but he would want to focus on you.

Very protective. If you absolutely must leave (he will try to convince you not too) he wouldn’t want you to go very far, especially anywhere he can’t ensure your safety. Anywhere near the desert? No. Random forests? Probably not. If he felt he needed to, he would have a guard go with you.

He tries to keep all his evil tendencies under wraps, and present as a charming, sentimental man. The truth is a little more complicated. He was quite caring, to begin with, but saving Oz came with some drawbacks. For instance, if you wanted to break up or leave, he would try to convince you not to.. all the classic “What am I going to do without you?” lines. If you did actually leave, he’d do the same thing he did with Elphaba and call the guards to go get you and bring you back. I think this is when he would be most pathetic and begging, especially if you were standing your ground. He would try and convince you for hours, however long it takes.

One thing he would hate is you favoring another person over him. If you don’t need him, then you might leave, and he doesn’t want that. He’s the one and only wizard of oz; who could be better than him? It would make him jealous, and quite hurt. You might have to reassure him every once in awhile that you do love him and won’t leave.

On the topic of magic, he probably has a little potion room where he experiments with making elixirs and potions. At first, it was just for fun (and to give to Melena) but if you wanted, he could try some on you. Most of them don’t do much, if anything at all. But he’d be excited you want to try one of his hobbies.

He loves dancing. Slow-dancing, tap-dancing.. it doesn’t matter. If you didn’t know how, he’d teach you how to slow-dance. I think he’s proficient in many things, niche or not, since he has so much time on his hands. Things like instruments are another thing he’d love to teach you.

He’s always wanted a child of his own, and he projects a little bit of that onto you when he teaches you how to do something or explains things. I think this would be very noticeable if you were younger than him.

He likes pet-names, mostly because they are charming and also good for manipulation when he needs to use it. I think he’d use darling the most, whether casually, during intercourse, or when he want’s something from you. There are other pet names he’d use, depending on what you like. If you aren’t a fan of those, a nickname works just fine.

Every king needed a throne to rule from.

Falcone had his office, the set-up of the place so dark and sparse that it was difficult to navigate in the evenings. Hell, even Maroni had designed a special business room which featured a steel table that had been bolted into the ground and bleached regularly to keep the stains from business deals gone wrong from rusting the metal.

But Oz was no king and he needed no throne. His power came from boots on the ground action and a constant flow of motion to ensure that his presence was felt in every corner of the space he claimed as his own. He didn't want to hide away. He wanted people to know his face. To know his name.

Besides, sitting for too long made his foot ache like a whore.

The Iceberg Lounge was his throne and he wove among the crowds like a true man of the people - carefully calculating his patrons, their influence and how many dollars they were going to drink into his pocket after he'd skimmed his cut from the profits.

His little birds were out in full force today and he surveyed the swell of scantily-clad employees as they danced around the floor of the club before heading over to sell marked-up bottles and shots to the pricks who possessed too much money and had ponied up for a seated booth. Sweeping his eyes around, he sought out his favourite little bird of the moment - her choice to wear a vivid reg wig making her an easy target to spot among the clubbers.

His eyes settled on her quickly and his lips instantly snatched back into a snarl as he watched her interact with the table she was serving. From here, he could see that something not great was up. From the clearly guarded way that she stood back from the booth, to the smug look of anger which coated the face of the dark-haired guy who was talking to her.

Sensing blood in the water, Oz picked up pace as he pulled himself over to the unhappy table - weaving his way through the throng of drunken clubgoers with a practised ease despite his troubled gait. Three men, each of them suited to the nines and holding that pompous look that only came from guys who had been born with a silver spoon rammed up their ass, sat around the booth and, as he quickly approached, Oz could hear that two of them seemed content to quietly egg on their friend as he berated his little bird.

"Come sit with us, baby. My friend here has a stiff drink and an even stiffer problem you could maybe help us with," slurring the words loudly, the dark-haired man grasped at her wrist with curled fingers even as she skillfully avoided his touch. "You look like you know what you're doing. Come sit- sit on our laps."

"I'm not a whore." His little bird countered dryly, "You want a fuck? Go out onto the streets like all the other johns. This here's a classy joint."

Only just able to hear her raised words as he approached from behind, Oz smirked at the easy defense of his club and how she stood her ground without fear.

"You think I pay for it? You think I rent whores? Who the fuck do you think i am?"

Pissed off by her words, the man's immediate cut to anger was clear and Oz only just made it to the side of the table as the final question flew from his curled lips. He was not quick enough though as the skinny prick, who was now visibly shaking his fist at his little bird, lifted his hand further and smacked her across the jaw in a vicious, ringing slap.

Without hesitation as his vision bloomed red for a moment, Oz moved with the merciless strike of a cobra as he thrust his hand into the hair of the fucking idiot and slammed his head into the table, ensuring that his face was tilted towards him as it collided with the solid wood.

