#shadow writes things

The library of Shiz University was always a sanctuary for you, high arches, endless shelves, the faint scent of parchment and ink, but lately it had become a place of torment. Because Fiyero had been coming around more often.

You’d never meant for it to happen. It wasn’t your fault that your eyes kept finding him, that your thoughts trailed back to him even when they shouldn’t. He belonged to Glinda, everyone knew that. They were golden, untouchable, and perfect, but that didn’t stop your gaze from flicking toward him in stolen moments. The way your heart fluttered when he laughed, head tipped back, sunlight catching in his hair like strands of spun gold.

He wasn’t even doing anything in particular. Just leaning lazily against a bookcase, listening as Glinda whispered something up at him, her hand brushing against his sleeve. But the easy grin on his lips was enough to scatter your focus into a thousand hopeless daydreams.

You were so lost in them that you didn’t see the pedestal until your hip bumped it.

Time fractured. The priceless crystal orb displayed there wobbled once, then tipped over the edge. Gasps tore through the silence as it plummeted toward the marble floor.

You didn’t think. You couldn’t.

Your hands flew up, and instinct, raw, unpracticed, and wild, burst out of you in a rush of heat. A word you hadn’t spoken aloud in years burned your throat. Power shimmered in the air, and the orb froze, suspended inches from shattering. Splintered cracks that had begun to spread reversed themselves, glowing faintly as they knitted back together until the orb was whole, perfect, untouched.

It floated upward, your magic guiding it, until it settled back onto its pedestal as if it had never moved.

Only then did the silence fall.

Every eye in the library was on you.

Whispers hadn’t started yet, shock had stolen their words, but you could feel them ready to spill. Glances darted between one another, wide and uncertain. Even Glinda’s mouth was parted in astonishment.

Fiyero's attention was settled on you.

Not laughing. Not distracted. His bright blue eyes were fixed on you, wide with something you couldn’t name.

Your chest seized. Horror flooded your veins. No one was supposed to know. No one. You’d kept it hidden, locked away. But now...

You turned and ran.

Through aisles, down halls, your shoes echoed sharply against stone. You didn’t stop until you were climbing one of the spiral staircases that led into the high towers of Shiz. By the time you burst through the heavy wooden door, your lungs burned, your heart pounded, and your hands still trembled with leftover magic.

The tower was empty. Cold stone walls rose high, one window spilling light across the floor. You pressed yourself against the wall, breath shaking.

What had you done?

The shame was unbearable. The whispers would spread faster than fire in dry grass. People already looked for reasons to sneer, to judge you. Now you’d handed them one on a silver platter.

Your eyes burned with unshed tears, but you blinked furiously, pressing your forehead to the wall. You just wanted to vanish.

The door creaked.

You froze.

“Hey,” came a voice, warm and careful.

Your stomach twisted violently. You knew that voice.

You turned slowly, dread and disbelief tangling in your chest. Fiyero stood in the doorway. The sunlight behind him framed him, his lean form and easy posture, except his expression wasn’t easy at all. It was unreadable, cautious. Intent.

“Fiyero,” you whispered, throat tight. “I-”

Words failed. Excuses, explanations, lies, all scattered.

“I didn’t mean...It was an accident, I wasn’t-”

He held up a hand, stepping further inside. The door closed with a soft thud behind him. His eyes never left yours.

“That was…” His voice was low, “Incredible.”

The word stunned you. “Incredible?” Your voice cracked, half-hysterical. “Everyone saw me! They’ll think I’m-”

“A freak?” he supplied gently, but he shook his head before you could nod. “No. Not me.”

Your arms wrapped around yourself, defensive. “They’re going to talk. They’re going to-”

“They always talk,” Fiyero cut in, tone easy but steady. “That’s all this place does, talk, gossip, pick people apart. You’ve seen it. But what you just did…” His lips quirked, almost in awe. “You saved a priceless relic without even thinking about it using magic. Do you realize how impressive that was?”

Your throat worked. “Impressive? It was reckless. Stupid. If Madame Morrible hears-”

“I don’t care about Morrible,” Fiyero said, voice firmer now. He stepped closer, and your pulse leapt painfully. His gaze softened. “I care about the fact that you just did something no one else here could. You weren’t even trying to show off. And still…” He tilted his head, smile faint but real. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget the look on your face when you caught that orb.”

Heat flushed through you, equal parts shame and something sharper, more dangerous. You shook your head, looking away. “You’re not scared of me?”

“Scared?” he repeated, and then laughed, a quiet, warm sound that melted some of the ice in your chest. “Not even a little. Intrigued?” His smile curved, sly and soft at once. “Definitely.”

Your breath hitched. His closeness was overwhelming now. You could smell him, sunlight, spice, a trace of cologne. You could feel the weight of his gaze like it pressed against your skin.

“There’s more to you than anyone realizes, isn’t there?” he asked softly, as if he already knew the answer.

You hugged yourself tighter, torn between retreat and the dizzy thrill of being seen by him. The man you’d stolen glances at for months, hopelessly, silently.

“I…I should go,” you whispered, though your feet refused to move.

Fiyero tilted his head, studying you, and something flickered in his eyes, something dangerously close to temptation. “You can,” he said, voice low. “Or…” He stepped closer still, until the space between you was only a breath. “You can stay. With me. Tell me more about yourself, the magic, and what makes you...well, you.”

The tower shrank around you, filled only with his presence, his voice, his impossible warmth.

And a treacherous thought bloomed in your mind. The kind of thought that said maybe he truly wanted to know the real you.

The next time you slipped into the library, hoping to drown your mortification in pages and silence, Fiyero was already there. Not with Glinda. Not surrounded by the usual orbit of adoring classmates. Just…there. And when his gaze caught yours, he smiled, quick and easy, like you shared a secret.

You flushed and ducked your head, pretending to be busy with your notes. But a few minutes later, the chair across from you scraped against the floor.

“Mind if I sit?”

You almost dropped your quill. “There are...there are plenty of other tables.”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning, “but none of them have you at them.”

Your heart tripped over itself. He leaned forward, arms folded on the table, studying you like you were more interesting than any book in the room. His eyes flicked to your hands, where your quill trembled slightly, before returning to your face.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said softly, “about what you did the other day.”

You stiffened. “Fiyero-”

“Don’t panic,” he interrupted gently. “I’m not about to shout it across the room. I just…I want to understand.” He tilted his head. “How does it work? The magic. Is it like breathing? Or…something else?”

You stared at him, dumbstruck. No one had ever asked you that, not like this. Not without suspicion, or fear. The weight of his sincerity pinned you in place.

“I...” You swallowed, eyes darting to the shelves as though the spines might save you. “I just want to be normal. Am I normal yet?”

“Normal is boring,” he said, easy as ever.

And then he started showing up everywhere.

At lunch, when you sat at the edge of the dining hall with your books, he would slide onto the bench beside you, stealing half your bread roll like it was the most natural thing in the world. He asked questions, sometimes thoughtful, sometimes ridiculous, but always with that same spark of curiosity in his eyes.

“So do you have to say the words? Or could you just, like, snap your fingers?”

“Do you feel it, here?” He pressed his palm over his chest. “Or here?” He tapped his temple with a grin.

You deflected, dodged, or sometimes answered with vague truths, but he never pushed too far. He seemed content just to be near you, to chip away at the walls you’d built.

And people noticed.

Glinda noticed.

The first time you caught her staring, she was across the hall, her smile brittle as glass as she watched Fiyero laughing at something you’d said. The second time, she marched right up to your library table and leaned down between you.

“Fiyero,” she said sweetly, though her eyes were sharp as knives, “aren’t you supposed to walk me to class?”

He blinked, surprised. “Is that today?”

Her smile widened, sugar over steel. “Yes. Today. Right now.”

He glanced at you, as though asking permission, and something twisted in your chest. You forced a polite smile, lowering your gaze to your book. “Don’t let me keep you.”

Glinda slid her hand possessively into his arm, tugging him away with a satisfied air. But as they left, Fiyero looked back over his shoulder at you. Just for a moment.

And it was enough to leave you rattled, quill trembling in your hand, heart racing in a way you couldn’t quite control.

Because it wasn’t coincidence anymore. He was choosing this.

Choosing you.

And it didn’t take long for Glinda’s patience to crack.

At first, she’d cling tighter to Fiyero’s arm in public, her laugh pitched a little louder whenever you were in earshot. But it wasn’t enough. Because no matter how bright her smile, Fiyero’s eyes wandered to you.

The whispers started soon after.

Why’s Fiyero sitting with her again?

Did you see him carry her books?

Glinda must be furious.

And she was.

You found out just how much when she cornered you one afternoon. The corridor outside the lecture hall was quiet, the faint scent of chalk and dust hanging in the air. You were juggling your notes, mind already racing ahead, when Glinda stepped directly into your path.

Her smile was gone.

“I know what you’re doing,” she said, voice low but sharp.

Your stomach dropped. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, please.” Her eyes narrowed, deep brown and cold. “You think I haven’t noticed? The way he looks at you? The way you…linger?” She leaned closer, her perfume surrounding you. “He’s mine. Whatever little tricks you’re pulling...stop.”

Heat flared in your cheeks. “I’m not...Glinda, I swear, I’m not trying to-”

“I don't believe you.” She straightened, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her gown. “Fiyero is mine.”

Her heels clicked sharply as she walked away, leaving you pressed against the wall, pulse racing with a mix of fear, shame, and indignation.

But later that evening, Fiyero found you.

Not in the dining hall, not in the library where others could see, but in the garden, near the farthest fountain where moonlight glittered silver across the water.

He leaned against the stone edge, casual as ever, but his smile softened when he saw you. “She cornered you, didn’t she?”

Your heart stuttered. “How did you...”

“I know Glinda,” he said simply. “And I know you.” His gaze held yours, serious for once. “Don’t let her get to you.”

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “She thinks I’m trying to steal you.”

He chuckled, but there was no mockery in it, only warmth. “You couldn’t steal me. I’d have to choose to be stolen.” His grin tilted, teasing. “And maybe I like where I’ve been drifting.”

Your breath caught, but before you could respond, he stepped closer. “Show me.”

Your brow furrowed. “Show you what?”

“The magic.” His voice was low, urgent. “I don’t care if it’s dangerous. I just…I need to see it again. Not by accident, but because you chose to.”

The garden was hushed, the only sounds the trickle of water and the wild thud of your heart. His eyes were fixed on you, alight with something between wonder and hunger.

And in that moment, you knew, you could refuse, step back, protect yourself. Or you could give in, let him see the part of you no one else had ever asked to see.

Your fingers trembled as you lifted your hand. The air thickened, humming, and the water in the fountain rippled, rising in elegant arcs that caught the moonlight, scattering it in shimmering ribbons. You shaped it, bent it, until droplets spun into the air like silver stars.

Fiyero’s breath caught. “Beautiful.”

And you realized, with a dangerous thrill, that he wasn’t just looking at the magic.

He was looking at you.

After that night in the garden, something shifted.

Fiyero didn’t stop at one demonstration. He wanted more.

It started innocently enough, finding you in the library again, leaning across the table, whispering, “So…could you do that water trick with wine instead?” He’d grin, boyish and teasing, but his eyes held a deeper facination.

Soon, he was finding excuses to pull you into hidden corners: an abandoned classroom, the shadowed edge of the gardens, even once into the stables, where the horses stamped nervously as you lit the air with sparks of green flame.

Every time, he was the same, breathless, grinning, like a child watching fireworks for the first time. Except when he looked at you, it wasn’t just awe for the magic. It was awe for you.

“Do you feel it before it happens?” he’d ask, leaning close, his shoulder brushing yours. “Like a tingle? Or does it just…explode?”

“Could you make the vines move if you wanted? Wrap around someone’s wrist?”

“What about fire? Could you call it, hold it, without burning yourself?”

You tried to deflect, tried to tell him some things weren’t safe, but his curiosity was relentless. And the way he looked at you made it harder and harder to say no.

One evening, tucked away in the empty music hall, he watched as you coaxed a candle flame to split into two, then three, then a dozen tiny lights dancing in the air. His eyes reflected their glow, wide and enchanted.

When you lowered your hands and the lights winked out, silence stretched.

Then, softly, he said, “Teach me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Teach me,” he repeated, leaning forward, elbows braced on his knees. His voice was steady, but there was a tremor of excitement under it. “I don’t just want to watch anymore. I want to understand. I want to feel what you feel when you do that.”

Your heart lurched. “Fiyero…it’s not something you just…learn like swordplay or dance steps. It’s-”

“Complicated. Dangerous. I know.” His grin flickered, but his eyes didn’t waver. “But I can’t stop thinking about it. About you. About what it must be like to hold that kind of power in your hands.” He reached out, palm up, like an unspoken invitation. “Let me try. Just once...with you.”

The air between you seemed to crackle, charged not only with magic but with something riskier, heavier. You stared at his hand, then at his face, soft and carefree, looking at you with fierce, unshakable determination.

And you knew if you agreed, you’d be stepping across a line.

Not just with your magic. Not just with him.

But with Glinda, with the fragile order of everything at Shiz.

And still, your fingers twitched toward his.

You hesitated for a long heartbeat, staring at his outstretched hand. Every part of you screamed that this was dangerous, showing him, letting him try, but something in his eyes…it broke your defenses.

Slowly, you placed your hand in his.

His fingers curled gently around yours, warm, steady. He grinned eagerly, and you hated how the sight made your stomach tighten.

“Okay,” you murmured, leading him toward the single candle burning on the piano. “Start small. Flame is…fickle, but it listens if you focus.”

“Focus,” he repeated, though his grin told you concentration wasn’t exactly his strength.

You guided his hand closer to the flame, not enough to burn but enough that the heat licked at his skin. “Close your eyes,” you instructed softly. “Picture it not as fire, but as something that can be shaped, like clay. Breathe with it.”

To your surprise, he obeyed. His lashes brushed his cheeks, his breath evened, and you felt a faint hum stir in the air around him. Your magic twitched in response, like a thread tugged tight.

The flame shivered.

Fiyero’s brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. The flame stretched upward, then sputtered back into place. He opened one eye, sheepishly. “Did I-?”

“Almost,” you said gently, a smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “Try again. Don’t force it. Invite it.”

The second attempt flared brighter. The flame swayed unnaturally, splitting just for a fraction of a second before snapping back into one. He laughed in astonishment, shaking his head. “That was me, wasn’t it?”

“That was you.”

