#wizard x reader

    Intimately, it was a toss of a coin whether he was puddy in your hands to love on for hours or if he had enough sense to communicate with you within heated passions.

    Parchments, scrolls, and trinkets were scattered across the desk. None of it mattered at that moment. Not when your boyfriend had you laying across his notes, completely bare and beckoning him closer.

    "Maybe we should study each other more." He panted, gaze fixed on you as he pushed down his trousers.

    "I couldn't agree more."

    He joined you on the desk with eager kisses and fingers that lit all the candles in the room. A shared experience that filled the room with accidental charms and smeared notes.

    Good thing the desk was sturdy.

~~~

​    Super-powered boyfriend like many powered individuals had an added durability. Meaning, you didn't have to treat him as fragile glass. With you on the other hand, your boyfriend was careful. Aware of your limits. That became more apparent when he'd dial back on his grip or speed of movement with you. He didn't always want to hold back, but he cared so much about your well-being to do otherwise.

    Whether you knew of his powers or not, you were always assuring him you were fine. You wanted him to worry less and enjoy the moments more.

    "More pressure," you instructed in a growing daze. Legs parted across the mattress.

    "Are you sure?" Your boyfriend eyed how his fingers moved between your thighs.

    You nodded, hands gripping the blankets since he was out of reach.

    "If it hurts, you tell me."

    Once he increased the pressure of his ministrations, you were a babbling mess from the intense pleasure. All from the touch of your caring and attentive lover. Superpowers may or may not had been included.

~~~

​    Zombie boyfriend knew his flustered state appeared different. He knew his body reacted differently than a human's. Similar, but obviously stronger with varying speeds. He enjoyed it nonetheless, morning or night. It was all more apparent when you two got a little too handsy.

    "Look at you." You cooed, watching his eyes glazing over while you stroked his member. "Do you feel good?"

    He moaned, deep and gutteral. Head heavy on a pillow and hands on you, unmoving. The pleasure so good. Your touch so very, very welcome.

    Of course he liked it. Your boyfriend loved when you touched him, unafraid and attentive. He felt more alive and beyond himself. Any time you laid a kiss on his skin or caressed him just so, he knew you loved him. That you cared about him tremendously.

    "Love you," he moaned, letting his body rock with your rhythmic hand. "So much. So good."

    You kissed his open mouth.

~~~

​    Vampire boyfriend could be a tease at times. When the mood was right and you blocked out all but one light. That was what he preferred, the privacy of night. To be thrust into an illusion that it only ever was the pair of you. He could give you all of his undivided attention.

    Strength and great vision came in good use as he carried you to the bedroom.

    He could feel you in light and in darkness. Outside under the open sky or indoors on top of the softest fabrics. Your boyfriend did not have a preference where you two joined in ecstasy as long as he was with you.

    "How do I ever survive this?" He grunted as he pushed his hips up into you. "How do I bare such a view? Such exquisite touch?"

    "Because you said you'd shrivel up and die without me." You answered with a growing smile.

    Some nights his theatrics were very romantic.

    "An endless torture. Ah-- That felt good." He thrusted a little faster. "What was I saying?"

    You clenched around him and his thoughts ran away once more.

~~~

​    Werewolf boyfriend knew about the stereotypes and stories written about his kind. That didn't mean all of it was true or that everything was false either.

    Did he start to crave having you every major moon phase in a tangle of hot limbs and bedsheets? He totally did.

    Did he want to chase you to hear your heart beat loudly? He considered it.

    Did he want to mark you as his mate? You bet.

    Did he expect you to change the tables on him? No, not really.

    "How--" Your boyfriend panted. "How did you catch me?" He laid on his side, trapped between you and a tree trunk.

    "I have my secrets and my secret knowledge." You pumped his length as fast as he was panting.

    "No...fair. I have super... I'm faster."

    You shook your head. "You're going to pass out of you don't start breathing."

    Your boyfriend whined in reply.

~~~

​    Fairy boyfriend could stare at your face and be practically bewitched by your entire being. With or without a potion to temporarily alter his size, he was all over you on special occasions. Those being: birthdays, end of work weeks, completing the bills, start of a new season, a new outfit, anniversaries, and vacation time.

    "So much to love," he moaned into your chest. His hips thrusting slowly as you caressed circles on his soft behind.

    Every touch you gave sent him into a fog of heated desire fueled by his feelings for you.

    "I will love every part of you ten times over." He vowed before his lips latched on to your nipple. Eyelids fluttering shut and high pitched mewls coming from his throat.

    You bit your lip at the sight.

    Your boyfriend always intended to map your body with his love. Each time you both shared privately and intimately, he charted a new area of your skin with all himself.

~~~

    Elf boyfriend tended to be more subtle with most affection, however he became more open the longer he knew you. Intimacy came in forms of him tracing the contours of your body with his fingers, staring at you longingly, kissing his way up your arm. Those were the most common ways of all that he displayed to you and only you.

    Emotions could be deeper and his touch reflected that whether soft or firm. When you reciprocated and encouraged with all your love, your boyfriend was keen on giving.