The guys friends, immediately scared shitless by the sudden appearance of the infamous Penguin in his own club, all remained quiet outside of their muted yells and panicked expressions.

"You put a fucking hand on one of my girls again and I'll cut it off? You hear me, prick?" Oz growled, his grip of the man's hair so tight that he was surprised it wasn't ripping free into his fingers. "You touch any girl in this club and I'll rip your fucking fingers out and feed 'em to your mother!"

His face smushed into the table with so much pressure that his lips were visibly squished and his jaw pressed painfully to the side, the suited idiot spluttered an incomprehensible apology with wide, panicked eyes as his body flailed against the booth.

"I'm- 'm sorry, Mr Penguin. I didn't- I won't do it again."

"Get him the fuck outta here." Oz spat, slamming his other hand on the table - his thick fingers splashing some spilled drink into the eyes of the fucking idiot. He released him at the same time and the man pulled his head up and swiftly stumbled free of the booth. His friends instantly took the warning in stride, collectively standing to their feet and shuffling off towards the exit with sheepish expressions that were reeking with fear.

"You okay, sweetheart?"

Turning to his little bird, he could see that she was shaken up - both by the mild assault and also by his sudden appearance - and he didn't miss the small, almost shy smile that she sent his way as he open watched and fussed over her.

"I'm fine, Oz." She confirmed, her trembling fingers adjusting the edges of the wig that clung to her scalp, "But thanks for that. Those guys have been a pain in the ass all night."

His hand slipped up to rest on her chin, pulling her jaw gently to the side so that he could get a better look at the red mark that was developing at the side of her full mouth.

"All shift, huh? Then go and take an early finish. Your numbers are covered for the night."

"Oz, I'm fine." She protested, her hand coming up to cover his own as she glanced at him with soft eyes, "Besides I haven't made rent yet an-"

Ah.

Dipping his fingers into his inner pocket, Oz snatched free a stack of bills. Visibly marking out an appropriate amount with a practised eye, he stuffed the bills into the small black hip bag she used to hold her cash.

"Landlords." Oz scoffed. "And they say I'm the fucking criminal."

Her gentle hand dropped to follow his and she squeezed his fingers with a grateful expression, "Thank you."

He had always liked her. Even among his other favourites. She was beautiful like them all but she was smart enough to know when to stand her ground and when to play the part she needed to with the punters. Some of the little whispers she had overheard and dropped to him over time had secured him some big deals that cemented his worth in the eyes of Carmine and the family and he wasn't a man to forget his assets.

Plus, she was a hell of a lay. They didn't fuck that much, but the odd night had seen them both hiding out in his office as she spread herself across his desk and gave him something to smile about. He didn't like to mix business and pleasure, the danger of it all the more clear in how Carmine liked to treat his own special ladies after they'd discovered more than he would have liked, but Oz was better than him and he knew how to protect himself.

"Don't mention it, doll." Oz grinned, lips pulling back to show his slightly off-white teeth. "You just keep that kid of yours at school and don't be worrying about this bullshit. How is the boy?"

"Finding it tough." She sighed. "His teacher says there's something up with him, his brain ain't working like it should. Wants him to do some tests about his attention and stuff."

"He's a smart kid. Like his ma."

"Sweet man. Always looking our for us girls." She purred, her hand stroking along the fine silk of his shirt as he straightened to his full height at her obvious attentions.

"You do your bit, sweetheart. All those little bits of information you pick up and feed back to me like little songbirds? Worth your weight in gold."

"You alone tonight, Oz?" Batting her eyelashes at him with obvious intent, Oz couldn't help the flush of arousal that stirred his cock as she continued to rub circles on his stomach.

"Always alone, baby."

"Then show me to the back office and I'll show you something you'll like. Since I've got the night off and all and my sitter ain't expecting me back for another few hours."

The meeting with Oswald felt less like chance and more like the universe itself had deliberately orchestrated it. It wasn't a casual encounter at a coffee shop, or a shared glance across a crowded room. It was a collision, a sudden, irreversible shift in your trajectory. You, living your quiet, ordinary life, never imagined venturing into the shadowed alleyways and opulent dens of depravity that defined his world. A world where the air felt thick with unspoken threats, where whispered deals replaced polite conversation, and every sunrise seemed to paint the streets with the residue of the previous night's violence. Yet, somehow, you found yourself drawn into his orbit, a moth irresistibly pulled toward a flickering, dangerous flame. It wasn't love at first sight, not in the traditional sense. It was something far more complex, a magnetic pull born of recognition. You saw, beneath the gruff exterior and the calculating gaze, a profound brokenness. You saw the cracks in his carefully constructed facade, the remnants of a soul that had been battered and bruised by the harsh realities he had endured. And in that brokenness, you glimpsed a reflection of your own vulnerabilities, a shared understanding that transcended words. You couldn't just walk away. You found yourself compelled, almost against your will, to sift through the layers of anger and ambition, to find the buried pieces of the man he once was, the man you believed could still be.

