#wicked x reader

[of-many-fandomss]

WICKED MASTERLIST

Hey, Jealousy

[inkmonster21]

Before the Tin

Boq / Tin man x Fem!Reader

Series Masterlist

As you and Boq pack up your old suite for a new life together, a painful conversation about Munchkinland gives way to hope when he finds the letter you once wrote grieving the future you thought you’d lost, and quietly decides that maybe the life you were supposed to have can still begin now.

39. We Were Supposed To

Boq woke to the sound of paper.

Not the sharp slap of official decrees, not the dry whisper of files being shuffled in a Governor’s office. A softer sound. Cloth and paper and the small, determined huff you made when you dragged something heavier than you meant to.

He opened his eyes.

Your old suite was half-gutted.

The low shelf by the window was empty; the stack of annotated bills was gone from the table. Your extra shoes had vanished from by the door. A neat pile of boxes sat near the threshold, your scrawl on each one in red ink: Books, Kitchen, Office / Maybe Burn This, Misc (Definitely Not Contraband).

You, in the middle of the room in your nightshirt, hair half-pinned and falling out, were wrestling your way through the wardrobe. A small mountain of folded clothes lay on the bed. Another box yawned open at your feet.

Boq pushed himself upright in the chair by the window.

“You’re not supposed to lift that,” he said. “You said you’d leave the heavy things for me.”

You didn’t even look around.

“I did leave the heavy things for you,” you said, exasperated. “This is a box of clothes. You’ve already packed…”

You glanced toward the door as if checking.

“…half my life, it looks like.”

He followed your gaze.

Two of the boxes stacked near the threshold were in his handwriting.

The letters were small and precise and painfully familiar: Crockery / Fragile, Desk (Top), Desk (Bottom). Your kettle. The kettle was already wrapped in towels inside one of them, handle cushioned, spout padded like it was made of bone instead of metal.

Boq shifted, joints clicking quietly.

“I wake up early,” he said. “And I don’t own enough to justify filling more than half a box. It seemed… unfair.”

You finally turned.

Hair a mess, ink on your wrist from last night’s last-minute memo, exhaustion smudged under your eyes. You looked at him like you were torn between strangling him and kissing him.

“Boq,” you said. “You don’t have to balance the scales by packing my spoons.”

He almost said they’ll be our spoons and bit it back at the last second.

Instead, he shrugged.

“I’m good at putting things in order,” he said. “It’s what they pay me for.”

Your gaze softened, just a little.

You set another folded shirt on the bed, then picked your way across the room, dodging boxes, until you were close enough to touch him.

“You also could’ve woken me,” you said, hands finding the edge of his chestplate. “Packing is more tolerable with company. And complaints. And an audience for my dramatic sighing.”

His mouth twitched.

“You looked tired,” he said. “I thought… you deserved a few more minutes where this,” he gestured around, taking in the boxes, the half-emptied wardrobe, the way your life had been sorted into neat, labeled piles, “wasn’t real yet.”

Your throat moved.

For a heartbeat, you leaned in, forehead resting briefly against the cool line of his collar.

Then you stepped back, inhaled, and shook yourself like a bird settling its feathers.

“Alright,” you said briskly. “If you insist on being useful, help me with these.”

You nudged the wardrobe with your hip.

He stood, stretching metal shoulders until the seams settled with a satisfying lack of grinding. The craftsman’s work still held.

“Careful,” he said, reflexively, even as he moved past you to brace the wardrobe and tip it.

You watched him as he worked, tilting the whole thing, steadying it with one hand while the other reached in and lifted an entire row of hanging clothes out in one neat, vertical bundle.

“You’re showing off,” you muttered.

“Obviously,” he said. “Why else would anyone become made of tin?”

You snorted.

You were almost done with the last box when it happened.

You’d sat down at the table with leftover bread and cheese for dinner, insisting that “moving fuel” was non-negotiable. Boq had taken his usual place opposite you, not eating, but present, hands loosely folded, eyes warming whenever you gestured with your crust as if he were catching stray pieces of light.

You talked about stupid things. On purpose.

The kettle’s temper. The way the new north-wing corridor still smelled like plaster. Whether Glinda would actually go through with painting all the committee rooms pink or if she was bluffing to see which councillors would panic first.