By the third try, sweat glistened at his temple, but he didn’t give up. His hand trembled in yours, his whole body leaning into the effort. Then, suddenly, the flame split. Two thin tongues of fire wavered in the still air. Wobbly and clumsy, but real.

Fiyero’s gasp echoed in the quiet hall. “I did it.” His grin was radiant, breathless. “I actually...did you see that?”

You were already looking at him, not the flame. The glow flickered across his face, highlighting the sharp cut of his jaw, the excitement in his eyes. He turned to you, closer than you realized, and in that instant the room seemed to shrink, leaving only the two of you in the hush of candlelight.

Your hands were still joined, suspended between you. His thumb brushed against your knuckles absently, and your pulse skittered wildly.

The laughter in his eyes softened into something heavier. Something he couldn’t hide. His breath hitched.

“I can’t…” he whispered, leaning closer, the words catching against your skin like sparks. “I can’t pretend anymore.” His gaze flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

His forehead almost touched yours when he whispered, hoarse and trembling, “Can I…kiss you?”

The candle flame trembled, then split into two again, as if answering for you.

The words lingered in the air. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, slow and reverent, as though waiting for you to flinch, to pull back.

But you didn’t. You couldn’t.

You gave the faintest nod, breath catching in your throat.

And then Fiyero leaned in.

The first kiss was tentative, his lips brushing yours gently, like he was afraid of breaking you, or of the line you were both so clearly crossing. It was warm, careful, impossibly sweet. His hand cupped your cheek, thumb tracing your skin tenderly.

When he pulled away, his breath was ragged, eyes wide and searching yours for regret. “Sweet Oz...,” he whispered.

Something in him snapped. The careful restraint dissolved. His mouth crashed back to yours, hungrier, more desperate.

The second kiss was nothing like the first. It stole the air from your lungs, stole the ground from beneath your feet. His hands slid to your waist, tugging you closer, pressing you against the cool stone wall of the music hall. You gasped against his lips, and he took the sound greedily, deepening the kiss until you thought you might shatter.

His body crowded yours, his warmth seeping through every layer of clothing. The wall was cold at your back, but he was fire at your front, his lips urgent and insistent. His fingers curled against your hip, possessive in a way that made your knees weaken.

You clutched at his shirt, holding on, losing yourself in the rush. All those stolen glances, all those daydreams, they were nothing compared to the reality of him, mouth hungry, breath uneven, every ounce of his attention locked on you.

When he finally tore his lips from yours, he rested his forehead against yours, panting, eyes closed.

“Stars,” he whispered hoarsely. “I want you.”

“Take me,” you whispered.

The candle flame sputtered and split again in the silence that followed, as though the magic itself echoed your desire.

The stone of the tower against your spine kept you grounded while Fiyero’s body burned into yours. He had no patience left for restraint; his kisses were urgent and greedy.

He tasted like sunlight, like danger. His hands were everywhere at once: one firm at the small of your back to keep you steady against the wall, the other slipping under your skirt to brush over your skin. When you made the smallest sound, a sharp little gasp as his fingers brushed your thigh, he slid his mouth over yours and swallowed the noise.

“Shh,” he breathed against your lips, voice shaky. He worked quickly, fingers deft despite the tremor of want. Buttons came loose beneath hurried hands, fabric was shoved aside with breathless impatience. You pressed both hands against his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall beneath your palms. The tug of his jacket, the scrape of cloth, all of it slid away until skin met skin, warm with the heat building between you.

When he lifted you, it was impetuous. One leg hooked around his hip, the other braced against the wall as he positioned you higher, shifting you until you were angled against him and he could drive into you. The first thrust hit hard and hot and too deep; the wall behind you thundered in your back and your hand flew to the stony surface to keep yourself from crying out. He didn’t give you time to adjust. He rocked into you again, harder, and the world contracted to the friction and the press of his body.

He kissed you then like he couldn’t stand the space between you, short, frantic brushings to keep you quiet. Every time you tried to respond aloud, he crushed your mouth to his. His hips moved with increasing speed, each hard snap punctuated by the rasp of breath he smothered against your mouth.

“Do you hear them?” he murmured between kisses, words lost in the press of his forehead to yours. “Do hear how close they are?” His voice was a warning and a promise. You could hear students in the courtyard below, the distant murmur of footsteps, and the risk made everything hotter.

You clung to him, nails scoring the plane of his shoulders, the sweet sting adding to the electric ache pooling in your belly. He pounded into you at an angle, building a delicious, dangerous knot that made your breath hitch into staccato gasps. Each gasp he caught in his mouth and swallowed as if it were his prize.

He shifted a hand to your throat, not to choke but to anchor, thumb brushing the pulse there while his other hand mapped the curve of your hip. The domination of it sent a tremor through you: being held so completely, so seen. When his fingers found your clit, you cried out low, the sound immediately swallowed by his mouth. His grin against your lips told you he loved that, how your body answered him, how you made those tiny uncontrollable noises that he couldn't wait to hear when you two were alone.

By the time you rode the first wave of your orgasm, your body tightening around him, he didn’t loosen his grip. He kissed you through it, moaning into your mouth as you clenched around him like a vice.

He didn’t stop. He wanted you to cum a second time. He took you again harder, faster, with less thought for decency or consequence. The wall scraped your spine; your hair spilled over your shoulders and his fingers threaded through it, anchoring you so that each thrust would hit the exact place that made you arch your back.

Every time your lips parted, his were there, kissing you into silence.

His breaths became ragged, low curses ripped from him as he sank deeper. “Fuck,” he panted, voice rough. “Cum with me...” The need in him was a physical force; his fingertips rubbed tight circles over your clit, and your second orgasm stole your breath.

He spilled into you with a shuddering groan, one hand splaying against the wall, the other cupping your jaw as if to steady himself. When your breathing slowed, he didn’t pull away; instead, he bent his forehead to yours and kissed you slowly.

For a long moment, you simply stood there, wrapped around each other in the hush of the tower. The world outside kept moving, students laughed, a distant bell chimed, but inside the stone room, there was only the press of skin and the taste of him on your tongue. His hands were tender now, roaming with a softer fierceness as if memorizing every inch of you he’d finally been given.

“Sweet Oz,” he breathed into the cradle of your neck. “You’re mine.” He sounded almost afraid someone would take the words away if they were spoken too loudly. “Please say you'll be mine.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair and pulled him back down to your mouth, needing another kiss, another to know that this was real...that he was real. When you finally pulled apart for air, your breathing was slow and unsteady, “I'm yours, Fiyero.”

Hinoka saw Leo’s eye twitch as he flicked his gaze nervously to his right and back again, and his smirk quickly shifted into an embarrassed one. ‘Just answer the question.’

Rolling her eyes, Hinoka put one hand on her hip. ‘Dunno, but you’ll probably be disappointed if you expect anything.’

Leo let out a snort of laughter. ‘All right, yeah, that was pretty weird.’ He glanced to the side again, a little less anxious this time.

Hinoka followed the Nohrian’s gaze. She squinted at the figure she just caught before they had obscured themselves.

‘Was that fucking Niles.’ It was rhetorical, of course, Niles was pretty hard to miss sometimes. Looking back to Leo, she added ‘Did he put you up to this?’

Leo leaned back, quite far, and refused to make eye contact. ‘Nnnnnnnnnnnnnooooooo.’

Hinoka simply stared at him. Leo glanced back at her and he shrugged, with a nervous grin still ever present.

Suddenly, he dropped his arms and he straightened up again. ‘Ok maybe he joked that you only keep me around out of pity, or… at least something along those lines.’

Hinoka blinked, unable to respond for a few seconds. ‘What? But you knew he was joking?’

Leo shrugged again, ‘Yeah. But, you know me. Regardless of if they’re true or not I get The Anxiety about the dumbest things, hahahh.’

Hinoka sighed deeply. She spread her arms out. ‘You look like you could use a hug.’

Not bothering to say anything, Leo simply stepped closer to her and she wrapped her arms around him in a tight embrace.

Leo sighed. ‘... You know, this is gonna sound really strange, but, like… Gods, your hugs are great.’

A laugh escaped from the Hoshidan princess. ‘Yeah that is kinda strange.’ She moved one hand up to place it on Leo’s head. ‘But, to be honest, you kind of are strange. But hey; that’s one of the things I find so endearing about you.’

It was Leo’s turn to laugh a little, as he stepped back again, his face turning a slight shade of red. ‘Geez, when did you start getting so sappy?’

Hinoka shrugged without thinking. ‘Well, now you can go back over to your retainer and… find some way to tell him he can go fuck himself, I guess.’

The Ozdust Masquerade had the entire campus glittering with excitement. Girls darted through the halls in dressing gowns, their arms full of silk and satin, hair half-pinned as they giggled about which boy might ask them to dance. Boys swaggered about with masks in hand, trading boasts about who they’d charm first. Even the professors whispered about sneaking in to watch from the balcony.

It was chaos, and full of anticipation.

But in the far wing of the university, the library was quiet.

You sat curled in your usual spot near the tall windows, a book propped open, pages spread with notes in your neat, slanted handwriting. It wasn’t that you didn’t hear the excitement humming through the building. You heard it in every distant burst of laughter, every door slamming as someone rushed by. It just felt safer to tuck yourself away from it all, to pretend you didn’t care.

Because caring hurt too much.

You imagined yourself at the Ball and the picture always fell apart. A grand room blazing with chandeliers, music swirling, and you, standing there, unsure where to put your hands, too aware of your body, too certain that eyes would slide over you and move on to brighter, prettier things.

Better things.

You told yourself it was easier this way. That you didn’t need it. That books would never laugh behind your back or ask you to move aside.

The creak of the heavy library door startled you. You looked up instinctively, and your breath caught.

Fiyero.

He sauntered in like he owned the place, though in fairness, he seemed to own every room he entered. His jacket hung loosely from one shoulder, his golden mask dangling from two long fingers, catching the faint lamplight. His hair was a little mussed, his smile as easy as breathing. The infamous prince of Winkie Country, Shiz’s golden boy.

You ducked your head, heat rushing to your cheeks. Boys like him didn’t linger in libraries. Boys like him belonged to the world of glittering chandeliers and girls with perfect smiles.

But his footsteps slowed. Stopped.

“Studying?” His voice was smooth, rich, tinged with amusement. “Now? On the night of the Ball?”

You forced yourself to look up. He was standing only a few feet away, leaning casually against your table, mask twirling lazily in his hand. His grin was playful but not cruel, and his eyes, sharp, strikingly blue, were fixed entirely on you.

Your throat tightened. Somehow, you managed, “I just...prefer the quiet.”

His smile deepened. “Fair point. But you’re really not going? Everyone’s practically buzzing about it.”

You fiddled with your pen, eyes dropping back to the page, though you hadn’t absorbed a word in the last five minutes. “It’s not really my sort of thing.”

There was a pause, long enough that you risked a glance up. He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t moving on. He was studying you.

Then, to your utter shock, he pulled out the chair across from you and sat down.

Your pen slipped from your fingers. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you company,” he said, resting his chin on one hand, the other tapping the mask against the table. “I’ve been to a hundred Balls. But I’ve never met someone who’d rather spend the evening with a book than under a chandelier.” His eyes flicked to your notes, then back to you. “It’s new. And I like new.”

Your pulse quickened. He couldn’t mean that. He couldn’t. Not about you.

“You don’t have to…I mean, you’ll be missed,” you said quickly, words tumbling out. “Everyone will be waiting for you.”

He tilted his head, watching you squirm, then leaned forward slightly. His voice lowered, conspiratorial. “What if I don’t want to be with everyone? What if I want to be with you?”

Your heart stuttered. You laughed nervously, shaking your head. “You don’t mean that.”

“Don’t I?” His tone softened, losing its teasing edge. “You think I’m joking, but I’m not.” He held your gaze, steady and unwavering. “Come with me.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

“Come with me. To the Ball. As my date.”

The words slammed into you. You stared, wide-eyed, certain you’d misheard. A prince. The prince. Asking you.

“I...no, I couldn’t...” You pushed your chair back slightly, shaking your head, heat burning your cheeks. “Fiyero, you’re…you’re you. And I’m…” You gestured vaguely at yourself, unable to say it out loud. Too quiet. Too plain. Too much and not enough, all at once. “People would laugh.”

His grin faded. His expression grew serious, gentle, but firm. “Let them. I don’t care what they think.” He leaned forward, his elbows on the table, closing the space between you. His voice was lower now, threaded with something earnest that made your chest ache.

Your pulse raced. He couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t. And yet his eyes, bright and intent, didn’t waver.

“Say yes,” he murmured, almost like a plea. “Say you’ll go with me.”

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the edge of your book, fighting the impossible thought blooming in your chest. That maybe someone like him could really want someone like you.

You finally said yes.

The word had left your lips in a whisper, so fragile you almost couldn’t believe you’d spoken it. Fiyero’s smile had lit up the quiet library, and before you knew it, he was promising to come by later to escort you himself.

Now, alone in your dorm, that single yes felt unbearably heavy.

The hour stretched long, your small room filling with the rustle of fabric as you sifted through the meager contents of your wardrobe. Dresses, plain, simple, none of them shimmering like the gowns you’d seen other girls carrying down the halls. You lie them across your bed, biting your lip until it hurt.

Too dark. Too plain. Too tight across your waist. Too loose at the shoulders.

With each elimination, the lump in your throat grew bigger, the doubt crept in like a tide. What had you been thinking? Fiyero Tigelaar, crowned prince of Winkie, had asked you...you...to go to the Ozdust Masquerade. You could still hear the laughter echoing in your head, laughter that hadn’t even happened yet but felt inevitable.

By the time you finally slipped into your nicest dress, a soft fabric that brushed your ankles, fitted at the waist but comfortable, you felt wrung out. You stared at your reflection in the small mirror above your dresser, tugging at the sleeves, smoothing the skirt, tilting your head this way and that.

It didn’t matter. All you saw was you. Quiet, too much, not enough, your cheeks blotchy, your body taking up space you wished it didn’t.

Tears stung your eyes before you realized they’d gathered. You sat on the edge of your bed, pressing your palms to your face, trying to breathe past the tight ache in your chest. Maybe you could just…not go. He’d understand. He had to.

A knock at the door jolted you.

“Y/N?” His voice was warm, muffled through the wood. “It’s me.”

Panic flared. You wiped at your eyes frantically, hoping to erase the evidence, but when you opened the door, there he was, Fiyero, mask in hand, jacket fitted perfectly, every inch the storybook prince.

And you, with red-rimmed eyes.