    "My heart calls for yours each day I wake," your boyfriend placed a gentle kiss to your inner wrist. "This night may ease its search."

    You cradled his face in your hands once he leaned down upon you fully. Bodies intertwined.

    "To have you this close," he gazed at you with an enormous amount of love, "is a beautiful gift."

    "You should stay."

    "Then I accept with my entire being."

    You brought him into a kiss as the pair of you continued in your gentle coupling.

~~~

​    Merman boyfriend was always blown away by how you moved in water. His home where you would forever be welcomed.

    As like water, your boyfriend's love displayed itself both gently and strongly. All backed by his passions, you met him with equal longing to share in constant waves of love.

    Whether on land, in water, or somewhere in-between the both of you found a way to act on your love, always.

    Ignoring the water puddles growing across the tile floor, your boyfriend kept you rolling your hips in a hurried pace. Both of you set on experiencing more and more pleasure.

    He thoroughly enjoyed watching you as he managed to sink further into the bathtub's water. What water remained. Not all of it could be splashed out from your movements.

    "Water suits you," he panted. His gaze transfixed on the droplets sticking and rolling along your skin.

    "Are you considering this position to be your favorite?" Smiling in your pleasured haze, you tightened your grip on his forearms and applied pressure to your hips as they rolled on his tail.

    "I am."

~~~

​    Dragon boyfriend loved when you would cuddle up to him and share warmth. Some days sweetness was not enough as he watched you investigate his many treasures. Tail twitching behind him.

    He wanted you more than the gold necklace in your hands. More than the golden flecks you stamped on your face.

    "Do you remember our last mating?" He asked, muscles flexed and ready.

    "Why? Did you forget?" You chuckled. His desire was not lost upon you, it was as obvious as if he made a banner declaring it.

    Gold and other treasures clinking together, your boyfriend rushed at you. Heat everywhere, scales rubbing your skin, tongue tasting your arousal in the air, and his body nearly conforming to your own.

    "Easy," you reminded him as you opened yourself to him fully.

    He did his best. Deep moans bounced off of the walls as he entered you. He kept you close, held in his hold or pressing you further into his treasures with each thrust.

    Loving you as he did, it would be some considerable time before his need was sated. Your boyfriend could hardly get enough of you.

~~~

​    Scarecrow boyfriend often fantasized of the two of you in the back of a pick-up truck or in the middle of a corn maze making love under a harvest moon. Something to bring more warmth to a season that brought chill to the air where you resided.

    His skin was textured and mind often on you. A perfect start whenever you both sought a little more that kissing and handholding. A pair of lovers wanting to be closer.

    What he didn't expect was being entranced by the golden lights of sunset highlighting your body in a field and you grinding on his denim-covered thigh like there was a time limit. Perhaps you were racing the sun. Or perhaps you had a more difficult day than you said earlier when he asked.

    "You looking dazzling. Simply radiant." He kneaded your skin in all the places that made you shiver. "Take whatever you need to please you, my dear."

    "You."

    "Pardon?"

    "I'm going to take...you...until the sun sets."

    "My dear, you certainly may." He captured your lips in a rough kiss as you clawed at his clothes.

~~~

​    Living statue boyfriend no longer felt alone as the world lived on. He had you and saw the beauty in what others had experienced for years. He was strong enough to handle most things, but seeing you bare as an ancient statue had him experiencing new emotions. Ones he had only heard from voices in passing or hidden beyond his sight.

    His size and shape did not deter you from wanting him in a manner that made him wonder if he could sweat as you could. There was no way he dreamed of refusing your wishes nor desires.

    You doted on him and made him start to have a renewed worry about his strength compared to your own. That didn't particularly matter to you seeing as you bounced on his hard length without complaints. Again and again while he tried grounding himself in reality. A difficult task. Near impossible as he finally considered himself a perfect fit for his precious love, you.

    "Be careful," he advised gently.

    You moaned, keeping your pace.

    "I presume you will never stop amazing me." Your boyfriend watched on in wonder and begun to consider what else you two could possibly do together.

~~~

​    Android boyfriend was made to be as humanlike as possible. The pair of you did not realize how much he could feel until you became more physically intimate. You found that your boyfriend was much more flexible than he looked. So you would position yourself comfortably wherever you wanted before he rushed in with a multitude of kisses and a steady stance.

    Lounging in the armchair with one leg hung over an armrest, you eyed your boyfriend's synthetic skin as it traveled your body. Across your skin and within your warmth, he moved without losing a fraction of endurance. He could go for as long as you both wanted.

    "Deeper."

    At your words, he angled himself inhumanly. His pelvis closer in an impossible way. But he thrusted every inch of himself in. Leaving no space untouched.

    His mouth fell open, lost in you. His love and free life. All of his sensors sent out alerts of his system. Those would be given attention later, much later.

~~~

​    Robot boyfriend knew his strength and how his structure was durable. Some parts of him were mismatched. Meaning, he wasn't the most comfortable sentient to move around or touch. When it came to strong physical desires, he let you know and orchestrate. He didn't want to leave one bruise on you, his dear life companion. You were prepared for his worries and your combined desires.