But even in those early days, as you explored the labyrinth of his personality, you were shadowed by a chilling understanding. You knew that a man like Oswald Cobblepot—a man who had clawed his way up from the depths of despair, who had been betrayed and abandoned by those he had trusted, who had tasted the bitterness of injustice time and time again—was fated to a life of perpetual struggle. He yearned for peace, for a sanctuary from the relentless battles he fought every day, but you knew it was a yearning that would forever remain unfulfilled. Loving him, you realized with a sinking heart, was an act of self-condemnation. It was like stepping onto a path of thorns, knowing full well where it would lead, yet unable to resist the allure of the rose at its center. You had bound yourself to his destiny, and there was no turning back.

When his mother, his last anchor to the gentler parts of his past, died, it was as if the very foundations of his world had crumbled beneath his feet. The light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a storm of grief so intense that it threatened to consume him.

You could see it in his eyes. There was nothing there, no glimmer of the usual sharp intelligence, no quick wit or dark humor. Oswald Cobblepot was a man who had always fought for control, always strived to stay one step ahead, but in that moment, it was clear that even he couldn’t control the storm raging inside of him. His mother had been the one constant in his life, the one person who had cared for him in the way that only a mother could. She was gone, and with her, a piece of him died, too.

“Do you understand, (Y/N)?” he asked, his voice shaking. The coldness in his eyes was gone now, replaced by something far more dangerous—raw, unfiltered pain. “She’s gone. And I… I’m alone.”

The words cut through you like a blade. You had never seen him so exposed, so vulnerable. For a moment, it felt like the wall he had built between the two of you—between himself and everyone—was cracking, and you could almost see the person beneath all the layers of anger and resentment.

But even in that moment of weakness, you knew better than to think he would let you in.

You reached out to him, but he recoiled. The pain was too much. The fear that anyone could get close enough to hurt him, to take something else from him, was too deep. The walls he had spent a lifetime building slammed back into place, stronger than before, and you were left standing there, desperate and broken.

“I tried to do everything right. I tried to make her proud,” Oswald’s voice cracked. He stumbled backward, his hand gripping the back of a chair like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. “But it’s never enough. Never. She’s dead, and I still can’t fix it. It’s never enough, is it?”

The tears that had threatened to fall for so long finally spilled from his eyes. You’d never seen him cry—not in all the time you’d known him. But there it was, the most vulnerable moment he would ever give you, the most raw, broken piece of himself. And you wanted to comfort him. You wanted to reach out and take away his pain. But you couldn't.

Because you understood the cost. You understood that even for a touch, even for the slightest moment of connection, there would be consequences. With Oswald Cobblepot, you could never have happiness. You could never have peace. Not when he was so determined to burn everything to the ground.

The days that followed his mother's funeral were a maelstrom of raw, unchecked emotion. It was as if the very fabric of Oswald's being had been torn, leaving behind jagged edges of fury and a bitter resentment that seemed to cling to everything he touched. He moved through the world like a wounded animal, snarling at any attempt at connection, retreating further and further into the solitude he seemed determined to forge. He became a ghost in his own life, his presence a heavy silence that suffocated the space around him. And you, who had shared laughter and whispered secrets with him, found yourself on the outside, gazing in at a stranger. You were left with the hollow ache of what was, and the painful recognition of what was quickly becoming.

The distance between you was not a physical thing, but a vast, icy chasm that widened with each passing day. Every unanswered question, every averted gaze, every sharp word delivered like a blow, contributed to the growing divide. You could feel its chilling tendrils wrap around your heart, squeezing the hope from your chest. You were desperate to reach him, to tear down the walls he was so meticulously building. You yearned to drag him back from the abyss of grief and despair that threatened to consume him. You had seen the light in him, however flickering, and now you watched, helpless, as it threatened to be extinguished. The thought of him disappearing into the darkness, swallowed whole, tore at you with a sharp, possessive grief.

But a grim understanding settled in your bones, cold and heavy as lead. You knew the stories. You had heard whispers of the Cobblepot family's tragic history, of the curse that seemed to cling to their lineage. You had watched Oswald navigate a world that seemed designed to break him. You knew, with a stark certainty that mirrored the unwavering despair in his eyes, that Oswald Cobblepot was a man destined for tragedy. His arc, you realized with a chilling finality, was not bent towards joy but towards a slow, agonizing decline. And as much as your heart ached, as much as you longed to be his lifeline, you knew that reaching for him in his despair was akin to grabbing a drowning man. You wouldn't pull him to safety; you’d only find yourself pulled under by the undertow of his sorrow. You would be dragged down, swallowed whole by the darkness, leaving two souls lost instead of one. The realization was a cruel truth, a bitter pill to swallow, but the hard-won wisdom of survival wouldn’t let you ignore it.