You did not talk about Munchkinland.

Until you did.

It slipped out in a pause while you chewed, almost casual.

“We’ll need more of your things in the new place,” you said. “We can’t have it all be mine. That’s… imbalanced.” You flicked crumbs off your fingers. “We should go to your house. In Munchkinland. Get what you want before someone sells the rest.”

The room shifted, almost imperceptibly.

Boq went still.

Not the rusty stuck-still of the orchard, just… quiet. Inside his plates. Inside his seams.

“No,” he said.

You blinked.

“Boq…”

“No,” he repeated, sharper. “Not yet.”

Your brows knit.

“You don’t have to go inside if you don’t want to,” you said more gently. “We can send a letter ahead. Or ask one of the clerks who owes me a favor. Or…”

“I said no,” he cut in.

You stared at him.

Tin didn’t flush.

But if it could, he would’ve been scarlet.

“I’m not ready,” he said, and the edge snapped off the words, leaving something raw in its place. “To walk into that house and see the chair by the window and know I won’t ever sit in it again. To see the neighbors and have them call me by my name like I’m still…” He gestured at his chest, helpless. “Like I’m still just Boq from down the lane who brings bread for his mother and stays late at the office.”

You swallowed.

“What about your family?” you asked softly. “Your mother. Your sisters. You told me…”

“I know what I told you,” he said, too fast. “I know they deserve to know I’m…” He faltered, searching for a word that wasn’t alive and wasn’t this. “…something.”

He looked away, jaw flexing.

“I also know,” he said quietly, “that the first time my mother sees me, she’s going to reach for my face and feel tin. And I am not…” He exhaled, hard. “I am not ready to watch her choose between pretending that’s fine and breaking in front of me.”

Silence stretched.

You set your bread down.

“Okay,” you said. Simply. “We don’t go yet.”

He blinked.

“That’s it?” he asked. “No ‘you have to face it sometime’? No speech?”

You gave him a look.

“I’m very capable of long speeches,” you said. “You know that. If I give you one, it’ll be because I think you’re being stupid with my life. This is yours.”

His throat clicked.

“You can’t leave everything you were in that house forever, Boq,” you added, gentler. “But you don’t have to drag it here tomorrow.”

He stared at you for a long heartbeat.

“Thank you,” he said.

You shrugged.

“You’re bringing enough ghosts as it is,” you said lightly. “We can’t have them all arrive on moving day. There’s only so much floor space.”

That startled a huff of reluctant laughter out of him.

You counted it as a victory.

Later, when the last of the boxes were stacked in a tidy, accusing line by the door and the room looked more like a shell than a home, you washed the last dish, set it upside down to dry, and turned to him.

“You should go ahead,” you said. “Get settled. Make sure the bed hasn’t run off. I just need to double-check the windows are latched and that we didn’t leave any important legislation under the mattress.”

He tilted his head.

“You’re sending me away,” he said.

“I am delegating,” you corrected. “You are in charge of guarding the new quarters from surprise cows and nosy courtiers. I will join you in an hour.”

“You shouldn’t walk alone in the dark,” he said, automatic.

You tilted your head toward the window, where the last smear of sunset painted the glass.

“It’s not dark yet,” you said. “And if it makes you feel better, I’ll take the loud shoes.”

He looked like he wanted to argue.

Then he looked at the tired set of your shoulders, the way your eyes kept sliding to the boxes as if they’d bite you, and nodded once.

“Fine,” he said. “But if you’re not there by the time the bells chime, I’m coming back and carrying you.”

“You’d have to find me first,” you said.

“I’ve had practice,” he replied.

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth curved.

“Go,” you said, nudging him gently toward the door. “Before I make you pack my socks too.”

He hesitated only long enough to lean down and press his forehead to yours, tin cool, presence warm.

Then he was gone, careful steps ringing down the corridor, the sound fading into the Palace’s constant hum.

He meant to wait.

Truly.

He meant to stand very still in the middle of the new room, take a breath he didn’t need, and not touch anything until you arrived, so you could decide together where the table should go, which shelf would hold the kettle, which drawer got the spoons and which got the knives.

He lasted five minutes.

Then the boxes began to itch in his peripheral vision.