    His face plate turned another shade of pink as you complimented him between whines of pleasure. He sat absolutely still on the dining chair. Worry still lingering in his system. Yet his hard body was not causing you any discomfort. Quite the opposite.

    Your hands gripped his shoulders tightly and he added a variation to the vibration of his hand. Watching your body practically convulse in a climax made purple shades appear on his face. He was relieved and fascinated by your clear enjoyment.

~~~

​    Alien/Extraterrestrial boyfriend had specific routines, rules, and levels of organization. Which meant having you in his ship well past when he should had been sleeping was a wake up call. Not everything had to be the same everyday. Making new rules instead of exceptions was his logical reasoning. Clinging to your body as he bent you over a console deep into intercourse didn't apply to anything. Unless he considered a rule in your relationship: love wholeheartedly. Time had no restraint in that rule. He would keep you satisfied no matter what. If there was a way to do it, he would figure it out especially if it meant continued times of pleasure.

    None of the buttons, switches, or toggles you were rolling over activated anything. Perhaps you should had known the console was turned off, but you were too preoccupied with your lover.

    The cool air within the ship turned stuffy the longer your boyfriend thrusted in rhythm to his heartbeat. The more he wrapped himself around you as much as he could. His frame touched every part of you, caressing and holding as he let out string after string of compliments. Not all you could translate. Yet you understood completely. He loved you and his mind felt fuzzy from how much pleasure was coursing through him.​​

~~~

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~

┌── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──┐

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.

You, on the other hand, are considered something of a troublemaker by your older colleagues, especially the Archmage, who finds your perspective on sublimation "naive," your theories about the movements of the heavens "unfounded," and your thoughts about the school's hierarchy "insubordinate." You've been butting heads with him since you got the position two years ago, fighting charges that you don't respect the old ways, don't value tradition.

Which is ironic, considering the old man never shows his face at these things. He seems to disdain all of the rituals, but the Binding Feast is the subject of particular scorn. Within the Scholarium, it's meant to strengthen bonds, particularly between mages who work closely together. It can greatly improve the powers of the two who perform it for the rest of the year.

Of course, the origins pre-date formal magical education, and you suspect this is why the Archmage looks down on it. The roots speak of bonds of power, of love and lust. Of supplication and surrender. The students at the academy take this element with a predictable bit of whimsy, tying love confessions to the pillars under the Sanctum where the professors perform the rite. The superstition is that these confessions are given wings and find their intended. (You doubt this has ever helped anyone fall in love, though it has certainly aided in getting more than a few magicians laid.)

And if that silliness and frivolity wasn't enough to scare away the Archmage, there's the ritual itself. It may be the final tradition that has not had its edges sanded and sanitized away by stuffy institutionalism; the Binding is quite literal, quite public, and deeply intimate. A ritual binding of a supplicant to their Holder, followed by a feast and more communal joinings.

The Archmage showed up this year, though. As did you, at his request.

It had startled you when the Alchemy Chair had approached you yesterday afternoon with the traditional red envelope. For a moment you thought he wanted to Bind you himself. Instead, he shoved it into your hands with a steely glint in his eyes. "You are expected to participate this year. Archmage's orders."

You knew immediately: this is not to be a gift of power.

This is a punishment.

The crimson bindings coil around your limbs like living things. And perhaps they are. Sanguis vinculum, the blood-bond, they look more like ruby ribbons than something transmuted from the Archmage's veins. But there is no doubt, feeling them on you now. They are in your pulse as much as they sit on your skin, a second invasion after the first that wraps your and leaves you powerless.

The Archmage stands before you now. His robes are dark and simple, almost deliberately austere next to the ceremonial garb of your colleagues, who stand around and pretend not to be fascinated.

"You know what I demand, supplicant," he murmurs, not quite loud enough for the assembled mages to catch. "Overwhelmingly, and in all things, I demand respect."

His thumb presses beneath your chin - when did that happen, when did he get close enough to touch - and he presses your face toward the torchlight. Subtle. Professional. No one gathered would see anything but tradition.

But you feel it. The pull of it, of the bindings already thrumming with your heartbeat, his own blood warming places it has no business touching. Your breath catches, coming shallow now, even as his, as the Holder of the Bonds, remains controlled. Always perfectly controlled.

Well, almost perfectly.

Something flickers as you resist; as that part of you that never wants to give in, that always questions and wonders and argues, tugs against the very indignity of being bound. His eyes widen and then narrow, his fingers tightening fractionally around your jaw.

"Overwhelmingly," he reminds you, voice dropping to an icy rumble, words for only the two of you, "the ritual demands surrender most of all. I demand surrender."

He pulls you up by his grip on your jaw, drawing you up to your knees in one liquid movement. The position leaves you open, vulnerable in ways that transcend ritual. Transcend metaphor as the ribbons continue their exploratory movement, seeking pathways through your defenses, as they once sought counterpart in him.

