Enchanted
Fandom: Wicked (The Movie Adaptation)
Pairing: Fiyero Tigelaar x Reader
Rating: 18+ MDNI
Tags: Angst, Fluff, Smut, Magic Powers, Implied Gossiping, Glinda Is Jealous, Fiyero Wants To Learn, Elemental Magic, Tears In Eyes, Kissing, Clit Play, Hand On Throat (No Choking), Have To Stay Quiet, Risk Of Being Caught, Unprotected P in V Sex, Multiple Orgasms, Explicit Language
Word Count: Around 4000
Written For: @fandom-free-bingo @smutceptember2025
Squares/Prompts Filled: Card A: G5 - The One Who Loves To Learn for Fandom Free Bingo: Reunion Edition | Card B: N5 - "Am I normal yet?" for Fandom Free Bingo: Virtues and Vices Edition | Day 16 - Quiet for Smutceptember 2025
Dividers By: @/saradika-graphics
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.”
Fiyero Tag List: @a-quick-request @my-queen-rhaenyra-targaryen @stormster111