He’d brought them up from the old suite in three careful trips, stacked them along the wall of the north-wing room the way he’d once stacked ledgers, neat, labeled, ready.

Now they felt like questions piled in cardboard.

He started with the easiest.

Kitchen.

He put the mugs in the cupboard by habit, kettle on the hearth, jars on the shelf. By the time he was done, he could almost see you moving through the space, reaching for things, muttering about missing lids, fighting the spoons.

He moved on.

Books.

He knew which ones were yours and which ones you’d forced him to smuggle out of Nessa’s office for “research”. He put the ones you loved at arm’s reach and the ones that hurt higher up, where you’d have to really, really want them to bother.

There was a quiet joy in it.

In making small choices that assumed a future, for both of you.

He was halfway through the box labeled Office / Maybe Burn This when he found it.

It wasn’t on top.

It was tucked between two thick folders, the paper slightly more wrinkled than the rest, edges softened like it had been handled more.

His name was on it.

Boq, in your hand, ink bitten into the page in a way that meant you’d been pressing too hard.

Something in his chestplate pulled tight.

He looked at the door, still closed, then, slowly, slid a thumb under the edge and unfolded it.

Your voice rose off the page.

Boq,

We were supposed to get a little house somewhere that wasn’t painted green.

Not in Munchkinland, too many ghosts. Not in the heart of the Emerald City, too many eyes. Somewhere in between. On a hill maybe, near a village that didn’t care who you worked for as long as you paid for your bread on time.

A garden out front with crooked rows of things neither of you would remember to water regularly. The soil would be bad at first, and you’d fight about whose turn it was to dig and whose turn to read the instructions wrong.

We were supposed to argue about stupid things so we didn’t lose our voices on the big ones.

You’d bicker with your hands in soapy water or flour or ink, and he’d roll his eyes and laugh, and beneath it all there would be that hum of understanding: when it mattered, you were on the same side.

We were supposed to make love in a bed that didn’t belong to the City.

Not in a stolen night between liaison briefings and carriage schedules. Not in a room where the walls had ears and the floor vibrated with the hum of Palace machinery.

We were supposed to fight.

Properly. Not about chairs or flour or whose turn it was to read the latest propaganda draft. About fear. About the way he pushed himself until he shook from exhaustion. About the way you swallowed your anger until it soured into something bitter.

We were supposed to make up afterwards.

With apologies that were mostly touches. With laughter that came out wet and cracked because you’d scared yourselves with how close you’d come to losing something important. With promises that you both knew you might break in small ways but would never break in the big one.

I won’t shut you out.

I won’t stay if you tell me to go.

I won’t go if you try to push me away.

I won’t walk into a storm without you.

We were supposed to have children, if the world ever got safe enough.

They would have had your eyes. Or my temper. Or Nessa’s stubbornness, if this world insists on repeating its lessons.

We were supposed to grow old doing nothing spectacular.

Not saving the world.

Not fixing Oz in one grand gesture.

Just… living.

You with lines at the corners of your eyes from squinting at tiny print. Him with threads of silver in his hair and a wry smile when the new clerks came to him for advice as if he hadn’t once been the boy people walked past without seeing.

You’d have an armchair each, worn exactly to the shape of your bodies. You’d trade sections of the newspaper and snort at the way history would try to make sense of the things you’d lived through.

We were supposed to do all of this somewhere far away from both of them, Wizard and Witch and all their stories.

Boq read it once.

Then again.

The room shifted around him as the words sank in, not physically, but in that way the world sometimes did when someone said something so simple and so impossible it rearranged your understanding of where you stood.

Somewhere far away from both of them.

Wizard and Witch and all their stories.

He looked up.

At the thick beams Glinda had checked with sacks and cows.

At the wide, sturdy table that would probably outlive them.

At the window, where the little internal garden rustled in the night breeze, plants already plotting to climb the stone.

This room was painted by the city’s light, yes. It was inside the Palace walls, yes. It was also, undeniably, not green.

It wasn’t the little hill house you’d written about.

But it was a start.

He looked back down at the page.

At we were supposed to, written over and over, like an incantation against the way the world had broken.

He could see you writing it, suddenly.

At your old table, maybe. Late. Candle guttering. Ink thick on your fingers from work and from this. The days when his letters had stopped coming, when Nessa’s silence had stretched into something sharp enough to cut on.