You try to take a deeper breath, but it's hard. The intimacy of it takes the ability away. It's more than you expected. More exposure, more danger. And it's hard to breathe when something like a living being wraps its way around your body with the intent to leave you powerless. As your Archmage reminded you, you are meant to surrender, and surrender you will; you can feel the inevitability of it as the bindings coil up and down your flesh.

They push your robe back and out of the way. They need skin. They need to be as close to your veins as they once were to his. They find the hollow of your throat first. Or perhaps it only feels like that because of your halting breath, because catches again, one of the myriad small betrayals your body offers to this ritual without your permission.

To him. Because you can feel it now, the sanguis vinculum and the Archmage as one thing. Seeking. Finding. You feel the ribbons' attentions like fingers - like his fingers - learning your topography. Like a lover, tracing a map on your skin. The press and give of your belly. The softness of a thigh. The jut of hipbones as they pass under ritual cotton, institutional propriety be damned. This is older than the Scholarium, than its modesties. Older than its shame.

"Your wrists."

His sudden speech draws you out of whatever reverie you had fallen into.

Do you imagine the texture there? Something rougher than his usual smooth dispassion? You don't have time to think before he lifts your chin again, forcing you by magic with a single finger up to your toes. The ribbons tighten everywhere at once: around your thighs, pinning them open; crossing over your stomach like a net; even to your ankles and over feet.

"Present them properly, supplicant."

You have no choice.

And part of you doesn't mind.

The Archmage, after all, is a powerful man. Creative. Brilliant. Maybe less so now than in his prime, but it is impossible to look at his severe, demanding gaze and miss the greatness.

And you have done more than just look. You have learned. You have watched.

And mostly, you have fought. Argued. Hours in his office, in meeting forums. Over wine, over tea. In snippy, passive aggressive missives, and in heated screaming matches that sparked and left scorch marks on ancient floorboards. Fights that could have burned down the thaumaturgy building. You know his mind, in the way that one can only know a mind through conflict and bloodshed.

And so it doesn't feel quite like losing when you submit your wrists to him. Willingly.

The Sanctum is quiet, now, the entire congregation holding their breath. The ritual is meant to be ceremonial. A formality. Two mages who work in proximity offering ritual symbols of trust and control; ribbons which would fall when the power word was spoken and the feast had concluded.

This is not that.

And maybe it's the power of old magic. Or your defiance to stuffy tradition. Or maybe its that the two of you have always created something together, whether you liked it or not - whether you knew it or not - and now something else is happening, and you're not entirely sure the Archmage is in control of it either.

You can see it in the cracks of his face, under his eyes as they examine your wrists. The flush at the base of his throat, just visible under the open collar. The flash of his eyes, never sitting still. The slight tremble in his thumb as he brushes it over a ribbon, following its path up your arm.

"Overwhelmingly," he repeats. Like a chant. "You surrender overwhelmingly. And remember to breathe."

The ribbons respond to his will. Or something older, maybe. The heat between the two of you. The space between your blood, singing. They wind up your forearms in crisscrossing patterns, forcing your elbows together behind your back. Your chest is thrust forward, a posture of offering so total it borders on obscene.

Something is holding you there on your toes, and you are utterly under his control now. You cannot step back. You cannot close your legs. You cannot look away as he circles you, slowly. A predator. A beast who has long watched over territory it has claimed but never properly possessed.

He reaches out and tugs your robe open. The cold midnight air bites at your skin, but your blood is so warm, your skin so enflamed with whatever is happening that you barely feel it. Still, you gasp all the same as you are exposed to the surrounding mages.

The Archmage looks at you with an expression you've never seen. His eyelids sit heavy as he speaks.

"It is time to begin the Feast."

The Feast is unrecognizable. Unlike the usual formal symbolism, the vows and oaths between colleagues, between professionals, something darker has taken root here tonight. Something older. You suspect the Archmage and his magic have something to do with it. Or whatever it is the two of you made together.

You watch for hours, from many vantage points. The Archmage doesn't seem interested in watching the debauchery unfold. Instead, he takes his time with you, posing you in deliberate and suggestive forms: in submission on your knees, in raptures on a bench with your legs open, as a beckoning siren nearly upside down, tongue hanging and exposed as you are forced to watch the couplings.

You've never seen anything like it. Your former advisor moans out desperately astride her newly-bound partner, the ribbons between them marking a cat's-cradle up his body. The newest adjunct in your department has found himself bent over a bench, three or four other young professors parting his legs and licking sigils up and down his back, his thighs, his cock. Heat flares between your thighs, and there's nothing you can do about it; you can't even move your hips to ease the need. All it can do is pool there until gravity wins, dripping down your leg, where the Archmage wipes at it with a long index finger and feeds it back to you.

And as time passes, you begin to feel less and less bound. The tight ribbons are no longer imprisoning you, but keeping you. Holding you. They thrum with your pulse, with his pulse, no longer biting, but cradling. As you hang inverted from the pillar on which he's strung you, watching the Feast unfold upside down, the buzz of the room falls away, leaving you only with the feeling of total peace.