His smile faltered the instant he saw you. “Hey.” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, closing the door gently behind him. His gaze swept over your face, your dress, the way your hands twisted nervously together. His voice dropped low, careful. “You’ve been crying.”

You shook your head quickly, forcing a small laugh. “No, I just...I'm just tired. I think maybe... maybe I shouldn’t go after all. You’ll have more fun without me.”

You tried to move past him toward the dresser, but his hand caught yours. He didn’t tug, just held you there, grounding you.

“Stop.”

The single word was soft, but it rooted you in place. He turned you gently to face him, tilting his head so he could catch your gaze.

“You don’t want to go?” he asked carefully.

Your throat tightened. The truth tumbled out before you could stop it. “I don’t want to be… laughed at. Not when I’m standing next to you.”

His expression softened, his eyes searching yours. “Y/N.” He said your name like it was something rare. Precious. He reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair from your cheek tenderly. “Do you really think I’d let anyone laugh at you?”

You swallowed hard, blinking against fresh tears.

He leaned closer, his voice low and steady. “I asked you. Not anyone else. Not because I couldn’t find a date, not because I wanted a joke. Because when I saw you in that library, quiet and beautiful and completely yourself, it was the only place I wanted to be. With you. You don’t need sequins or feathers to shine, you already do.”

Your chest ached, torn between disbelief and the raw sincerity in his tone.

“You look perfect,” he said simply and held out his hand, “and I’m not leaving here without you.”

Your hand trembled when you placed it in his, but Fiyero’s grip was steady, warm, and reassuring. He smiled like you’d just given him the world. “That’s better,” he murmured, tucking your hand against his arm.

The Ozdust Ballroom glittered just as you’d imagined, chandeliers dripping with golden light, the floor alive with color as students swirled in masks and gowns. Music soared, laughter spilled from every corner, and heads turned almost instantly when the two of you stepped through the grand doors.

You could feel it, the eyes, the whispers, the subtle tilts of heads toward one another as people noticed you.

“Is that-?”

“With her?”

“Why would he-?”

Your stomach clenched, the heat of humiliation crawling up your neck. You shifted closer to Fiyero instinctively, ready to ask him to turn around, to escape before the whispers grew louder.

But Fiyero stopped, his arm tightening around yours. He turned his head just enough for his voice to carry, his words crisp and deliberate.

“Yes,” he said, loud enough for the nearest cluster to hear. “With her. She's my date. Got a problem with that?”

Silence rippled through the group, and a few people quickly looked away. Your cheeks burned, but Fiyero only glanced down at you, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “There,” he said softly. “That should keep them quiet.”

You tried to laugh, but the ache in your chest didn’t quite ease. He must have noticed, because he lowered his head toward yours, his lips brushing close to your ear. “Do you want to stay?”

Your answer came without hesitation, whispered just for him. “No. I’d rather spend time with you. Just…you.”

He leaned back, studying you for a moment, and then his grin softened into something warmer, gentler. “Then let’s go.”

He didn’t care about the stares as he led you out of the ballroom, didn’t look back once. Instead, he walked you across campus, the cool night air chasing away some of the noise still ringing in your ears. By the time you reached your dorm, your nerves had quieted, replaced with a fluttery anticipation.

Inside, the room felt smaller with him in it, but not in a suffocating way. He shed his jacket, draping it over your desk chair, and leaned against your dresser like he belonged there.

“So,” he said, loosening his cuffs, his eyes fixed on you with open interest. “Tell me about you.”

You blinked, startled. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he said with a little laugh. “I already know what they all say. I want to know what’s real.

The questions came gentle, one after another. What books did you like as a child? Did you always know you wanted to study at Shiz? Did you ever get into trouble as a kid?

You found yourself answering, slowly at first, then more easily as his curiosity proved genuine. He wasn’t asking to fill the silence, he wanted to know. He listened, eyes locked on you, sometimes leaning in as though to catch every word.

Then he asked, “What was your favorite childhood game?”

You smiled faintly, caught off guard by the simplicity of it. “Noughts and Crosses.”

He tilted his head. “Noughts and...what?”

“You’ve never played?”

He shook his head, grinning at your surprise. “Nope. Sounds intriguing. You’ll have to teach me.”

You grabbed a scrap of paper and a pencil, sketching the grid with quick lines. He pulled a chair up beside you, close enough that your arms brushed as you leaned over the paper together.

“Okay,” you said, suddenly self-conscious under his eager gaze. “It’s simple. Two players. One is X, one is O. You take turns putting your mark in a square, and whoever gets three in a row wins.”

“Sounds easy enough,” he murmured, eyes flicking from the paper back to your face. “I’ll be O. You can be X. Show me how it’s done.”

You drew your first mark, and he followed with his, brow furrowed in mock-serious concentration. The game was quick, your three in a row cutting straight across the middle.

“Ha,” you said before you could stop yourself, a burst of pride breaking through your shyness.

Fiyero’s jaw dropped dramatically. “You beat me already? I demand a rematch.”

You laughed, covering your mouth, but he grinned back at you, a playful sparkle in his eyes. “Best two out of three?” he challenged.

The pencil scratched lightly across the paper as you drew another grid. Fiyero leaned in as he made his move, his tongue caught between his teeth in boyish concentration.

You let him win the second game, though his triumphant grin made it worth the sacrifice.

“Ha!” he declared, pointing to his perfect row of O’s. “You see that? Strategy. Pure brilliance.”

You rolled your eyes, hiding a smile. “Sure. Beginner’s luck.”

The third game went much the same, you could have blocked him easily, but instead, you angled your X’s just shy of victory. His victory whoop filled the small room, warm and bright, and you found yourself laughing softly despite the sting of your own insecurities.

He dropped the pencil on the desk, folding his arms behind his head with mock arrogance. “Two out of three. Which makes me champion, officially.”

You shook your head, the laughter lingering even as the room grew quiet again. A comfortable silence settled between you, punctuated only by the soft rustle of the breeze through your window. For the first time in a long while, being quiet didn’t feel lonely.

Still, the question pressed at your chest, aching to be asked.

“Fiyero?”

He turned his head toward you, eyes bright, patient. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, fingers twisting in your skirt. “Why me?”

His brows knit. “What do you mean?”

You glanced down, unable to hold his gaze. “I mean…why give me the time of day? You could have chosen anyone for the Ball. Someone… prettier. Someone who isn’t…” Your voice faltered. “Curvy. Shy. Invisible. Most people wouldn’t even notice me, let alone ask me to be their date.”

The confession hung heavy in the air. Your chest tightened, bracing for the dismissive laugh, the denial, the pity.

But none came.

Instead, Fiyero pushed back his chair and rose slowly to his feet. You looked up, startled, as he crossed the small space and sat down on the edge of your bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lifted his hand and extended it toward you, waiting silently until you let him take it.

Gently, he tugged, guiding you closer until you stood between his knees. His hands slid from your fingers to your hips, resting there firmly, grounding you.

“Y/N,” he said softly, tilting his head so his eyes caught yours, steady and unflinching. “I see you. Not what you think everyone else sees. Not the walls you hide behind. You. And I think you’re beautiful.”

Your breath caught, your heart pounding so loud you wondered if he could hear it.

He squeezed your hips lightly, pulling you closer until your knees brushed against his. “Curvy? Shy? Those are just words. What I see is someone who lights up when she talks about the things she loves. Someone who doesn’t chase after attention because she doesn’t need to. Someone who, the moment I walked into that library, made me want to stop and stay.”

His hands slid lower, curling around the tops of your thighs. With an insistent tug, he drew you down onto his lap, your legs bracketing his, your dress pooling around both of you. Your hands braced on his shoulders for balance, your face only inches from his.

He smiled up at you, so sincere it nearly unraveled you. “And what I want, right now, is this.”

His hand lifted, brushing a thumb tenderly across your cheek before he leaned up, closing the small space between you.

The kiss was gentle, hesitant at first, a question more than a claim. His lips were soft, warm, lingering like he had no intention of rushing.

When he finally drew back, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his voice was a whisper.

“Still think I don’t see you?”

The second kiss was deeper, his lips parting to coax yours open, his tongue brushing against yours in a slow, deliberate sweep that sent shivers racing down your spine. His hands, warm and steady, moved from your cheeks down the slope of your shoulders, over your waist, then lower still, tracing the curve of your body as though he’d been aching to learn every inch of you.

You gasped softly into his mouth when his fingers brushed over your hip. It sent a rush of heat through you, dizzying and intoxicating.

But then the familiar knot of doubt tightened in your chest. You pulled back slightly, breath trembling, your hands pressing against his shoulders as though to create distance.

“Fiyero…” Your voice was small, your throat tight. “Am I…am I too heavy? I don’t want to hurt you...” You started to shift, to lift yourself off his lap, shame prickling at the edges of the moment.

A low sound rumbled from his chest, not quite a growl, but close, rough, and insistent. His arms locked tighter around you, dragging you firmly back down against him. His mouth found yours again, hotter, hungrier this time, the kind of kiss that left you breathless.

“Don’t,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rougher now. “Don’t you dare move. You’re not too heavy. You’re perfect.”

The force of his pull pressed you hard against him, your thighs tightening around his hips for balance. The sudden friction made you gasp, your panties sliding over the tent in his slacks.

Your cheeks flamed instantly. Embarrassed, you tried to pull back again, your lips trembling into a soft, nervous laugh. “I-I didn’t mean to-”

But Fiyero didn’t let you retreat. One of his hands slid firmly to your hip, his fingers digging in just enough to hold you still. He tilted his head back to meet your gaze, his eyes dark now, heated, his mouth still glistening from your kiss.

“I did,” he said lowly, voice husky. His nose brushed your cheek, his lips ghost over yours as he continued, “You feel perfect on me. So perfect.”

Your thighs trembled as his other hand moved down, guiding the curve of your body to rock against him. The movement forced the thin fabric of your panties to catch and drag against his cock straining against his slacks. You choke out a sound that’s half-moan, half-whimper, burying your face against his neck, too shy to look at him.

But he won’t let you hide. His hand came up, tangling gently in your hair, tipping your head back so he could kiss you again. It was demanding, swallowing every tiny sound you made as his hips shifted up in a perfect counter to the slow grind he’s urging from you.

The friction built, your clit catching with every slide, sparks shooting down your thighs. Your breath stuttered, lips parting in a shaky moan you couldn’t hold back. His hands were everywhere, gripping your hips, stroking your curves, coaxing you to move against him harder, faster.

“Stars, look at you,” he groaned, biting gently at your bottom lip, his own composure fraying.

Your body rocked helplessly, chasing the friction, panties damp and clinging as you ground against the firm outline of his cock. The pressure of his hand on your hip grew firmer, keeping you steady, making sure you didn’t shy away even as your moans spilled louder, shameless, right into his mouth.

He groaned deep in his chest, kissing you desperately, pulling you tighter against him until there was no space left, only heat and movement. Every roll of your hips made your body jolt, makes the coil of pleasure wind tighter, hotter, impossible to ignore.

“Fiyero,” you gasped, clutching at his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your thighs clamped around his hips, your grinding turning frantic.

He licked a filthy stripe from your neck to your jaw, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there as he growled, “That’s it, my beautiful girl. Cum. Let go, baby.”

And with a broken, breathless cry, your whole body trembled as the tension snapped, pleasure flooding through you in waves. You trembled helplessly through it, still grinding against him as he held you tight, kissing you through every shudder, every moan, his own hips straining and rutting up against you with need.

Even when you slumped against his chest, breathless and shaking, he didn’t let go. His hand rubbed circles over your back, lips brushing your temple as he whispered, “Never doubt me again. Never doubt how badly I want you.”

You can tell he’s holding back, chest heaving, jaw clenched as if he’s afraid of pushing you too far.

But when you shift even the slightest, dragging your panties over him again, a guttural sound rips out of his throat. His grip on your hip tightens almost painfully.

“Fuck,” he growls, kissing you hard, bruising. “I need more...”

His hips surge up, rutting into you with a roughness that makes you gasp. The friction sparks hot and immediate, your over-sensitive clit catching just right against the ridge of him. You moan into his mouth, clinging to his shoulders as he drives you both into a rhythm that leaves no room to breathe.

“Fiyero!” your voice cracks, high and desperate, “I can’t...I’m gonna...”

“Yes, you can,” he cuts in, his voice ragged, almost a plea. His forehead presses to yours, sweat beading at his temple as his hips grind up harder. “Give me another. I want you to cum with me. Please.”

Your body obeys him before your mind catches up, hips jerking, thighs tightening around his waist, your panties dragging in sharp, wet strokes across his cock. The friction is unbearable, dizzying, building again despite the ache already lingering from your first climax.

Every thrust of his hips pulls another whimper out of you, every grind of him against your soaked heat has you breaking apart more and more. His hands are everywhere, one gripping your hip, the other sliding up your back to keep you pressed flush to him, chest to chest, heart to heart.

His breathing turns ragged, uneven. “Stars, you’re so wet for me. So fucking perfect. You’re gonna make me-” His words cut off in a deep groan as he jerks up hard beneath you, cock straining, the front of his slacks damp and hot against your panties.

That sound, that feeling, undoes you. Your body bows, shuddering, as another climax rips through you, harder, sharper, crashing in perfect time with his release. You cry out against his lips, your hips grinding helplessly, milking every last wave of pleasure as he bucks beneath you, spilling hot against the confines of his slacks.

The room fills with the sound of your mingled moans, of panting breaths and the wet drag of fabric. Even when the trembling ebbs, he won’t let you go. His arms wrap around you, crushing you to his chest as his mouth finds your jaw, your temple, your lips again and again, murmuring against your skin between kisses.

“You’re amazing...so beautiful...perfect for me...”

You're still shaking, your panties clinging damp between your thighs, his slacks wet beneath you. And instead of shame, all you feel is the warmth of him, his arms, his breath, his heartbeat, holding you as if you’re the most precious thing in the world.

Fiyero doesn’t loosen his hold on you for a long while. His chest is damp with sweat, his slacks soaked beneath you, but he doesn’t seem to care in the slightest. His lips graze your temple, then your hair, his voice low and steady as he whispers,

“You’re alright, my beautiful girl…breathe with me.”

You do, shaky but soothed by the steady rhythm of his chest rising and falling. His hands stroke slowly down your back, grounding you. After a few moments, he shifts, tugging a handkerchief from his pocket to gently dab at your damp cheeks where tears, of release, of vulnerability, still linger. He doesn’t tease. He doesn’t laugh. He just looks at you with something so earnest it makes your heart ache.