You’d written this like a ledger of all the futures you thought you’d lost.

He’d been so sure he was the only one who’d let himself dream specifics.

House, garden, arguments about bread.

You had too.

His metal fingers tightened around the paper, careful not to tear it.

“I won’t walk into a storm without you,” he read under his breath.

He thought of you on the mountain, Toto tucked to your chest, boots slipping on loose stone while he reached for you.

He thought of you in the road, face white as you watched the house lift off in the distance with Dorothy inside and still, still insisting you were going after her.

He thought of you this morning, standing in the stripped-bare suite, offering, without flinching, to go to Munchkinland and face his family with him.

He’d tried to keep you out of the worst of the weather.

You’d gone anyway.

Because you were supposed to.

Because we were supposed to.

His chest ached.

Not the grinding ache of rust.

Something else. Something softer and more terrifying.

There was a watch where a heart should be, ticking too fast.

Maybe that was enough.

He smoothed the letter once, reverent, then folded it along the creases you’d already made.

Not back into fourths the way it had been, into smaller, narrower strips, until it fit neatly behind the thin panel inside his chestplate, tucked beside the watch.

He hesitated.

Then, with hands that only trembled a little, he pressed the catch and opened the panel.

The ticking heart-shape gleamed up at him.

He slid the folded paper into the narrow space behind it, careful not to interfere with the gears.

A flimsy thing, really.

Just ink and pulp and the weight of everything you’d wanted.

He could feel it once the panel closed.

Not physically. Not like the watch. More like… knowledge. That he was carrying it. That if someone asked what moved him, he could tap a hand against his chest and know the lie of “nothing” would ring hollow.

“We were supposed to grow old doing nothing spectacular,” he murmured.

He’d failed the “nothing spectacular” part pretty thoroughly.

Tin bodies and melted witches and defied Wizards and restructured governments.

But the rest?

Maybe not lost.

Not all of it.

Not yet.

He stood there for another long moment, listening to the watch and the echo of your words, the new room stretching around him like a question.

Then he blew out the lamp.

You’d meant “an hour.”

You’d come in just under two.

The door clicked soft as you eased it open, as if you weren’t sure whether he’d be awake.

He was.

He’d moved the boxes, almost without realizing, stacked the empty ones in one corner, half-unpacked the ones with your clothes. Your boots stood neatly by the door. Your ink had its own place on the table now.

You stopped just inside the threshold, taking it all in.

“You started without me,” you said.

Guilt flared.

“I…” he began.

“Good,” you cut in, surprising him. “Because if I had to argue with the bed frame and the table and you, I’d go right back to my old suite and sleep on the floor out of spite.”

He huffed out a laugh.

You closed the door behind you, leaning back against it for a moment as if the day had been heavier than your shoulders could be expected to carry.

Your eyes found his.

He wondered if you could see it.

The weight behind the metal, the way something in him had shifted since he’d opened that letter. The way we were supposed to had stopped sounding like a eulogy and started sounding, very faintly, like a to-do list.

“Long day?” he asked, because he didn’t trust himself to say you wrote it down without his voice doing something humiliating.

“Long life,” you said, and pushed off the door. “But… good, today. Mostly.”

You came to him, reached up, and brushed your fingers lightly over the edge of his chestplate, right above where the watch and the letter sat.

“How’s your… interior decor?” you asked, because of course you couldn’t just say heart.

His throat clicked.

“Improving,” he said. “I added something.”

Your brows rose.

“Secret?” you asked.

“For now,” he said. “Until I work out how many of those ‘we were supposed to’s I can still negotiate.”

Your mouth parted.

A flush climbed your neck, slow and stunned.

“You read it,” you whispered.

“I did,” he said. “You called me ‘you’ and ‘he’ and argued with yourself on my behalf. Very thorough. Very you.”

You made a strangled noise.

“In my defense,” you said, mortified, “I didn’t think anyone would ever read that. It was…” You flapped a hand. “A grief exercise.”

“I noticed,” he said. “I also noticed that your grief exercise involved an awful lot of complaints about hypothetical gardening.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands.

“Boq…”

He caught your wrists, gently.

“I like it,” he said. “The house on the hill. The arguments about nothing. The armchairs.”