You turn your head and find him watching you. Curious. Hungry. You feel the rhythm of his heart beat through the sanguis vinculum along your pulse points, steady and desperate.

And you understand, now, what he was trying to teach you about surrender.

The blood has gone all to your head as you dangle like the Hanged Man, so maybe that's why you open your mouth for him. But the Archmage understands.

He parts his robe for you, and you can see for the first time physical confirmation of what you have been feeling for hours now; not merely arousal, but need.

He is hard. Impressively so. Throbbing and thick, and, along the length of him, mirroring the marks alone your exposed flesh, red ribbons that pulse in time with your heartbeat.

The binding has gone both ways. You see it now, how feeding his blood into those ribbons had opened channels in both directions. How every moment controlling you had cost him equal measures of his own control. And now he stands before you, wrecked in ways he never allowed you to see during those arguments. Those screaming matches where he maintained an icy composure to your fire, burning yourself out against him.

He moves against you with speed, pressing you into the pillar on which you hang. He has placed you perfectly, his hips aligned with your face just as you align with his. His cock, leaking and heavy, hangs before you, and you take it just as his mouth finds your own wet need.

But now, back home and knocking on his door to seek answers to a question you didn’t know how to formulate, your whole body is shivering in anticipation. That never happened before. It’s like your soul is reaching out to touch him, to seek him. And the second he opens the door and lets you in, you feel calmer than you have felt in a very long, long time.

When he reaches out to shake your hand, as if you didn’t know everything about the other until you left, you don’t get the usual anguish or disgust. It feels different. Better. It feels like everything in the world is okay again just by that simple gesture.

And then it clicks.

All those years ago, when you left him. When you walked away after he asked you to stay and you knew you couldn’t because he didn’t love you like that. Because you knew your feelings were unrequited…

“It was you!” You scream, a threatening finger pointing in his direction, pushing his chest until he’s against the wall and you are fuming with pent up anger.

He has the audacity to act surprised, and that only makes you angrier. “What do you mean?” He tries to fake, not moving, his back against the wall as he looks down at you. You hate (lie) that he’s so tall, that he’s looking down on you even when you are furious with him.

“I haven’t been able to do anything, to feel anything… Every time I touched another being, I could only feel disgust… And now I touch you and it feels warm, and cozy, it feels like coming home…” Your words leave a bitter taste in your tongue, the realization of what happened settling uncomfortably inside your chest.

The asshole smirks. “It does?” You want to punch him in the face.

“You cursed me!” You accuse, the pain in your voice making his smirk deflate.

He looks at you with confusion and a hint of anger, but you don’t back down, fully aware that you are right, because your palm is against his chest, and you aren’t feeling disgust. It only feels warm and content. It only feels incredible and like anything you’ve ever felt before.

“I…” He hesitates. “I did,” he finally admits, looking ashamed for the first time since you entered. Your hand finds his neck, not pressing, not hurting, just resting there as a threat (but not really).

“Why would you do that? Why would you want me to feel disgust upon touching others?” You try not to sound pained by it, but it hurts, your eyes filled with tears. It hurts that not only he rejected you, but he hated you that much that he couldn’t even let you be happy with others.

“Because… Because I…” He stutters. “Because I loved you,” his voice sounds like a surrender, and your brain short-circuits.

You aren’t expecting his response and your hold on his neck releases a little. “What?” You aren’t sure if you feel more surprised or betrayed. He loved you?

He’s still struggling to talk, stuttering, but he explains: “I could sense that you were my mate, but you couldn’t... And you were so fixated in others, in going away from me, enjoying others… I just… I wanted you to suffer a tiny fraction of what I felt. So I cursed you.” He sounds completely defeated, and your soul hurts for him. Hurts for you. For the misunderstanding. For the way you two suffered because he was stupid (and okay, maybe you were, too).

“Why didn’t you just say something, you stupid shit?” You yell at him, your hand pressing down on his chest as the other curls around the side of his neck, almost a caress. “I thought you didn’t want me!” That part leaves you breathless, the anger slipping out of you and leaving your body trembling and defeated.

It’s his turn to look at you, perplexed. “What?”

“I loved you, too, you stupid maroon! I was so in love with you it hurt to be near you. But you never acted on it even though we were mates, that’s why I left!” You don’t want to scream, but the last part comes out a bit high pitched and painful. Like there’s spikes in your throat, and when you look up and meet his eyes, it only hurts worse.

“But you… You always talked about others and I…” His voice is barely a whisper, as if he never even thought of the possibility of you loving him back. Of you understanding what mates were… Stupid wizard.

You pinch his nipple through his shirt until he shuts up and lets out a yelp. “You were a stupid wizard who didn’t know how to read the room. I was trying to make you jealous, so you would act on it. And you didn’t, so I left,” you explain when he only stares at you, confusion clear in his features.

But when he processes your words, he only lets out a little: “Oh.”

And you have enough of his bullshit.

“Ugh you are so fucking stupid,” and that’s all you tell him before your hands are grabbing his long hair and pulling him to you, your mouths crashing as you devour his mouth as you have wanted for so long. “You are going to pay for every single touch I missed,” you tell him between kisses and bites.