“Are you comfortable?” he asks softly, his thumb brushing over your hip.

You nod, but shyly murmur, “We…we made a mess.”

His lips curve into the softest smile. “Then let me take care of you.”

He lifts you carefully from his lap, settling you onto your bed. You think he might leave, but instead he shrugs out of his jacket and lays it aside before kneeling in front of you. His hands are gentle as he eases your legs apart just enough to tend to you, blotting at the damp between your thighs with his handkerchief. Every motion is tender, careful, his gaze flicking up to meet yours as if silently asking for permission with each touch.

When he’s done, he sets the cloth aside and presses a lingering kiss to your knee. “Perfect,” he murmurs again, as if it’s a truth carved into stone.

You’re quiet, overwhelmed, curled into yourself as he climbs onto the bed beside you. He tucks you into his side, arm draped securely around your waist. You think maybe that’s it, but then he shifts, reaching into the pocket of his slacks.

“Here,” he says softly.

You blink as he holds out something small, glinting in the candlelight. A signet ring, its gold warm and worn from years of touch, set with an emerald carved in a sunburst pattern.

“This…this belonged to my great-grandfather, passed from prince to prince.” His voice is low, steady, and serious. “I shouldn’t part with it, not really. But I want you to have it, for proof.”

“Proof?” Your voice trembles.

“That I meant every word I’ve said tonight,” he replies without hesitation. His fingers slide the ring gently into your palm, closing your hand around it. “Proof that you’re not some fleeting whim. That I see you. That I choose you.”

Tears brim your eyes again, but this time they’re different. Softer. Sweeter. You stare at the heirloom in your hand, then at him, struck silent.

Fiyero leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “Keep it. Even if the world doubts you, doubts us, when you look at that ring, I want you to remember that I gave it to you because I couldn’t imagine giving it to anyone else.”

The late afternoon sun was high in the sky by the time Henry finally locked the doors and headed home. He had spent the entire day rearranging exhibits, giving lectures, and fielding endless questions, but all the while, his thoughts drifted back to you. His wife. His very pregnant, stubbornly independent wife.

He worried constantly. He’d built his life on bones and theories, but you were something he could never study or measure, only cherish...and protect.

When he let himself into the house, he expected to find you resting on the sofa, curled beneath the quilt he always left ready for you. Maybe with a mug of tea he’d brewed that morning before leaving.

But the silence was strange.

He set his satchel down slowly, listening. A soft clatter drifted down the hallway, and his stomach dropped.

“Sweetheart?” His voice was careful and worried all at once.

No answer.

Henry strode quickly toward the nursery. The door stood half-open, and when he pushed it wider, the sight made his eyes soften marginally.

There you were. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, a screwdriver in hand, cheeks flushed, your rounded belly obvious under your dress. A half-assembled crib sprawled around you like the scattered remains of some primitive beast, bolts and wooden slats everywhere.

His breath caught in his chest.

“What,” he said softly, the word edged with disbelief, “do you think you're doing?”

You froze, eyes darting guiltily to his. “I...I just wanted to help. The baby will be here soon and I thought-”

“Help?” His voice sharpened, though the heat in it was born of the need to keep you safe. He stepped fully into the room, throat working as he crouched down in front of you. “You are nine months pregnant. You should be resting, my love, not on the floor.”

His hand trembled slightly as he brushed it over your cheek, down your arm, and then to your belly, cupping the swell with care. “You could have told me you wanted the crib built. I'd have come home early if you'd only called me.”

You pouted softly, defensive. “Henry, I just wanted to do something. You never let me-”

“Never let you?” His eyes flared, a mixture of exasperation and desperate love. He kissed your forehead, quick and firm, before pulling back to meet your gaze. “Darling, you are already doing everything. You’re carrying our child. You’re building our family with every breath you take. Do you think there is any task, any museum exhibit, or crib or fossil, that matters more than that?”

Your throat tightened, tears threatening. He looked so undone, kneeling there with his tie loose and his hands spread protectively over your body.

Henry exhaled shakily, then sighed. “You will drive me to an early grave.” And with surprising ease, he slid his arms beneath you, lifting you off the floor despite how pregnant you were..

“Henry!” you squeaked, clutching his shoulders.

“Shh,” he murmured, carrying you over to the rocking chair in the corner of the nursery. He set you down carefully, smoothing your dress, tucking a stray hair behind your ear. His hands lingered at your belly again, palms broad and steady. “You sit. You tell me what you want for dinner. You tell me if you need water, tea, or, hell, ten pillows. And I will finish this crib.”

Your lips curved, tender despite your embarrassment. “You’re really not going to let me help at all, are you?”

“Not even if you beg,” he said firmly, though his voice softened when he leaned down to kiss you again. “My job is to keep you safe. Both of you.”

Henry’s shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he crouched by the crib, steady and meticulous, tightening each bolt with the same focus he gave to mounting priceless fossils in the museum. Every so often, he glanced at you in the rocking chair to make sure you were okay.

When the crib finally stood whole, polished and sturdy, he wiped his brow and then knelt beside it. Large hands smoothed over the railing, testing it, before one spread over your belly again.

“There,” he murmured, leaning close, lowering his voice as he kissed the swell of your belly. “Safe and strong. Just like your momma.” His hands brushed your stomach tenderly. “And when you’re finally home, little one, you’ll sleep here. Surrounded by every comfort we can give you.”

Your throat tightened, watching him, this brilliant, serious man made softer than you’d ever seen.

He stayed that way for a while, one palm against your belly, talking to your baby. That he’d teach them about bones and the history of the world, that he’d keep both of you safe. His voice grew husky at the end, and he pressed one more kiss against you before standing to tuck a blanket neatly into the crib.

Over the next few days, he grew almost feverish with preparation.

When you suggested hiring someone to help, Henry refused. “No one else,” he’d said lowly, before softening when he saw your look. “No one else is worthy of building this for you both.”

He came home from the museum each evening with bags tucked under his arms, rolls of wallpaper patterned with tiny, multicolored dinosaurs, stacks of children’s books with fossil illustrations, plushies shaped like triceratops, stegosaurs, and even a plush T. Rex whose grin made you giggle.

Henry didn’t laugh. He smoothed the toy’s head with surprising tenderness. “He’ll guard the baby,” he said firmly, setting the plush at the corner of the crib like a sentinel.

The wallpaper went up under his steady hands, painstakingly aligned while he refused to let you so much as stand on a stepstool. He would stop every few minutes, checking on you in the rocking chair, pressing a glass of water into your hand or brushing a kiss across your temple.

By the time the nursery was finished, it was a pale green sanctuary filled with prehistoric wonder, tiny fossils painted along the trim, shelves lined with books and plush dinosaurs, and a mobile of pterodactyls hung gently over the crib.

You sat back in awe, tears filling your eyes. “Henry…it’s beautiful.”

He stood in the doorway, tie loosened, hands still dusty from his work, and looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered in the world. “And you...,” he murmured, crossing to kneel at your side. His hand spread over your belly, his forehead brushing yours. “You’re beautiful. You and our precious baby, and I can't wait to spoil you both even after they're born.”

Later that night, you lay in bed, shifting again, sighing when another little kick jabbed at your ribs. The sheets felt too hot, your body too heavy, and sleep wouldn’t come. You didn’t want to disturb Henry, he’d worked himself ragged between the museum and fussing over you all day, so you carefully slipped out from under the covers and padded softly into the living room.

The couch welcomed you, cushions arranged into a nest you’d perfected over the last few weeks. You curled up as best you could, rubbing a hand over your restless belly. “Alright, little one,” you whispered, “I know you’re excited, but your mama’s tired.”

You’d only just closed your eyes when you heard the bedroom door creak.

“Sweetheart?” Henry’s voice was low, but tight with worry. Moments later, his tall frame filled the doorway, hair mussed from sleep, his shirt unbuttoned halfway. His eyes swept the room until they landed on you, and he let out a relieved breath. “Thank God.”

He crossed to you immediately, crouching by the couch. “Why didn’t you wake me?” His hand brushed over your arm, then to your belly, checking you over.

“I didn’t want to bother you,” you admitted softly. “I just…I can’t get comfortable. And the baby’s been kicking nonstop.”

For a moment, his expression flickered, exasperation that you’d suffered in silence, fear that you’d slipped away without him knowing. But when he exhaled again, it was with pure tenderness. “Bother me? Darling, you are my every joy.”

He guided you gently, adjusting pillows with almost comical precision until you were supported on every side, your legs stretched, your back eased. Then, instead of returning to bed, Henry slid onto the couch beside you, one arm curling around your shoulders, the other resting over your belly.

“There now,” he murmured. “Both of you are exactly where you belong.”

When the baby kicked again, he smiled, lowering his head. He pressed a soft kiss against the curve of your stomach. Then another. And another, as if dotting the kicks themselves with affection.

“You’re keeping your momma awake, sweetheart,” he whispered, his lips brushing your skin between words. “She needs her rest, and so do you. You’ll have all the time in the world to wriggle and kick once you’re here. But for now…be still. Be gentle with her.”

His voice was low, soothing, almost hypnotic. He spoke to the baby about fossils and stars, about how fiercely he loved them already, about how he dreamed of carrying them through the museum one day and showing off the bones of creatures long gone. His hand rubbed slow circles over your belly, grounding you, easing the tension from your body.

Your eyelids grew heavy, the sound of his murmurs and the steady warmth of his hand lulling you. The last thing you felt was his lips pressing one final kiss against your bump, and his whispered vow:

“I will love you both until the end of time.”

Sunlight swept slowly into the living room, slipping between the curtains and warming the space in soft golden beams. You stirred, half-waking, your body still heavy with the best sleep you’d had in days.

For a moment you didn’t quite understand why, until you realized the weight against your side, the warmth of a hand still splayed protectively across your belly.

Henry.

He was slumped awkwardly on the couch beside you, his long frame bent at an angle. One arm pillowed his head, the other had never left you, fingers curled gently against the swell of your stomach as if even in sleep he refused to let go. His glasses were set neatly on the side table, you hadn’t even noticed him take them off last night.

You smiled faintly, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.

Almost instantly, his eyes blinked open, sharp with worry before he saw you awake beside him. Relief softened his features. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he rasped, voice thick with sleep. He shifted upright quickly, checking you over with his hands. “How do you feel? Any pain? Any discomfort?”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Actually… better than I’ve slept in weeks.”

At that, his whole body seemed to exhale. He leaned forward to press a kiss to your forehead, lingering there. “Then this is where we’ll sleep from now on. The couch, the floor, a chair, it doesn’t matter. If you rest, I’ll rest.”

“Henry…” you laughed softly. “You can’t mean that.”

“I do,” he said firmly, straightening. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair tousled, but his eyes shone with unshakable devotion. “I’ll build you a nest of pillows right here every night if I must. I’ll fetch tea, warm milk, or anything else you desire. The bed is nothing compared to your comfort.”

Your heart squeezed. You reached for his hand, guiding it back to your belly. “You’re going to spoil us both.”

“Good,” he murmured, kissing your temple, then leaning down to press another kiss to the curve of your stomach. “You deserve nothing less.”

The baby kicked beneath his palm as if answering him, and Henry chuckled low in his throat, the sound rumbling against your skin. “See? Even they agree with me.”

Later that afternoon, Henry decided you needed air. So, he took you to the museum.

He insisted on driving you himself, fussing with your coat and scarf even though the day was mild. When you tried to argue that you could manage, he only fixed you with a look that ended the discussion instantly.

Inside, the museum was quiet, closed to the public that day. The familiar scent of polished wood and old stone wrapped around you like an embrace.

Henry guided you slowly through each hall, his hand never leaving yours until he stopped at an exhibit. Then, with ritualistic care, he would step behind you, sliding one arm low across your belly. His palm spread beneath the swell, lifting just enough to take the weight off your aching back. You melted into the relief, sighing, and he pressed a kiss to your temple.

“There we go,” he murmured. “Better?”

“Much,” you whispered.

And then he began to talk, not to you, but to the baby.

At the fossilized Triceratops skull, his voice softened. “This one roamed the earth sixty-eight million years ago, little one. A herbivore. Strong, protective. Much like your mother.” He squeezed you gently, his lips grazing your ear.

At the towering skeleton of a sauropod, he chuckled, smoothing his hand over your belly. “See this giant? One of the largest creatures to ever walk the earth. Someday, I’ll teach you their names. I’ll show you every bone, every secret.”

Through each hall he spoke, patient and passionate, as if the baby could already understand every word. You leaned back against his chest, eyes half-closed, letting the cadence of his voice wash over you, the pressure on your spine easing under his careful support.

Finally, he led you out into the museum gardens. The afternoon sun filtered through the trees, dappling the gravel paths and flowerbeds. You stopped before a quiet bench, and Henry guided you down carefully, his hand still steady at your back until you were settled.

He knelt in front of you, broad hands cupping your belly. His forehead rested against it for a moment, his shoulders trembling as if overwhelmed.

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice rough. He lifted his gaze to yours, eyes shining with emotion. “For this. For our baby. For giving me everything I never knew I needed. You and our little miracle...you are my whole world.”

Your throat tightened, tears gathering in your eyes as you stroked his hair.

He kissed your belly again, then your hands, then finally your lips, slow, gentle, filled with unspoken promises.

The campsite had long since quieted. The constant noise of tools scraping against stone, Duncan barking orders, and Henry muttering to himself was replaced by the sounds of cicadas.

You should’ve been sleeping, but your thoughts kept circling back to her. Zora. The woman who could roll her eyes at Duncan with such perfect precision it made you bite back a laugh, the one who always offered you the first sip of her water when the sun was relentless, the one whose hand lingered a little too long against your arm when she brushed past you. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

You’d been nursing the crush in secret for weeks, too afraid to let it slip. You didn’t even know if she was into women. The fear of rejection was enough to keep your mouth shut, even though the want inside you had been growing sharper every day.

That night, you turned over in your cot for the hundredth time, sheets tangled around your legs, sleep refusing to come. The air inside your tent was thick, hot, and impossible to breathe. With a soft groan of frustration, you pushed the flap aside and stepped out into the cool night air, letting it kiss your overheated skin.

A small noise caught your attention.

A sound, soft, almost muffled, coming from a few tents down. At first, you thought maybe someone was sick or in pain. Your heart quickened with worry as you padded closer, feet bare against the dirt, careful not to wake anyone else. The sounds grew clearer the nearer you got, and you froze when you realized which tent they were coming from.