Your eyes flicked up, searching his.

He held your gaze.

“We can’t have children who inherit Nessa’s stubbornness,” he said. “Oz doesn’t deserve that. But the rest… we might yet owe this ridiculous world a little normal.”

It was the closest he’d come to saying I want to build that with you.

You heard it.

Of course you did.

Your shoulders eased.

Your smile, when it came, was small and real and a little damp around the edges.

“Well,” you said. “We can practice the armchairs here first. For research.”

He looked past you at the two solid chairs by the hearth, the ones Glinda had had tested with grain and cow.

“Research,” he agreed.

You squeezed his hands once more, then stepped back, yawning.

“I’m going to wash up,” you said. “Try not to reorganize my socks by color while I’m gone.”

He tilted his head.

“Would that be unwelcome?” he asked.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” you said, and disappeared into the little washroom.

He smiled to himself.

For the first time, when he looked around the room, he didn’t see a place he might break.

He saw a place you might both live.

He touched his chest lightly, feeling the faint, ridiculous awareness of folded paper and tick-tick-tick underneath.

“We were supposed to,” he murmured.

Maybe, starting now, you still were.

🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚 🌪️ 🌈 💚

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[coolcatcamila]

I been laughing ever since reading this lol ^^

Wicked for good - AU ✨ENJOY IT or don’t idc

Weeks passed after graduation.

Warm, golden weeks filled with little routines that slowly became precious without either of them realizing it at first.

Morning walks through Emerald City streets.

Late-night conversations under lantern light.

Camila stealing bites of Boq’s desserts while insisting she “just wanted a taste.”

Boq carrying things for her even when she absolutely did not need help.

And kisses.

So many kisses now that neither of them panicked anymore afterward.

Well—

Camila didn’t panic.

Boq still occasionally forgot how to function.

But one quiet evening, something shifted.

Boq knew.

It happened while Camila was asleep beside him on a blanket near the hills outside the city, her head resting against his shoulder while the sunset painted the sky gold and pink.

She’d fallen asleep halfway through telling him a story.

One hand still loosely held his.

And Boq looked down at her with that same overwhelming feeling he always had around her.

Home.

The lantern necklace glowed faintly against her collarbone in the fading light.

Home.

His chest tightened softly.

And suddenly the thought appeared so clearly it almost startled him:

I want this forever.

Boq stared at her sleeping face for a long moment afterward.

Then quietly whispered to himself:

“Oh no.”

Because now he had to propose.

Which was objectively terrifying.

—

The next morning, Fiyero found Boq pacing anxiously outside a café in Emerald City.

“You look haunted,” Fiyero observed.

“I’ve made a mistake.”

“That narrows nothing down.”

Boq grabbed both of his shoulders dramatically.

“I want to marry her.”

Fiyero blinked.

Then his face immediately lit up.

“Oh, finally.”

“Finally?!”

“You’ve looked ready to marry her since the racquetball incident.”

“That was a vulnerable time!”

Fiyero ignored him completely.

“So when are you proposing?”

Boq released him and resumed pacing instantly.

“That’s the problem.”

“You bought a ring already, didn’t you?”

Boq froze.

Fiyero gasped dramatically.

“You DID.”

“…Maybe.”

“BOQ.”

“I panicked in a jewelry shop!”

Fiyero started laughing so hard nearby pedestrians stared openly.

Boq buried his face in his hands.

“I’m serious! I walked past the display and suddenly imagined her wearing it and then I blacked out emotionally.”

“You are the most romantic disaster I’ve ever met.”

“I don’t know how to ask her.”

Fiyero’s expression softened slightly then.

For all the teasing, he genuinely cared.

“She loves you, idiot.”

“I know that.”

“Then what are you scared of?”

Boq hesitated.

Then admitted quietly:

“What if I mess up something important?”

That shut Fiyero up for a moment.

Boq looked down nervously.

“She deserves something perfect.”

Fiyero leaned against the railing beside him.

“You know what Camila actually loves most about you?”

Boq glanced over.

“You make her feel safe,” Fiyero said simply. “Loved. Seen.” He shrugged. “You could propose while falling down stairs and she’d probably still cry happy tears.”

“…That’s oddly comforting.”