He whines, whispering: “Yes, yes. Anything you want… mate.”

You could give up all of your possessions in this world and still feel like a king in the chapel of Saint Glinda. The vaulted ceilings were tall enough that, conceivably, the great fairy, Lurline, could stand proud and tall within the cathedral (it was not in fact a chapel — to expect the Emerald City to do anything small was ridiculous) if it would not have been complete and utter heresy. Gold gilt the altar, pews, and everything else in between. Even the pure white aisle runner had been sewn with a golden prayer to the Unnamed God along the edges. I ran my tongue along the sharp edge of my front teeth, considering if I were to steal it, how much it would be worth. Maybe enough to make out a month or two of rent in a run-down apartment in the Quadling Quarter.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” I’d known a lot of pretty people in my life, but the girl beside me might be the second prettiest. Her sunshine blonde hair fell in gentle curls around the pink tweed of her coat. That alone cut such a fine figure that you could make the case for her to be the prettiest person anyone would meet in their whole life. “You know, I'm named after her,” she said.

“Are you here to join the mauntery, too?” I asked.

Her face twisted as if she were about to cry, before she laughed. “Yeah… I guess I am.”

“I don’t want to join either if it makes you feel better. Some parents don’t plan for daughters, you know. Too old for anyone to marry me at this point.” I was twenty-seven, not truly old, but old enough that no matchmaker in town would take me into their books. The ones who had when I had been young enough found it — or rather, me — to be impossible.

The girl — I’m assuming named Glinda — offered me her hand. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“So what’s your deal?” I asked.

I must have twisted the knife further because she scrunched up her face. A door opened, and all of a sudden, the pain was gone. She took her hand from mine and quickly dabbed the inner corners of her eyes with the pink tweed. Three people walked through the rectory door near the north transept. The first looked to be a maunt, elderly in her eighties, her veil and habit out of step with the rest of the Emerald City: black as the Ozian night sky. Following behind her was a woman only slightly younger, her hair white and twisted in bends and swirls — an ornate hairstyle to complement her equally ornate beaded emerald gown. There was a false summer to her gaze that set my hair on end. Behind her was a man who stood at least a foot taller than both of them. He was impossible not to recognize.

Ever since the Wicked Witch had committed to terrorizing all of Oz, it was hard not to notice the almost overnight change that swept through the gemmed city. Walls that had once glinted in the sunlight were now posted over with the gloss of his face. Even in this chapel, the chapel of Saint Glinda, they had removed or pasted over the images of her with the likeness of him, wearing the very vestments he had on now. Dark forest green alb almost touched the floor, a perfect background for the emerald chasuble that had draped over his larger-than-life frame. Where the other woman’s gaze felt like a storm brewing, the golden threads that embroider the collar of the chasuble brought a sparkling light of wealth and good times yet to come to those deep brown eyes. It was borderline blasphemous.

“I’m glad to see you are making yourself at home, dearie,” the middle woman said. “This really is the perfect place for you, name and all.”

“Thank you, Madame Morrible,” Glinda said. “I really am grateful for the… recommendation.”

“I’m sure,” Madame Morrible replied. “You seem well.”

“I couldn't be happier,” Glinda said, taking my hand.

I was not one to be a prude, but the touch shocked me. Not out of any physical sensibility, but the need to drag me into whatever was being unsaid between the lines. I’m not one to be a coward either. The Wizard alone could probably crucify Glinda like her namesake and lose no support, but that didn't stop me from placing another hand on top of hers. That caught his attention.

“You've even made a new friend,” he said, eyes never leaving me. “Hi, what's your name?”

“I’m about to give it up, so I’m afraid it won't be of much use.” I had only known Glinda for a few minutes, but I knew enough that she was in the same boat as me — the kind that forced you to swear a vow of celibacy and poverty. I smirked, saying, “I’m sorry, I don't believe we've met. You are?”

I expected an explosion of rage, an exasperated sigh, anything but the smile that was now slowly spreading across his face. “No one of importance, Unnamed God willing.”

“You will be,” the maunt said. “We have novitiates ready today, and I need you to perform their rites of passage.”

The Wizard turned to the maunt, the delight gone from his face. “We should make it quickly, then. I am a very busy man, and with this witch on the loose, I have meetings to attend and safety to ensure.”

“I’m sure all of Oz is grateful to you,” I said. The maunt and Madame Morrible looked at me as if I were a rat that had snuck into the cathedral. I gripped Glinda’s hand tighter when I saw the contrast of him, eyes locked onto mine.

“I will make an example of her. The reckless disregard for authority is infectious and must be dealt with,” he said. He turned and left toward the south transept, toward the original chapel that the grand cathedral had been built around. The maunt followed him, leaving us with Madame Morrible.

“You have a great talent for making friends in need of a desirable nature,” she said to Glinda. “You were always a straight-A student at school. I hope your learning will still prevail you here.”

Glinda let go of my hand as Madame Morrible turned and left back through the north transept.