Zora’s.

Your pulse jumped, mouth dry as you crept closer. You were just making sure she was okay. That’s what you told yourself even as you crouched near the flap, even as your fingers hesitated over the edge of canvas, even as you peeked inside the tiny opening.

The sight nearly knocked the air out of your lungs.

Zora was lying on her back, sheets shoved down to her waist, hair sticking to her temples. Her tank top had ridden up to reveal the curve of her stomach, and her hand was buried beneath the waistband of her shorts. The soft, breathless noises you’d heard were her whimpers, tiny gasps that stuttered out of her as her hips shifted restlessly.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t look away. Heat rushed through you so fiercely your knees went weak, and you clutched at the flap to steady yourself.

Watching her was like feeding a flame you hadn’t known was already smoldering low in your belly. Every little twitch of her hips, every bitten-back moan, every way her face tensed in pleasure made your body ache with want. You felt it coil hot and urgent inside you, a need so sharp it stole your breath.

You’d wanted her before, but never like this. Never with your thighs pressing together, never with your heart pounding so hard it hurt, never with your breath coming in shallow, needy gasps.

Your hand drifted down before you even realized what you were doing. The urge to touch yourself while watching her, while hearing those beautiful sounds break from her lips, was overwhelming, so overwhelming that you gave in.

And you weren’t nearly as quiet as you thought.

The first soft sound you made, a whimper that slipped past your lips before you could stop it, felt louder than a gunshot in the silence of camp. You froze, eyes wide, heart hammering.

Inside the tent, Zora’s hand stilled.

For one awful, breathless moment, you thought she was going to roll over, pull the covers up, and leave you to die of shame outside her tent. Instead, her head turned toward the flap, eyes narrowing slightly in the dim lantern glow.

“...Who’s there?” Her voice was low, husky, not the sharp, teasing Zora you knew in daylight, but something softer, heavier, laced with the edges of her arousal.

Your breath caught. You couldn’t answer.

She shifted, pushing herself up on one elbow, and when her eyes landed on you through the narrow gap in the flap, you knew you were caught.

For a long heartbeat, the world held still. Then her mouth curved into the slowest, most knowing smirk you’d ever seen.

“Well, well.” Her voice was silk, dangerous and teasing all at once. “Didn’t know I had an audience.”

Heat flooded your cheeks, shame and desire tangling in your chest. “I-I didn’t mean to-”

“Oh, you meant it.” Zora pushed the sheet aside fully now, baring the flush of her skin, her shorts still tugged low on her hips. She sat up, eyes glittering as she tilted her head, studying you like one of the fossils you both unearthed by day. “You wouldn’t be touching yourself if you didn’t.”

Your hand jerked away as if burned, but the damage was done. You couldn’t hide the quick rise and fall of your chest, couldn’t hide the way your thighs pressed together.

She crooked a finger at you. “Come here.”

It wasn’t a request.

You swallowed hard, every nerve in your body screaming with need and fear and anticipation. Somehow, you moved. Somehow, your legs carried you into her tent, ducking beneath the flap until you were bathed in the faint golden light of her lantern, so close now you could smell the sweet scent of her shampoo.

Zora’s eyes swept over you slowly, lingering on your flushed face, the way your hands twisted in the hem of your sleep shirt. Her smirk deepened.

“Crushing on me this whole time, huh?” she murmured, her hand drifting lazily back to her own thigh, teasing you with the memory of where it had just been. “Could’ve just said something.”

“I didn’t know if...if you-”

Her laugh was soft, rich. “Sweetheart, I’ve been waiting for you to figure it out.”

And before you could respond, she reached out, grabbed the front of your shirt, and pulled you down.

The kiss was nothing like you’d imagined during sleepless nights, hungrier, fiercer, her mouth hot against yours as if she was trying to devour every second you’d both wasted not doing this.

Your knees buckled, hands flying to her shoulders as she tugged you into her lap, the press of her body against yours making you gasp.

“You like watching?” she whispered against your lips, one hand sliding boldly beneath the hem of your shirt, palm hot against your bare skin. “Then you’re going to love the way I touch you.”

Zora’s hand was already on your waist, fingers splayed against your skin as she pulled you fully into her lap. Your thighs straddled hers, and the pressure of her body beneath you made a needy whimper fall from your lips.

“There it is,” she purred, her lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “That sweet little sound I heard outside.” Her other hand tangled in your hair, tugging gently so your head tipped back, giving her access to your throat. She kissed you there, open-mouthed and hungry, her teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver.

Your hips rocked forward without thinking, grinding against the firm muscle of her thigh. The friction sent sparks tearing through your body, and you bit down on your lip to keep from moaning too loud.

Zora noticed. God, she noticed everything.

“Wanna hear you, baby,” she murmured against your skin, voice rough with desire. “You’ve been watching me, touching yourself to the sound of me. Now I want to hear how needy I make you.”

The command in her was all it took. You let go, let the moan slip free, let your body press harder into her thigh. Her smirk curved against your skin as she rewarded you with a deep, searing kiss.

When her hand slid beneath your sleep shorts, your entire body jolted. Her fingers were sure, confident, parting you with deliberate slowness that made your breath catch.

“Fuck,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes, her pupils wide with desire. “You’re so fucking wet for me.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t deny it. You gasped, clutching at her shoulders as her fingers traced teasing circles over your clit, feather-light, just enough to drive you mad.

“Zora, please-”

Her smirk turned wicked. “That’s right, baby. Beg for me.” She pressed harder, drawing another desperate cry from you, her other hand gripping your hip to hold you exactly where she wanted you. “Tell me what you want, sweetheart.”

“I want you...I want your fingers, please-” The words tumbled out of you, raw and frantic, and Zora’s eyes darkened at the sound.

Without another word, she slid two inside you, sinking deep in one smooth motion that made you cry out, your nails digging into her shoulders. She groaned low in her throat at the way you clenched around her, her mouth crashing against yours again as she began to thrust them, each movement angled to make you writhe in her lap.

“You feel so fucking good,” she whispered against your lips, pumping her fingers faster now, curling them just right. “Been thinking about this, about you, since the day you showed up. Didn’t think I’d get to have you this soon.”

Your body shook with every thrust, every stroke of her thumb against your clit. The coil inside you wound tighter and tighter, until you were moaning helplessly into her mouth, your hips grinding down on her hand like you’d never get enough.

“Zora...I’m gonna-”

Her pace quickened, merciless now. “That’s it, princess. Cum for me. Let me hear it.”

The orgasm tore through you with brutal intensity, your body clamping around her fingers as waves of pleasure ripped through your core. You cried out her name, clinging to her like she was the only thing tethering you in this moment.

She held you through it, still working you with her fingers until you were whimpering. Then she eased you down, drawing her hand slowly from your shorts, your slick glistening on her fingers.

She raised them to her lips and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving yours.

“Sweetest thing I’ve ever tasted,” she whispered. Then she pulled you against her chest, stroking your back with lazy circles.

Your body was still shivering from the aftershocks, but you lifted your head from her chest, flushed and determined.

“I want to make you feel good too.”

Her brows arched, smirk tugging at her lips. “Do you now?”

You nodded, already sliding down from her lap, your hands trailing over her thighs. Zora leaned back on her elbows, watching you with a lazy, molten heat that made your stomach tighten dangerously.

“You’re eager,” she teased, but her breath hitched when you pressed a kiss against her hipbone, fingers hooking in the waistband of her shorts. “Go on then, sweetheart. Show me how much you want me.”

Your hands trembled as you tugged her shorts down, revealing more inch by inch until she kicked them away. The sight of her bare before you made your mouth water. You swallowed hard, then bent between her thighs, kissing the inside of one before dragging your tongue slowly upward.

Zora’s groan filled the tent, low and unrestrained. “Fuck…yes.”

You wrapped your arms around her thighs to hold her open, then licked a long, teasing stripe over her cunt. She was already slick, hot, and the taste of her on your tongue made you clench around nothing.

“Don’t tease,” she growled, threading her fingers into your hair, tugging just enough to make you gasp.

You pressed your mouth against her, tongue circling her clit before sucking it into your mouth. Zora’s whole body arched, a sharp gasp spilling from her lips. Her grip in your hair tightened, guiding you as you licked and sucked, desperate to wring every sound out of her.

“That’s it, baby,” she panted, head tipping back, sweat glistening along her throat. “God, you’re good at this. So good...ah, fuck!”

The praise sent fire straight through you, and you became determined to make her cum. Your tongue flicked her clit while two of your fingers slid inside her, pumping fast, curling up the way she had done to you. Her thighs trembled around your head, her cries spilling out louder now, reckless and raw.

“Yes! Fuck...don’t stop-”

You didn’t. You worshipped her with your mouth until her hips bucked against your face, her thighs clamping around you as she broke apart with a strangled cry of your name.

Her orgasm crashed over her, body shaking, slick coating your tongue as you took everything she gave you. She tugged at your hair, pulling you up to her mouth, kissing you deep and filthy, moaning when she tasted herself on your lips.

When she finally let you collapse beside her, you were both flushed, panting, tangled in sweat and heat.

Zora hooked her arm around you, dragging you against her chest, her lips pressing into your damp hair.

You were still sprawled against her chest, the heat of her skin soaking into you, when you realized the ache was still there. The throb between your thighs hadn’t eased, it had sharpened, grown restless, demanding more.

At first, you tried to ignore it, shifting slightly, pressing your thighs together, hoping you could ride the afterglow into sleep. But your hips betrayed you, rocking subtly against her, grinding down for just a moment of friction.

Zora’s lazy chuckle vibrated through her chest beneath your cheek. “Mmm, what’s this?” Her hand slid down your back, landing on the curve of your ass and squeezing gently. “You’re still needy, aren’t you?”

You flushed, lifting your head to meet her eyes, but you couldn’t deny it. The hunger was too intense. Instead, you pushed up, swinging your leg over until you were straddling her hips.

Her expression shifted instantly, sleepy amusement replaced by raw hunger. Her eyes dragged slowly up your body, lingering at the hem of your rumpled sleep shirt, then climbing higher until she met your gaze.

“Well, fuck,” she whispered, voice thick with arousal. Her hands came to rest on your thighs, fingers splaying wide, possessive.

“Wanna ride you,” you murmured, breathless, leaning down to kiss her.

The kiss was hard, messy, your lips crashing into hers with weeks of pent-up longing. Zora groaned against your mouth, one hand flying up to grip your jaw, holding you still as she kissed you back with equal hunger.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, dragging your wet cunt against hers. The friction made your moan spill directly into her mouth.

“God, yes,” she growled, her hand sliding down to grip your ass again, pulling you tighter against her. “fuck, just like that...”

Her words only stoked the fire. You shifted so your clit pressed against hers with every movement. The contact made your whole body shudder, a broken whimper slipping out as you rolled your hips again.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Zora encouraged, eyes dark and hungry as she watched you move.

You buried your face against her throat, kissing and sucking as your hips began to move faster. Each drag sent sparks exploding through you, heat spreading in every nerve.

Zora’s hands gripped your hips, guiding your movements, her own breath growing ragged. “God, sweetheart, look at you. You’re so fucking beautiful like this.”

Your nails dug into her shoulders, leaving crescent indents in their wake as you kissed her again, moaning into her mouth.

Zora rocked her hips up, and the added pressure made your vision blur. You cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably, chasing the edge with frantic desperation.

“That’s it, ride me harder,” she urged, her voice breaking on a moan. “Wanna feel you cum again, baby.”

Her clit rubbing against yours was intoxicating, and the world narrowed to that relentless friction, that delicious burn, until you were sobbing into her mouth, your body seizing.

“Zora, I’m-”

“Let go, baby,” she demanded, her grip on your hips bruising now.

The orgasm ripped through you, white-hot, your body shaking as pleasure surged through every nerve. You cried out her name, grinding through it, every wave crashing harder than the last until you were utterly spent against her.

The sight of you breaking on top of her undid Zora. She let out a strangled groan, her body arching beneath you, thighs trembling as she came too. You felt the hot rush of her release, the twitch of her body as she rode it out beneath you, both of you shaking, clinging desperately to each other.

Zora shifted beneath you, brushing damp strands of hair back from your face. “You’re wrecked,” she murmured with a grin, though her thumb stroked your cheekbone with surprising gentleness.

You tried to pout but it came out as a lazy smile. “You’re not exactly in pristine condition either.”

She laughed, a low, husky sound that made your heart flutter. “Touché.”

For a moment, you just lay there, listening to the rhythm of her heartbeat beneath your ear. Then Zora sighed and nudged you gently. “As much as I like having you draped over me, we should clean up before Duncan barges in at dawn asking where his favorite coffee mug is.”

You groaned, not wanting to move, but she was already reaching for a washcloth and the canteen of water at her bedside. She soaked the cloth, then turned back to you with a soft smile. “I'm gonna clean you up, okay?”

Your face flamed, but her tone was light, her hands careful as she guided your legs apart. She was gentle. “There,” she whispered. “Good girl.”

The words made you melt.

When she was finished, she tossed the rag aside and pulled you back down against her chest, tucking the blanket around both of you. Her arms wrapped firmly around your waist, her fingers tracing idle patterns along your back.

For the first time that night, the tension drained fully from your body. You curled into her warmth, safe and cherished, the steady beat of her heart under your ear grounding you.

Zora pressed a kiss to your forehead, her lips lingering. “I'm glad you caught me,” she confessed quietly, “otherwise I might not have known you wanted me.”

Your throat tightened, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. “I thought…I thought you’d never feel the same.”

She gave a soft snort. “Sweetheart, I’ve been flirting with you for weeks. Guess I’ll just have to be more obvious next time.” Her fingers tilted your chin up so she could kiss you again, slow and sweet, nothing like the hunger from before.

When she pulled back, her eyes softened. “Get some sleep. And now that you're mine, tomorrow I plan on making sure everyone knows it.”

Your cheeks burned, but you couldn’t stop the grin that spread across your face as you nestled closer. “Good luck explaining it to Duncan when he walks in here looking for his mug.”

Zora chuckled, the sound vibrating through her chest as her arms tightened around you. “I can't wait to see the look on his face.”

You sighed in bliss, finally letting your eyes drift shut, wrapped in her warmth, in the softest side of Zora Bennett that only you would ever get to see.

Steve Rogers had faced armies, Hydra, and even the weight of an entire nation’s expectations. But sitting on the couch beside Bucky, fingers interlaced and shoulders brushing, he realized this felt scarier than any battlefield.