It happened on one of those nights when the weight of the world seemed to rest on Oswald’s shoulders. You found him standing in front of a window, looking out over Gotham, his posture stiff, like he was trying to hold himself together.

“Oswald,” you whispered, hesitant, like stepping into the room might shatter the fragile moment between you.

He turned to face you, his face unreadable, but his eyes—those eyes—told you everything. The pain was still there, raw and bleeding, and no matter how much he tried to hide it, you could see it. You could feel it.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, knowing there was nothing you could do. “I wish I could make this better.”

Oswald’s lips curled into a bitter, mocking smile. “Make it better?” he echoed, his voice laced with sarcasm and something darker. “You can’t make this better, (Y/N). This is who I am. This is all I’ll ever be.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut, but you didn’t back down. You never did.

“You don’t have to be this way,” you said, your voice faltering. “You don’t have to do this alone.”

But he shook his head, his eyes hardening. “I never asked for your pity, (Y/N),” he spat, taking a step closer to you, his face inches from yours. “You think I need you? You think I can let you in and make this better? Look at me.” He motioned to himself, his voice rising with anger. “I’m a monster. And I will destroy everything in my path, including you, if I have to.”

You could feel his pain, his grief. It consumed him, and you knew that he was right. He would destroy everything in his path, because that was all he knew how to do. He had been abandoned, betrayed, and now, all he had left was the cold, suffocating need for power.

And you. You were just another casualty in his war against the world.

The inevitability had hung over you like a leaden sky, a constant, oppressive weight you’d grown accustomed to carrying. You had known, deep down, that this day, this devastating moment, was lurking around the corner. Yet, knowing didn't lessen the impact. It still crushed you, the wind being knocked out of your soul, leaving you gasping for air in the vacuum of a shattered hope.

The argument, the final, agonizing battle, had erupted in the suffocating stillness of the night. Not the kind of disagreement that could be smoothed over with apologies and understanding, but a brutal, vicious fight that tore at the fabric of your relationship, leaving both of you bleeding and broken on the battlefield of your love. He had unleashed a torrent of anger – yelling that vibrated within the very walls of your home, screams that tore at your eardrums, objects flung with reckless abandon, each one a physical manifestation of the turmoil raging within him. Every outburst, every cruel word felt like a sharp, jagged stone hurled directly at your heart. But beneath the surface of his rage, you saw the truth, as clear as a reflection in a still pond. He wasn’t just angry; he was petrified. His terror was a palpable thing, a suffocating fog clinging to him. The loss of his mother, a wound that clearly hadn’t healed, had fractured him, leaving him a fragile, terrified creature. He was terrified of the connection you two shared, the deep, abiding love that had blossomed between you. He feared the vulnerability that came with caring, the raw exposure of his heart. In his twisted logic, feeling something so profoundly for someone meant leaving himself open to the possibility of being utterly and irrevocably destroyed, a fate he clearly couldn't bear to risk again.

"I never wanted this!" The words ripped through the tense air, his voice cracking with the weight of his confession, the carefully constructed mask of anger slipping, though only for a fleeting instant, revealing the raw, wounded soul beneath. "I never wanted to care about you, (Y/N). I never wanted to need you.” His words, laced with a desperate kind of pain and fear, were like daggers twisting in your heart. The declaration, the honesty behind it, was a devastating blow, a confirmation of the darkness that had taken root within him.

Your instinct was to reach out, to wrap your arms around him, to pull him close to your chest and soothe the tremors wracking his body. You wanted to whisper words of comfort, to assure him that everything would eventually be alright, that you could navigate this storm together, that it didn’t have to end like this. But the cold, hard truth settled upon you, like a shroud. You knew, with a certainty that chilled you to the bone, that words wouldn’t mend this brokenness.

It would never be okay. Not really. Not for him, and certainly not for you. His heart, so deeply wounded, so completely shattered by grief and fear, was beyond repair, beyond any hope of healing. And with a horrifying clarity, you realized that your own heart, bound to his so tightly, was destined to follow him into the desolate, burning ashes of his pain. You were already burning, feeling the heat of his despair, knowing the fire would consume you both. The connection, once the source of so much joy, was now the tether that would drag you down. You were inextricably linked, and his destruction would be yours as well.

In the end, it wasn’t the world that destroyed Oswald Cobblepot—it was himself. And it wasn’t your love that tore you apart, but the knowledge that no matter how much you cared for him, no matter how much you wanted to save him from the darkness, there was nothing you could do. You were both destined to suffer, to burn for each other, and in the end, to lose everything.

Because there was no happy ending for you.