_______________________

I would see him on Sundays and during the high holy days. He never looked like he much wanted to be there, sat up in the chancel. I’d catch him looking at me, though. I wasn't exactly hard to spot with my white habit and veil. Glinda and I were the only two wearing it. I think with the witch on the loose and most of the men conscripted to the Emerald Guard, there had been more jobs for women to take and less desire to submit oneself to a life of celibacy and hymns just for a scrap of bread.

Glinda shifted in her seat as the Wizard stared us down for the fifth time that mass. I swatted at her to be still. The Maunt Superior was strict, and I didn't want to receive a lashing for proximity to misbehavior.

“What was your deal with him?” I whispered out of the corner of my mouth. “He can't keep his eyes off of you.”

“Me!?” Glinda hushed. I kicked her foot. “He is not looking at me. Just you.”

I looked at her and then back up at him. His body shuddered with a silent laugh before rolling his eyes back to the Maunt Superior. I scoffed. “Wish that fucking witch would kill him,” I whispered.

Glinda kicked my foot at that, and that was enough for the maunt beside us to swat Glinda with her hymnal.

There goes lunch, I thought.

_______________________

It was spring by the time I was ready to receive my rites. Becoming a maunt involved many steps, but one of the last was a rigorous four round panel of interviews. They never told the novitiates who they would be interviewing with — I suppose to keep it fair: a novitiate could not ingratiate themselves with only a few people in particular, but had to interact with the whole mauntery. My first three had been somewhat expected. The second one surprised me: the organist maunt — how grateful I had been for that. She hadn't noticed one speck of either Glinda’s or my misbehavior, what with that big hunk of wood and pipes in her face.

I sat outside the Maunt Superior’s door. She vacated the office during this time so the interviews could be held in a place of privacy. Glinda had gone first. I had such an itching in my muscles to get up and press my ear to the door, but I restrained myself. I remember having to confess to the nurse maunt that I had been the one who had stolen her rubbing alcohol in a botched attempt to make elixir under Glinda’s and my bunk. Glinda hadn't known that it had been me who had put the bowl of foul fermented stuff under the bed. I’d blamed it on the others wanting to prank the novitiates before tossing it out the window. It was my secret, and I wanted to keep it that way. She deserved the same for whatever she held in her heart, for I called her a friend.

The door slammed open, and Glinda ran out of the office. She was a lot faster than I had ever thought she would be when I had first met her. In the blur of white novitiate veil and habit, I swore I could see the pink of her nose and tears dampening her cheeks. My heart begged me to chase after her, but I felt myself being pulled into the room, fists balled, and teeth gritted to see just who would have harmed her like that.

He sat in the sill, looking out the heavily paned window. Today, he had on a white alb and a sage chasuble, looking neither worried nor overjoyed as he took another bite out of the apple in his hand.

“You son of a bitch,” I said. “What the fuck did you do to her?”

“You want the whole rectory to hear you?” he said calmly, gaze shifting to me and then back out the window. “Shut the door before you get yourself flogged by the Maunt Superior.”

I hesitated, considering going after Glinda, but knew that it wouldn't do either her or me any good if I got kicked out of the mauntery for failing to complete this interview. If they kicked her out, I would just quit; nobody could keep you bound to the church without your own will. I shut the door.

“What did you do to her?” I demanded again.

“What did I do?” he asked. “You should be asking what she’s done. Little brat lost it when I said that we’d found out where her little terrorist friend was hiding.” He scoffed. “I give her… so many chances. A whole new life. You’d think she'd be grateful. It's a pity to keep looks like that chained up under a chastity belt, but hey, it beats rotting away in the dungeon. She might be an airhead, but at least she can put two and two together.”

“I don't believe you,” I said. My nails had been digging into my palms ever since I got in here, but now they were starting to hurt.

“Darlin’,” he laughed, slipping off the windowsill with ease, “not everyone has to believe you — just the majority.” He pulled out the solid oak chair from the Maunt Superior’s desk and swept himself into it. “Come, come. Have a seat. This is your interview, not….” He gestured as if he were trying to pull her name from a jumbled mess. “… Whatserface.”

“Her name is Glinda,” I said, crossing my arms. There was no way in hell I was going to sit across from him, as if we had any equal footing. He may be the Wizard of Oz, but all those Sundays in the pews, looking up at him, got me to thinking. He was the one who set this system up. If he had actually cared about his citizens, he would have done something to change the laws by now. I was a daughter of Oz: I deserved just as many rights as any man had in this land.

“Are you going to be a thorn in my side the rest of this interview? How am I supposed to ask you any questions? They should name you Maunt Thorn.”

“Are you going to pass me or not?” I asked.

He set his half-eaten apple down at the question. “Do you want me to pass you?”

“What kind of fucking question is that?” I said.

“Don’t act like you haven't been making eyes at me for the past several months.” He gave me a chastising sideways glance.

“You're the one who's been making eyes at me!” I objected.

“Well, either I'm making eyes at you, or you're making eyes at me, but that still doesn't solve the problem that you don't want to be a maunt.”

“I do,” I said. “I can't leave Glinda, and there's no-”

“Can't leave Glinda or not, you are as horny as a goat, sweetheart.”