“We should just…ask,” Steve said quietly, his thumb brushing along Bucky’s knuckle.

Bucky huffed out a laugh, low and dry. “Steve, you think it’s that easy? ‘Hey, doll, mind if we drag you into our relationship?’”

Steve flushed. “Well, not like that.”

They’d talked circles around this for months, both of them comfortable, deeply in love, but both feeling that tug of curiosity when their eyes lingered too long on someone else. They wanted to share, but the idea of finding the right person, someone who wouldn’t fracture what they had, felt impossible.

Which was how they ended up sitting across from Tony Stark in his penthouse, nursing glasses of whiskey while he smirked at them like a cat with cream.

“So let me get this straight,” Tony said, leaning back in his chair, fingers steepled under his chin. “America’s golden couple wants to add a third? A woman, specifically?”

Steve shifted in his seat. “We’re just... considering.”

“Right. ‘Considering,’” Tony echoed, rolling his eyes. “Look, boys, you don’t need me to write you a classified op plan. But if you’re serious, I might have a solution.”

Bucky raised a brow. “That so?”

Tony’s grin widened. “There’s a party this weekend. Private, discreet, and, shall we say, specialty-themed. Think less black-tie gala, more…adventure.”

Steve narrowed his eyes. “Adventure?”

Tony reached into his jacket pocket and tossed a folded square of silk onto the coffee table. A gold handkerchief.

“The Handkerchief Code,” Tony explained, his tone dripping with mischief. “It’s old-school. In this context, if you’re two looking for one? You wear gold, left pocket. Means you’re together, looking for a single woman. And if you see a woman with gold in her right pocket? She’s interested in joining an existing couple.”

Bucky picked up the fabric, letting it run through his fingers. His blue eyes flicked to Steve. “That’s…subtle.”

“That’s the point,” Tony said. “You don’t have to broadcast your intentions to the whole damn world. Just to the people who are in the know.”

Steve’s stomach fluttered with a strange mix of nerves and excitement. “And you’re sure this is safe?”

“Safe, classy, and frankly, a hell of a lot easier than you two pining over every pretty girl who smiles at you in the coffee shop. Go, test the waters. Worst case, you get a fun night out. Best case…” Tony smirked, raising his glass. “You find someone who wants to make the Star-Spangled Sandwich a reality.”

Bucky snorted, shaking his head. Steve groaned, face burning red.

But later that night, lying in bed with Bucky’s arm draped across his waist, Steve couldn’t stop thinking about that little square of gold silk.

The handkerchief sat on Steve’s dresser like a secret neither of them had dared touch since Tony had tossed it their way. Every morning, Steve caught Bucky’s reflection eyeing it in the mirror. Every night, Steve found himself running his thumb along its folded edge before switching off the lamp.

By Friday, the tension was monumental.

“You sure about this?” Steve asked, his voice low as he buttoned his shirt. He hadn’t dressed this carefully for anything that wasn’t a mission in years.

Bucky leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, metal gleaming in the low light. He smirked, but his eyes were steady, focused on Steve like he was trying to memorize every line of him.

“Stevie, you’ve been staring at that damn handkerchief all week,” Bucky drawled. “If you weren’t interested, we wouldn’t be here.”

Steve flushed but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the square of silk and held it up between them, the gold catching the lamplight. “It feels…bold,” he admitted. “I mean, this is us. Letting someone in. What if it changes things?”

Bucky pushed off the wall and crossed the room. His hand came up to cup Steve’s jaw, thumb brushing his cheek. “Only changes things if we let it. You’re still mine, I’m still yours. That doesn’t go anywhere. We’re just…” He leaned in, lips grazing Steve’s temple. “…giving ourselves a chance to see what else is out there. Together.”

Steve exhaled slowly, leaning into the touch. “You make it sound so simple.”

“That’s ‘cause it is.” Bucky plucked the handkerchief from Steve’s fingers and, with a smirk, tucked it into Steve’s left pocket himself. His knuckles dragged deliberately slow against Steve’s thigh as he did, sending heat curling low in Steve’s stomach.

Steve swallowed hard. “Guess that makes it official.”

“Not quite.” Bucky pulled his own from his dresser, sliding it into place with a precision that looked practiced, even though they both knew it wasn’t. He caught Steve staring, and his grin softened. “Now it’s official.”

For a long moment, they just looked at each other, two men who’d fought and bled and rebuilt their lives side by side, now about to step into something neither of them had ever dared before.

Bucky broke the silence with a teasing quirk of his brow. “What do you think she’ll be like?”

Steve’s lips curved into a small, private smile. “Strong. Kind. Brave enough to put up with us.”

Bucky chuckled low, brushing their noses together. “She better be, ‘cause I don’t plan on letting her go once we find her.”

Steve’s pulse quickened. He kissed Bucky then, all the weight of their years together in the press of lips and shared breath. And when they pulled back, both of them a little flushed, Steve whispered:

“Then let’s find her.”

The party was unlike anything Steve had ever stepped into. It wasn’t rowdy or messy like Stark Tower gatherings, nor was it stiff and formal like the galas he used to attend in another life.

No, this was something else entirely, low, sensual lighting, the air humming with music that pulsed more like a heartbeat than a melody, bodies moving in soft clusters, laughter spilling in intimate bursts.

Steve’s hand stayed wrapped tight around Bucky’s. They moved through the crowd together, two soldiers navigating a different kind of battlefield. Their gold handkerchiefs sat bold against their left pockets, small but unmistakable to anyone who knew what to look for.

And yet, as the night stretched on, Steve felt the first tremors of doubt creep in.

“They’re all paired off,” he murmured near Bucky’s ear, watching another couple walk past with a third trailing behind them, already claimed.

Bucky squeezed his hand. “Relax, punk. It’s not supposed to happen in the first five minutes.”

Still, Steve couldn’t shake the weight pressing on his chest. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe no one here wanted what they wanted.

Then Bucky stilled. His metal fingers tightened on Steve’s hand. “Steve,” he rasped, voice dropping an octave.

Steve followed his gaze, and his breath caught.

There you were.

Leaning casually against the polished curve of the bar, ordering a drink with a smile that seemed to brighten the dim room. Your red dress clung to every curve in a way that made Steve’s mouth go dry, the fabric catching the light every time you shifted. Loose curls framed your face, the kind of soft beauty that looked both effortless and intentional.

But it wasn’t just the dress. It wasn’t just your smile, or the curve of your shoulders, or the way the bartender leaned in a little closer when you spoke.

It was the flash of gold at your wrist.

A handkerchief, tied neatly, gleaming against your skin. On the right.

Steve’s pulse thundered in his ears.

Bucky exhaled sharply, a low growl hidden in his throat. “Well, would you look at that.”

You lifted your glass from the bar, turning just enough for the silk to catch the light again, your laughter carrying across the space. You hadn’t seen them yet.

But Steve couldn’t take his eyes off you. He’d spent all night searching for something that felt impossible, and there you were, like you’d been waiting just for them.

Bucky leaned close, his lips brushing Steve’s ear. “Guess we didn’t make a mistake after all, baby.”

Steve nodded slowly, unable to look away from you. His hand tightened in Bucky’s, nerves and excitement tangling together in a way that felt achingly familiar, like the rush before a fight.

The bar was alive with movement, but for you, the world narrowed to the sharp prickle running along your skin.

You shifted slightly, brushing your curls back over one shoulder as you lifted your drink, your wrist glinting under the lights where the gold handkerchief was tied. Just a simple knot of silk, but you knew it carried weight tonight. You took a sip, deliberately slow, before placing the glass back down, condensation pooling in a ring on the polished counter.

The feeling of being watched grew more insistent.

You turned, casual as you could manage, and your gaze found them.

Two men, impossible not to recognize even in the low, golden haze of the room. Steve Rogers, standing tall, blond hair perfectly in place despite the lazy heat of the party, blue eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the room. He looked steady, controlled, but you caught the telltale rise of his chest, the way his jaw tightened as if he was holding back.

Beside him, Bucky Barnes was different altogether. Darker, sharper, the cut of his suit hugging the lines of his body like a second skin. His metal arm caught the faint light when he shifted, but it was his eyes that gripped you, heavy, stormy blue, tracing the length of you in a way that made your pulse flutter. Where Steve’s gaze was soft, Bucky’s was hungry.

And then you saw them. Twin flashes of gold tucked in their left pockets.

Your breath hitched before you could stop it.

You met Steve’s eyes again, and this time, neither of you looked away. He didn’t smile right away. He just held your gaze, as though silently asking if you saw what he saw, if you understood.

Bucky broke the spell first. You watched the corner of his mouth lift into a grin, sharp and dangerous, before he tugged Steve with him, weaving easily through the crowd until they were standing in front of you.

Up close, they were devastatingly handsome. Steve carried the kind of warmth that made you want to lean in without thinking, while Bucky radiated danger and charm in equal measure. Together, they were overwhelming.

“Evenin’, doll,” Bucky said, his voice low and rich, sliding over you like smoke. He tipped his head toward your wrist, his gaze deliberate. “Looks like we speak the same language.”

Your lips curved. “Maybe I do.”

Steve shifted a step closer, more tentative but no less intense. “We weren’t sure we’d find anyone,” he admitted, his voice gentler, more careful than Bucky’s.

His eyes dipped, just for a moment, to the shape of your dress before flicking back up to your face. His ears turned faintly pink, betraying him. “And then…” He paused, swallowed. “Then we saw you.”

The bartender returned with another drink, setting it down between you, but his presence barely registered. Not with Steve’s eyes soft and unwavering, and Bucky’s grin widening.

You lifted your glass, brushing your fingers along the cool rim. “Seems like we were all looking for something tonight.”

“Or someone,” Bucky countered, leaning in slightly, his arm brushing the edge of the bar so he caged part of your space without quite touching you. His gaze dipped briefly to your lips, then your hand at the glass. “Lucky us.”

Steve’s expression softened, but the heat was there, hidden beneath his composure. “Think you might’ve found what you were looking for?” he asked quietly.

The tension snapped tight around you, electric and heady. Their presence was too much and not enough all at once. Steve’s steadiness, Bucky’s fire, both of them waiting on your answer like you held the match that could set them alight.

You tilted your head, feeling the silk at your wrist brush against your skin, deliberate in the way you let your lips curve into a smile. “Maybe I have.”

The three of you lingered at the bar, your drink long finished but forgotten as the conversation stretched, easy and edged with something heavier.

Steve had a way of listening that made you feel like the most important person in the room. His eyes never left yours when you spoke, his head tilted slightly as if he was memorizing every word. He laughed softly at your jokes, his hand brushing against yours now and then on the counter. Each touch felt like an accident, but the way his fingers lingered told you it wasn’t.

Bucky, on the other hand, played a different game entirely. His gaze roamed shamelessly, his words low and teasing. He leaned in close when he spoke, close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath at your ear. His metal fingers traced idle circles against the polished wood between your drinks, glinting whenever the light caught them, his smile curling each time you glanced at his handkerchief.

There was no mistaking it now, the way they leaned toward you, their bodies bracketing yours as if they’d already claimed you between them. The air was electric, every glance and brush of skin a spark waiting to catch fire.

Bucky was the one to break the silence this time, his voice a low rumble. “What do you say, doll?” His hand drifted close, his knuckles brushing your knee under the counter. “How about we get out of here? Somewhere…quieter.”

Steve’s jaw tightened like he was holding his breath. “Only if you want to,” he added quickly, eyes searching yours with that soft intensity that melted through your chest. “Back to our place. Just…us.”

Two sets of blue eyes, one burning, one steady, both waiting.

Your lips curved slowly, deliberately, as you met their gaze in turn. “Lead the way.”

Their apartment was warm and quiet when you stepped inside, the city hum fading as the door clicked shut behind you. You stood just past the threshold, suddenly aware of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

Steve was the first to move, his hand brushing yours as he took your coat, hanging it neatly by the door. Such a small thing, but the way he did it, gentle, thoughtful, made your cheeks heat.

Bucky stayed close, his presence heavier, his eyes never leaving you. He smirked faintly when you glanced at him, like he could feel your nerves sparking beneath your skin. “You nervous, doll?” he asked, voice low and teasing.

“A little,” you admitted, your voice softer than you meant.

Steve’s hand settled lightly at the small of your back. “You don’t have to be,” he said, steady and calm, but his thumb stroked slowly against your spine like he couldn’t help himself.

The three of you lingered there for a moment, the silence thick with everything unspoken. Then Bucky leaned in, close enough that the tip of his nose brushed yours. “Mind if I-?”

You didn’t get the chance to answer before his mouth was on yours. The kiss was firm, his metal hand curling around your hip as though he’d been waiting all night to touch you. Heat shot through you, and you leaned in without thinking, your fingers clutching at the fabric of his shirt.

When he finally pulled back, your lips were tingling, your breath uneven.

And then Steve was there. Softer, slower, his hand cupping your jaw as he kissed you with a kind of tenderness that made your knees weak. His lips moved gently, coaxing rather than demanding, as if he wanted you to feel every ounce of care behind it.

You gasped against him when Bucky’s hand slid along your waist from behind, his chest pressing to your back. Trapped between them, your pulse raced as Steve deepened the kiss, his tongue brushing against yours in a way that had your toes curling.

Bucky’s mouth found the curve of your neck, his teeth grazing your skin just enough to make you shiver. “God, you taste even better than I imagined,” he murmured against you, his voice rough.

Steve pulled back slightly, his breath warm against your lips. His eyes searched yours, blue and steady, but his cheeks were flushed, his chest rising and falling faster. “You okay?” he asked softly, even as his thumb traced your cheekbone with aching tenderness.

You nodded, your voice catching. “More.”

Bucky groaned low in your ear, his hands sliding lower to grip your hips, pulling you back against him. Steve captured your mouth again, this time deeper, hungrier, his tongue sweeping against yours as if he couldn’t hold back anymore. Their bodies pressed closer, heat searing through your thin dress, their touches no longer shy.

Every inch of you felt caged in and worshiped all at once, and God, you didn’t want them to stop.

Bucky pulled you toward the bedroom and watched as you crawled onto the bed. He knelt behind you, his hands sliding down to your thighs, bunching the hem of your dress upward. His mouth found your neck again, teeth grazing your skin before he sucked hard enough to leave a mark.

Steve kissed you from the front, one large hand cradling your face, the other skimming down your side until it caught the edge of the silk at your wrist. He smiled faintly against your lips, murmuring, “Looks even better on you now,” before his mouth crashed back onto yours, hotter, hungrier.

Bucky shredded your dress in seconds, tossing it aside with a groan of approval. His palms slid over your bare skin, calloused and metal, hot and cold at once, making you arch into him.

“Goddamn, doll,” he rasped, grinding against you. “Been thinking about this all night.”

Steve’s hands traced the swell of your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples until you moaned into his mouth. He pulled back just enough to look at you, flushed and undone. “You’re beautiful,” he breathed. “So beautiful.”

Bucky shoved his slacks down just enough, groaning as he lined himself up behind you. The blunt head of his cock nudged against your slick entrance, teasing, testing, before he pushed inside with a rough groan.

“Fuck, you're tight,” he growled, gripping your hips as he sank deeper, filling you so thoroughly it made you cry out.

Steve caught the sound on his lips, swallowing your moan as his thumb stroked your cheek. “Easy,” he whispered, though his own voice shook. “We’ve got you.”

You barely had time to catch your breath before Bucky began to move, deep, powerful strokes that rocked your body forward into Steve’s waiting hands.

Steve looked down at you, his cock straining against his slacks, the outline unmistakable. His voice was rough when he asked, “Think you can take care of me too, sweetheart?”

Your answer was a desperate nod.

Steve groaned, fumbling with his belt, freeing himself with shaking hands. His cock was flushed and heavy, the tip already slick. You licked your lips, leaning forward to take him into your mouth, the taste of him filling you as he hissed through his teeth.

“Jesus-” His hand cradled the back of your head, gentle even as his hips twitched forward. “Feels so good, sweetheart.”

Behind you, Bucky set a brutal rhythm, thrusting deep, his groans vibrating against your spine as he bent to bite at your shoulder. “Look so fucking good like this, doll,” he snarled, watching you take Steve down your throat while he fucked you hard from behind.

Steve’s head fell back, a broken sound tearing from his throat as your mouth worked him, your tongue swirling around the head each time you drew back. His hand trembled in your hair, torn between letting you set the pace and giving in to the urge to fuck your mouth.

Bucky slammed deeper, making you moan around Steve’s cock. The vibration ripped a curse from Steve’s lips, his thighs tensing.

“Fuck, baby,” Bucky panted, his voice rough against your ear. “Gonna make you cum all over me, feel you squeeze me so tight while you’ve got Stevie down your throat.”

Steve’s eyes dropped to meet yours, blue blazing with heat as he gasped, “God, you’re incredible. Taking us both like this…you’re perfect.”

The world spun, pleasure tightening, building, until you thought you’d break apart between them.

Bucky’s hands were greedy on your hips, one flesh, one metal, alternating between holding you steady and exploring your body with an almost desperate curiosity. His flesh hand squeezed, kneading your ass, while his cool metal fingers slid down, teasing between your folds, circling you with maddening slowness.

"Fuckin’ perfect," Bucky rasped against your ear, his breath hot on your skin. "So wet for us already. Wish you could feel her, Stevie. She’s dripping."

You moaned around Steve, who stood before you, broad and unshakable, his cock heavy on your tongue. He gripped your hair firmly, pulling just enough to arch your neck, making you look up at him with glassy eyes while your lips stretched around him.

"That’s it, sweetheart," Steve groaned, hips rocking gently as you took him deeper. "Look at you. Taking me so well while Buck plays with you. God, you’re perfect."

"Jesus, she’s tight," Bucky growled, pulling back only to slam into you again, the sound of skin meeting skin echoing obscenely in the room. His metal hand never left your clit, teasing, pinching, circling mercilessly. "Bet you’ve never had anyone ruin you like this. Gonna make you our good girl."

Steve’s grip tightened in your hair, forcing your gaze up at him as his cock slid deeper down your throat. His free hand stroked your cheek, thumb swiping over your wet skin where your tears began to spill. "Breathe through it, honey. You’re doin’ so good. Taking me, taking Bucky, fuck, you were made for this."

The rhythm built fast and hard. Bucky’s thrusts from behind grew rougher, his filthy growls filling your ears as his metal fingers pressed harder against your clit, making your legs quake. Every time you moaned around Steve, his head tipped back with a groan.

Bucky hissed, his hips snapping. "Look so pretty with your mouth full, your cunt stuffed. Bet you can't even think right now."

He slammed into you harder, his rhythm brutal and unrelenting, every thrust pushing you further into Steve’s cock as he held your hair tight, guiding your mouth back onto him. Your lips stretched around him, your jaw aching, spit running down your chin, dripping onto your chest.

Bucky’s metal fingers worked your clit without mercy, relentless little circles that had your legs trembling. You could barely breathe around Steve’s cock, your throat full, but the sound you made, half sob, half moan, vibrated around him and had his hips jerking forward.

"Fuck," Steve groaned, staring down at you with wild eyes. "She’s gagging on me, look at her. Look how perfect she is."

Bucky grunted, his forehead damp with sweat as he drove into you. "She’s soaked, Stevie. Can feel her gushin’ all over me, she’s makin’ a mess." His metal fingers pressed harder against your clit, and you screamed around Steve’s cock, body tightening as your orgasm ripped through you.

Bucky growled. "That’s it. Cum all over me, doll. So fuckin’ good for us."

Steve pulled your head back off him, strings of spit and precum clinging between your lips and his cock. He smirked, thumb swiping your messy chin. "Look at you, baby. Cryin’, drooling, dripping all over us. You love it, don’t you?"

You nodded desperately, voice broken. "Yes, fuck, yes, I love it."

Bucky’s thrusts grew rougher, ragged, his hand tightening on your hip while his metal fingers never stopped playing with your overstimulated clit. "Gonna ruin this pussy, doll, fill you so full you won’t be able to walk tomorrow."

Steve groaned, fisting your hair tighter, his cock flushed and twitching. "Open for me, sweetheart."

Between the two of them, Bucky’s brutal rhythm, his filthy words in your ear, Steve’s cock heavy against your tongue again, you broke apart completely, your second orgasm tearing through you.

Bucky cursed harshly, hips slamming deep one last time before spilling inside you. "Fuck! Take it all, princess."

Steve followed right after, groaning loud as he pushed deeper into your mouth, spilling down your throat, his grip in your hair keeping you steady as you swallowed around him.

When it was over, the three of you were a wreck. You were trembling, makeup smeared, thighs slick with your release and Bucky’s. Bucky was panting, sweat dripping down his temple, his metal hand still lazily rubbing your clit like he couldn’t help himself. Steve stroked your messy cheek, easing your hair back, his chest heaving.

"God, honey" Steve murmured, eyes dark but tender as he looked at you. "You're the most beautiful mess I’ve ever seen."

Bucky smirked, still buried inside you, his voice low and wrecked. "And she’s ours now."

You should have been finishing your hair.

You should have been putting on your shoes, or your jewelry, or doing literally anything other than standing frozen in the doorway of your bedroom with your lips parted like you’ve just had the wind knocked out of you.

But Fiyero was buttoning his uniform jacket.

And nothing, not the brightest constellation, nor Elphaba's magic, nor the Wizard himself, could’ve dragged your eyes away from his reflection.

His back was to you at first, broad shoulders stretching the deep emerald fabric as he shrugged it onto his body, rolling it into place with a soft flex that made the seams strain for a passing moment. Gold embroidery shimmered over him in the early morning light. His hair was slightly messy from sleeping beside you, but the uniform…oh, it did things to you.

He reached for the next button.

You made a sound that was soft, involuntary, undeniable.

He froze.

Slowly, very slowly, he turned his head toward you, expression shifting from casual focus…to curiosity…to a knowing, devastating smirk that hit you low in your stomach.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, voice deep and warm enough to melt steel, “you’re staring.”

Your throat went dry. “I-I wasn’t...I mean, I was, but you look-”

“Go on...”

He faced you fully now, fingers pausing at the top button, leaving his jacket teasingly open at the collar. “Tell me what I look like to you.”

You swallowed. “Dangerous.”

A quiet hum left him. Pleased. Predatory.

He lifted his chin, eyes dragging down your body in a slow, claiming sweep.

“Come here.”

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. Heat rushed through you, pooling thickly low between your thighs. He didn’t touch you at first, he just watched you approach, chest rising with restrained breath as if he could already smell the want rolling off your skin.

When you stopped in front of him, he dipped his head, nose brushing your temple.

His voice grazed your ear like velvet and smoke.

“Kneel.”

A command, gentle but absolute.

You shivered.

And then you obeyed, kneeling at his feet as if your body had been carved for this moment.

His gloved thumb grazed your chin, tipping your face up to him. The authority in his eyes made you feel small in the sweetest, most devastating way.

“You can’t focus when I wear this, can you?”

“No,” you whispered, breath shaking. “Not even a little.”

“Hm.” His thumb stroked your lower lip. “Good.”

He unbuttoned his jacket, letting you see every inch of tanned skin revealed beneath. His abs tightened as he slid the jacket off his shoulders, but he didn’t drop it, he draped it over your hands.

“Hold that for me.”

You trembled. “Yes, Captain.”

His breath hitched.

And then he was on you, lifting your chin with one hand while the other curled behind your head, pulling you in for a kiss that stole straight through your bones.

His mouth was commanding, devouring, angled with perfect dominance as he deepened it. Your hands clutched the fabric helplessly, the scent of him filling your lungs, fresh air, warm sun, and something uniquely Fiyero.

He broke away just long enough to murmur against your lips:

“I’m going to fuck you on this floor.”

Your pulse thundered.

He didn’t ask, he guided, one hand cupping the back of your head as he eased you onto your back, laying his emerald-and-gold jacket beneath you so you’d feel the weight of his rank against your skin. He settled between your legs, one knee pressing them open while his fingers skimmed up your inner thigh.

“So needy already,” he murmured, smiling against your throat as he kissed down it, slow and claiming. “Just from watching me dress.”

You gasped when his fingers found heat, slick, swollen, and aching.

He groaned.

“That’s for me?” he whispered. “All of this?”

“Yes! Fiyero, please!”

He kissed the hollow of your throat. “I’ve got you.”

And then he slid two fingers inside you, deep and precise, curling just right, and your cry broke into his mouth. He caught it with a kiss, swallowing your sounds as he worked you open. His thumb circled your clit, coaxing pleasure through you in steady, overwhelming waves.

“Hear that, baby?” he murmured. “Hear how much your pussy drips for me?”

Your hips lifted helplessly. His body pinned you effortlessly, his breath warm against your cheek.

“Look at me,” he commanded softly.

Your eyes met his, stormy blue, molten, starving, and that alone nearly pushed you over the edge.

He felt the way you tightened around his fingers.

His voice dropped to a growl.

“Cum for your Captain.”

Your orgasm crashed through you, shaking you from your fingertips to your toes. His fingers didn’t relent, he carried you through it, praising you in a low stream of words that melted you entirely.

When you finally slumped against the floor, trembling, he kissed your cheek gently.

“Good girl.”

But he wasn’t done.

He freed his cock from his trousers, settling his hips between your legs with a low, needy groan. His tip brushed your entrance, slick and hot, and your breath stuttered.

“Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you,” he whispered.

“I need it so bad. I always want you.”

He pushed in slow, inch by inch, burying himself inside you until he was seated fully. Your gasp mingled with his shuddering breath.

He wrapped your legs around his waist and lowered his forehead to yours.

“I’ll go easy,” he murmured. “But make no mistake-”

He drew back and thrust deep, slow, claiming.

“-you’re mine.”

His rhythm was controlled, steady, relentless in its intensity. Every snap of his hips angled perfectly, making your breath break in soft whimpers. His hands cradled your face, his thumbs brushing your skin with absurd gentleness despite the strength in his movements.

“I love how you look splayed across my colors,” he whispered. “I love how you look under me.”

“Fiyero-”

“Say my name when you cum,” he breathed against your lips. “Say it so the whole damn palace hears.”

You shattered.

He held you through it, fucking you through your orgasm until he swore under his breath, “fuck...sweetheart...” and spilled inside you with a deep, shaking groan.

He collapsed over you, careful not to crush you, pressing his face into your neck as he caught his breath.

After a long, trembling moment, he lifted his head and smiled softly.

“I fear you've ruined me,” he whispered.

You stroked his cheek. “Only fair. You ruin me daily.”

He kissed you before brushing your hair back from your forehead.

“Next time,” he murmured, “I’ll put the uniform on even slower…just for you.”

The morning after he’d taken you on the floor, on top of his own uniform jacket, you woke to the lingering ache of him in every muscle. The beautiful, satisfying soreness that came from being thoroughly ravished.

Fiyero had left early for patrol, but not before kissing you murmuring, “Rest. I’ll be home before you miss me.”

You missed him within minutes.

All day, you couldn’t stop replaying the way he’d looked at you yesterday, hungry, proud, completely undone by how much you wanted him in uniform.

So you decided to surprise him.

When late afternoon sunlight streamed warm and gold across your bedroom, you slipped onto the bed…wearing absolutely nothing beneath his Captain of the Guard jacket.

The emerald fabric swallowed your shoulders and fell open just enough to reveal a teasing stripe of bare skin, the gold embroidery glinting against your thighs.

You lay back against the pillows, legs parted just enough, heartbeat fluttering in anticipation.

Finally, you heard Fiyero’s boots in the hall.

The shift of his sword belt.

His voice calling gently, “Sweetheart? I’m-”

He stepped into the room.

The rest of his sentence never made it out.

He stilled. Completely. Like someone had reached into his chest and squeezed.

His eyes dragged over you in one slow, devastating sweep, the jacket, your bare legs, your exposed throat, the tilt of your hips framed perfectly by his uniform.

When his gaze snapped up to yours again, something inside him went dark and bright all at once.

“Sweet Oz…” His voice cracked roughly, disbelieving. “Is it my birthday?”

You giggled sweetly. “Welcome home, Captain.”

The sound he made was a growl, torn straight from his chest.

He was on the bed in seconds, knees sinking into the mattress as his hands bracketed your thighs, pulling you down beneath him. His fingers dug into the fabric of his jacket on your body, gripping it like he needed to make sure it was real.

“You put this on,” he murmured, “just for me?”

“Yes.”

His breath shuddered.

He didn’t kiss you.

He devoured you.

His mouth crashed onto yours, desperate and hot, stealing the breath from your lungs. His hands slid beneath the open front of the jacket and found nothing but bare skin.

When he realized you were completely naked underneath, he pulled back just enough to look, his pupils eclispsing his irises, chest rising and falling with unsteady hunger.