I blinked my eyes wide open. “What?” I said lowly.

“You heard me. Never did meet someone making moon eyes at me like that that didn't also want to suck my cock.”

“You-" I said, shoving a finger in his face. This was the Maunt Superior’s office! That was saying nothing of the fact that both of us were wearing clothing that had been thrice blessed. I may have come in here a non-believer, but even this would offend the sensibilities of a doubter. My fists balled as I let out a frustrated sigh. “You cannot be saying that.”

“I can say whatever I want,” he said, sitting upright in the chair. “And it's the truth.”

“You're full of shit,” I said.

“You're telling me that if I… If I were to put you up on this desk and pull your skirts up, I wouldn't find you dripping wet? You think I haven't been around the block enough to know when a lady's got her panties in a bunch or not?”

I shifted, feeling the wet spot that had been growing since I walked into the room and saw him, cling to the delicate skin as I walked to the window. “It's not true,” I said.

The Wizard sighed. “I’ll pass you right here, right now if you prove it to me. I don’t think you can.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Well then, I’ll know you are a liar and lying is strictly forbidden in the Unionist church. I’ll have no choice but to not recommend you to the mauntery.”

The corners of my lips quivered, threatening to pull downward. I marched over to the desk and reached under my skirt, slipping the cotton underwear down my hips and legs. I prayed to the Unnamed God that if He was real, He could make a miracle happen. Handing the offensive article of clothing over to him, I watched as it only took a moment for him to find the gusset and swipe his finger over the soaked fabric.

“Bad girl,” he said, flicking his eyes up to me. I backed away, but he came up out of the chair and followed me to the window. I found myself pressed against the wall, just out of sight of the window facing the courtyard. I could hear the other maunts out in the common area, getting ready for mass.

He was massive, far bigger than the posters within the mauntery had led me to believe. His hand tilted my chin up, and he brought his lips to mine. A terrible thrill slid through my body, causing my fingers to tremble as I reached up to remove his hand.

“This is wrong,” I breathed as he broke from me.

“It’s only wrong if we get caught,” he said lowly, before crushing his lips against mine again. His tongue pushed into my mouth with no begging or pleading, the taste of apple still on it.

I moaned, letting my hands rest on his chest. The sound of fabric rustling and the clinking of metal set my heart to racing. “Your Ozness,” I protested, “what if someone-”

“If you don’t want to get caught, then zip it,” he said, hoisting me up. The fabric of habit and alb was adjusted until I could feel the head of his cock prodding at my entrance.

“Oh, Oz,” I breathed.

“Just Oscar,” he said, before guiding my hips down onto his cock.

I groaned as he split me open. It was like stretching in the morning after a hard sleep, pulling muscles inside of me that I didn’t even know were aching. I had been ready to give it all up, all unknowingly.

His breath ghosted my cheek, uneven as I watched something uncontrollable flash behind his eyes. He readjusted his grip and thrust into me again.

“Oscar,” I said, “Oscar, it’s not just the maunts in the courtyard. I haven’t taken anything to control my moonsblood.”

He laughed at that, and a coldness crept up through my cheeks. “We’ll call it immaculate conception, sweetheart.”

He thrust into me again, and I felt myself spasm on him. “Nobody will believe that,” I said.

“They believe what I tell them,” he said. His mustache tickled the side of my neck as he shoved the coif up to kiss at the tender skin. “They'll believe in a god they can’t see. What’s one more leap of faith?”

The Wizard kissed lower and then bit into my shoulder. I gasped, feeling my stomach flip, the thread within me tighten as I fought to focus between the pain and the pleasure. “Oscar,” I gasped.

“Yes, doll? Tell me what you need.”

He shifted his hips. Every thrust beat against the hot iron of my desire. “Need you to fill me,” I slurred.

“S’that what you need, doll? Hmm?” he panted. “You need me to knock you up? You’re a filthy little thing.” He hooked an arm under one of my legs, and I felt him slip even deeper. “Go on then: milk my cock like the faithful woman that you are. The Unnamed God commands it.”

His words tipped me over the edge as I felt myself come undone again and again and again. I needed him, needed his seed inside of me, corrupting me: my body needed it. The Wizard answered my prayer as I felt the hot sticky ropes spurt deep inside of me.

I squeezed him one last time as I felt the warmth being pushed deeper with one final thrust.

“God, you have a tight pussy,” he panted. “Could fill you up every day.”

My tongue stuck to the dry roof of my mouth as I slowly got my senses back. “Let Glinda go,” I said. “Let Glinda go, and you can.”

He laughed at that as he slid out of me. I felt his seed slipping down the gape that he left, slowly dripping down onto my thigh. “Why would I do that?”

“I’ll do whatever you want me to. Just let her go.”

The Wizard re-dressed himself, shifting chasuble and alb until he looked presentable again. He sat back down at the desk and scribbled something on the paper that had been placed in front of him the whole time. I looked to the side where my underwear lay, next to the parchment and inkwell.

“What are you doing?” I asked.