“You’re…fuck…sweetheart, you’ve got nothing under it.”

His thumb brushed your hip.

“You’re wearing my rank and nothing else.”

You nodded, whispering, “Because you ruined me yesterday.”

He hissed through his teeth.

His hand slid between your thighs, and the second he felt the heat of you, the slickness, he nearly broke.

He cupped you firmly, thumb circling your clit with a claiming pressure that made your back arch.

“You’re already soaked, Oz, did you start without me?”

Your voice broke on a gasp. “No...was waiting...wanted you-”

He leaned in close, lips at your ear.

“Good. Because I’m going to take you apart.”

His fingers teased your entrance. one slow drag that made your thighs tremble, and then he slid them inside you, deep and filling, curling exactly where he knew you needed.

You cried out, clutching the collar of his own jacket around your body.

“That’s right,” he whispered against your mouth. “Hold onto me. Hold onto my colors. Let me hear you.”

He pumped his fingers hard enough to make the bed frame shudder, his thumb rubbing your clit. Every thrust coaxed another sound from you, helpless whimpers, soft pleas, broken moans that only fed his frenzy.

“You look so good like this,” he rasped. “Spread out in my coat, taking everything I give you.”

Your climax built fast, too fast. His uniform on your skin, his scent all over you, his voice in your ear.

“Fiyero! I’m gonna-”

His fingers continued to fuck you relentlessly.

“Oh, you’re gonna cum,” he growled, “but you’re gonna wait until you're stretched around my cock.”

He withdrew his fingers, leaving you aching, and unfastened his belt.

He freed himself, thick and already dripping for you, and pressed the head to your entrance with a groan so raw it vibrated through his chest.

“You did this to me,” he whispered. “You. Lying here like a dream.”

Then he pushed in.

Slow only for the first inch, and then he snapped his hips forward with a deep, fierce thrust that stole your breath. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, the sleeves of his jacket slipping down your arms as he held you in place.

“Look at you,” he breathed. “Taking me so deep...so perfect...Oz, sweetheart...”

You could barely breathe it felt so good.

He pulled out halfway, then slammed back into you with a force that made the headboard strike the wall. The jacket fell fully open beneath you, emerald and gold against your skin as he fucked into you with raw, hungry possession.

“You’re mine,” he growled, thrust punctuating every syllable.

“All.”

thrust

“fucking.”

thrust

“mine.”

Your orgasm hit so hard your vision blurred.

Your cry broke, high and desperate, his name spilling from your lips in ragged pleas. Your body clenched around him, trembling uncontrollably.

Fiyero swore, sharp, bitten off, and thrust three more times, deep enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, before he shattered with a low, guttural moan, burying himself inside you as his body shuddered over yours.

For a long moment, he simply held you, breathing hard, face pressed to your chest, hands trembling where they cupped your thighs.

Then, softly he lifted his head and kissed your cheek.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered. “But I am never, ever, letting you go.”

He eased the jacket back over your shoulders, covering you gently before settling beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“Tomorrow,” he murmured against your neck, “I want you to wear the hat too.”

The gym smelled faintly of sweat, the air heavy with the dull thuds of fists against leather. You leaned against the doorway, watching Natasha drive punch after punch into the heavy bag, her movements sharp, precise, but relentless. She didn’t slow, didn’t stumble, just kept going, as if her body was powered by sheer willpower instead of human stamina.

It wasn’t new. She’d been like this for weeks, months, really. Every day she was either on a mission, in meetings, or in this gym breaking herself down just to build herself back up. Every time you tried to pull her away, even for an hour, she’d dismiss you with that iron-walled smile and a shake of her head.

But tonight, you couldn’t take it anymore.

“Nat,” you said softly, stepping into the room.

She didn’t acknowledge you, her fists flying, shoulders flexing with each strike.

“Natasha.” Louder this time.

Still nothing.

Frustration tightened your chest. You crossed the room and caught the swinging bag just as she threw another punch. She jerked back, startled, her eyes snapping up to yours, green and fierce even through her exhaustion.

“What the hell are you doing?” she demanded, chest heaving.

“Stopping you,” you shot back. “Because you’re going to destroy yourself if you keep this up.”

Her jaw set stubbornly. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not,” you said firmly, holding her gaze. “You haven’t taken a real break in months. You don’t eat enough, you barely sleep, and now you’re working yourself into the ground. You’re not a machine, Nat.”

She gave a humorless huff, yanking off her gloves. “I don’t need a vacation.”

“Yes, you do,” you said, stepping closer. You softened your voice, but not your conviction. “If you won’t take a week off, then start small. Right now. Let me help.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Help how?”

You hesitated only a beat before blurting, “A massage. Just sit down and let me take care of you for once.”

Natasha tilted her head, skeptical. But then, a faint smirk tugged at her lips. “A massage, hm? You offering your services now?”

Heat prickled your neck, but you stood tall. “Yes. Let me have five minutes to show you that it'll be okay if you just relax.”

For the first time in days, her expression softened, her smirk giving way to the ghost of a smile. “Alright,” she murmured. “Work your magic.”

Minutes later, she was stretched out on a padded bench in the corner of the gym, her tank top sticking to her skin, hair damp with sweat. You sat behind her, straddling her legs as your palms hovered over her shoulders for a moment, nerves threatening to choke you.

Then you pressed down.

Her body practically melted under your touch. Natasha let out a groan, low, throaty, unguarded, that sent heat shooting straight to your core.

“God,” she muttered, eyes slipping closed. “Where the hell did you learn to do this?”

You smiled faintly, kneading into the knots in her shoulders. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

She chuckled, soft and tired, and leaned into your hands.

You worked carefully, moving from her shoulders down her back, finding tension tucked deep into her muscles and coaxing it loose. Every sigh, every small sound she made unraveled you a little more, your heart pounding harder.

You tried to keep your eyes on your hands, on the job, but you couldn’t stop yourself from looking. At the sheen of sweat on her neck. At the rise and fall of her chest. At the way she trusted you enough to be vulnerable here, in this moment.

It was torture. Because you’d been holding back for years.

And then she caught you.

Her eyes opened just as your gaze lingered too long, and she smirked faintly. “You’re staring,” she murmured.

You froze. “I-I wasn’t-”

Her smirk deepened, dangerous in its knowing. “How long?”

Your breath caught. “Natasha-”

Her voice dropped, silken steel. “How long have you had feelings for me?”

There was no point in lying. Not under her gaze. Not when she already knew. “Years,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

For a moment, silence stretched. Her expression softened, unreadable, then she reached back, curling her fingers around yours. “You should’ve told me sooner,” she said.

The kiss burned through you, deep and claiming, as Natasha’s mouth moved against yours with a hunger you’d never dared to imagine. Her hand tangled in your hair, the other slipping to your waist, pulling you closer until you were straddling her thigh.

And then, she sat up and turned around, her beautiful eyes searching yours. She leaned in, slowly, her eyes fluttering closed. And then, her lips met yours.

You gasped when you realized where you were, the thick muscle of her leg pressing directly against the ache between your thighs. Heat flooded you instantly, and the sound you made, half whimper, half moan, made Natasha smirk against your lips.

“Mm,” she murmured, voice low, sultry. “Such a pretty sound.”

Her hands gripped your hips firmly, guiding you down against her. The friction was intoxicating, the rough fabric of her leggings dragging against your pussy as you rocked without meaning to.

“Nat-” you breathed, your voice breaking.

“Shh,” she whispered against your ear, her lips brushing your skin. “Don’t hold back. I’ve got you.”

You moved again, this time deliberately, grinding yourself against her thigh. The sensation was so much sharper, so much more overwhelming than anything your own hands had ever given you. Every roll of your hips made sparks of pleasure burst behind your eyes, made your breath catch in your throat.

Natasha kissed down your neck, her tongue flicking against the hollow of your throat before she bit lightly at your collarbone. “God, you look so pretty, baby,” she growled softly, tightening her grip on your hips to press you harder against her.

Your head fell back, a needy sound spilling from your lips as you rubbed against her with growing desperation. Your panties were already soaked, clinging to you, every drag of fabric against her thigh sending jolts straight through your core.

“You’re so wet for me,” Natasha whispered, her voice husky. Her hand slid up under your shirt, splaying across your back, grounding you even as you lost yourself. “Gonna cum for me, baby?”

You nodded, moaning louder, hips snapping faster against her. The fabric of her leggings rubbed perfectly against your clit, the pressure building unbearably, every nerve in your body focused on the slick, delicious friction.

Natasha kissed you hard again, swallowing your cries, her tongue stroking yours as she moved with you. “That’s my girl,” she breathed between kisses, her thigh flexing beneath you just to push you higher. “Show me, pretty girl...Cum for me.”

Her words broke something loose inside you. The tension that had been coiled so tight suddenly snapped, and you cried out into her mouth, your body trembling violently as waves of pleasure crashed through you.

Natasha held you firmly, guiding you through it, her lips and hands everywhere as she whispered, “That’s it, baby…ride it out…so perfect for me.”

Natasha’s arms held you steady as you trembled through the aftershocks, your cheek pressed against her shoulder, your breathing ragged. She gave you a moment, her lips brushing your temple, her hand rubbing slowly over your back. But then, her other hand slid lower, teasing along the curve of your ass before slipping between your thighs.

You jerked in surprise, a gasp tearing from your throat.

“Relax,” she whispered, her mouth brushing your ear, her voice velvet-dark. “Did you think I'd only give you one? Oh, sweetheart, you're getting at least two after that massage.”

Her fingers pressed against your soaked panties, stroking lightly over the damp fabric. You whimpered, your hips twitching toward her touch.

“God, you’re dripping,” Natasha growled softly, her tone both smug and hungry. She pressed her thumb against your clit through the thin material, rubbing slow, deliberate circles. “All this from my thigh? You’ve been starving for this, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Mommy,” you moaned before you could stop yourself, The realization hit you instantly, and your hands covered your face.

Natasha stilled only for a moment before her free hand reached up to gently pry yours away. “My pretty girl has a Mommy kink, does she? Is that what you need, baby? I can be that for you. You took care of me and helped me relax, so how can I say no?”

She slid her hand into your panties, finally touching you bare. The contact was electric, her fingers slick instantly as they slid through your heat, teasing, testing.

You cried out, clinging to her shoulders, your hips bucking helplessly.

“Mmm, so sensitive,” Natasha murmured, her breath hot against your neck. “I could play with you all night.”

She teased you at first, just stroking up and down, spreading your wetness, her touch maddeningly slow. Then, finally, she slid one finger inside you, curling it perfectly as her thumb returned to your clit.

The combination nearly sent you over the edge. You gasped, biting your lip, trying to stifle the moans spilling out of you, but Natasha wasn’t having it.

“Don’t hide those pretty sounds from me,” she ordered, her voice low and firm. She pumped her finger deeper, adding a second one, stretching you deliciously. “I want to hear every little noise you make for me.”

Your restraint shattered. You moaned openly, your hips rocking desperately into her hand, chasing every stroke. Natasha’s grin widened as she watched you, her gaze sharp, devouring.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” she purred, her fingers moving faster, her thumb never leaving your clit. “Fuck, you’re so tight around me. You’re going to cum all over my hand, aren’t you?”

“Mommy! Oh, God, yes,” you gasped, as the pressure built impossibly fast.

Natasha kissed you fiercely then, swallowing your cries as her fingers worked you mercilessly, her thumb circling harder, faster. The coil inside you snapped violently, and you came undone, screaming into her mouth as your cunt spasmed around her fingers.

She didn’t stop right away, fucking you through it, prolonging every wave until you were shaking in her arms, tears shining in your eyes from the intensity. Finally, she slowed, slipping her fingers free, and then lifting them to her lips.

Her eyes locked on yours as she sucked her fingers clean, groaning softly at the taste. “So sweet,” she murmured, her smirk wicked. “And all mine.”

For the first time in weeks, you finally got her to relax not just her body, but the hard edges of her mind. Her muscles were loose under your touch, her breath deep and steady as she held you in her lap..

Her kiss was softer this time, but just as consuming. “Told you I’d take care of you,” she murmured against your lips.

You smiled against her skin, pressing a kiss to her collarbone. “See?” you whispered. “Feels good to not overwork yourself, even though you just made me cum twice.”

Natasha hummed low in her throat, her fingers tracing idle patterns up and down your back. “You’re trouble,” she muttered, though her voice carried more affection than bite.

You pulled back just enough to see her face. Her hair stuck damply to her forehead, her cheeks flushed, her lips kiss-swollen. God, she was gorgeous. “I’m exactly what you need,” you teased softly, brushing your thumb across her jaw.

Her eyes flickered with amusement. “Oh, you think so?”

“I know so.” You kissed her again, slow this time, coaxing, letting her taste the truth on your lips. When you pulled away, you kept your forehead against hers. “Nat…you can’t keep going like you have been. You need a break, and I'm not talking about what we just did together. I mean a real one.”

Her brows drew together, that stubborn spark flickering in her eyes. “I can’t just disappear. There’s always another mission, another crisis-”

You cut her off with a gentle finger pressed to her lips. “The world won’t fall apart if Natasha Romanoff takes a week off. You’ve been carrying too much, for too long. You deserve rest, Nat. You deserve to feel human again.”

For a moment, she said nothing, just studied you with those unreadable green eyes. But you didn’t look away. You held her gaze, pouring all your love, all your concern into it.

Finally, she sighed, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You’re stubborn, you know that?”

You grinned. “Takes one to know one.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. Then, with a mischievous tilt of her mouth, she said, “Fine. I’ll take a vacation.”

Your heart leapt. “Really?”

“Mm.” She leaned in, brushing her lips against yours again. “But only under one condition.”

Suspicion narrowed your eyes playfully. “What condition?”

Her smirk grew, wicked and soft all at once. “That I don’t have to leave my bed the entire time, and that you stay there with me.”

Heat curled low in your stomach, your body already sparking at the thought. “A whole week in bed with you?” you breathed.

She kissed you again, slow and deliberate, her hand slipping under your shirt to rest warm against your skin. “Mmhm. No missions, no alarms, no interruptions. Just you, me, and as many hours as we want to spend…enjoying each other.”

Your laugh was shaky, but also giddy. “That doesn’t sound like rest, Romanoff.”

Her teeth grazed your bottom lip before she pulled back, her smirk dangerous. “Oh, I'll rest. In between rounds.”

The promise in her tone made your pulse race. You wrapped your arms around her neck, kissing her again. “Deal,” you whispered against her lips.