“I’m wise occasionally.”

“Painful to hear.”

Fiyero smirked before nudging him lightly.

“So what’s the plan?”

Boq looked out toward the city thoughtfully.

Then slowly smiled.

“I think…” He swallowed nervously. “I know where I wanna ask her.”

And immediately afterward looked like he might throw up from nerves.

For the next several days, Boq Woodsman became a man possessed.

Not dangerous possessed.

Just romantically overwhelmed possessed.

Which, according to Fiyero, was somehow worse.

“You’ve checked the reservation six times,” Fiyero informed him while following Boq through Emerald City.

“What if they forget?”

“They won’t forget.”

“What if they give our table away?”

“Boq.”

“What if I faint before dessert?”

“That one feels possible.”

Boq groaned softly into his hands.

Because tonight was the night.

And somehow everything suddenly felt enormous.

The ring hidden safely in his coat pocket.

The speech he’d rewritten seventeen times.

The fact that one single question could change the rest of his life.

Meanwhile Camila knew absolutely nothing.

Which honestly felt like a miracle.

—

By sunset, the ocean cliffs beyond Emerald City glowed gold beneath the fading light.

Far below, waves crashed softly against the rocks while floating lanterns drifted through the evening air from nearby restaurants lining the coast.

Boq stood outside one of the most beautiful places along the shoreline trying desperately not to hyperventilate.

The restaurant overlooked the sea entirely.

Soft music floated through open windows.

Candles glimmered along every table.

And at the far edge of the terrace—

their reserved spot waited beneath hanging lanterns and white flowers, perfectly positioned beside the ocean view.

Boq stared at it nervously.

“…This is too beautiful. She’s going to suspect something.”

Fiyero adjusted Boq’s collar for the third time that evening.

“She already thinks you’re hopelessly romantic. You’re fine.”

“I don’t feel fine.”

“You haven’t felt fine since you fell in love.”

“That’s true.”

Fiyero stepped back finally, looking oddly emotional despite himself.

“You really love her, huh?”

Boq looked toward the empty table waiting by the ocean.

Then smiled softly.

“With everything I have.”

That answer hit harder than expected.

Fiyero cleared his throat quickly.

“Okay. Gross. I’m leaving before you start crying again.”

“I don’t cry that much.”

“You absolutely do.”

Before Boq could argue further, he spotted Camila approaching along the lantern-lit path toward the restaurant.

And immediately forgot how breathing worked.

She looked beautiful beneath the evening glow.

Simple.

Elegant.

Warm smile appearing the second she saw him standing there waiting for her.

Boq’s heart nearly gave out on the spot.

Camila slowed slightly as she took in the ocean view, the candles, the flowers, and finally him.

“…Boq.”

He suddenly became very aware that his hands were shaking.

“You made it.”

She laughed softly. “I think that’s usually how dates work.”

Boq smiled nervously.

Then held out his hand toward her.

And just like always—

she took it without hesitation.

The ocean breeze curled softly around them as he guided her toward the reserved table overlooking the water.

Lanterns reflected gold against the waves below.

Everything felt dreamlike.

Camila looked around in awe.

“This is gorgeous.”

Boq swallowed hard.

“You deserve gorgeous things.”

That immediately made her soften.

“Oh,” she murmured warmly. “You’re being extra sweet tonight.”

If only she knew.

The waiter pulled out her chair while Boq sat across from her, trying very hard to act normal despite the ring box currently feeling like it weighed fifty pounds in his pocket.

Camila noticed his nervousness almost instantly.

“You okay?”

Boq answered far too quickly.

“Yes.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“…Boq.”

“I’m okay.”

“You look like you’re about to either confess a crime or throw up.”

“…Possibly both.”

Camila burst out laughing while Boq rubbed his face helplessly.

And despite the terror clawing at his chest—

he couldn’t stop smiling at her.

The waiter finally collected their menus with a polite smile and disappeared toward the kitchen.

And the second he left—

Boq internally collapsed.

Because now there was nothing distracting him anymore.

No menus.

No ordering.

No pretending to analyze appetizers while secretly rehearsing proposal speeches in his head.

Just him.

Camila.

The ocean.

And the tiny velvet ring box burning a hole through his coat pocket.

Boq smiled a little too brightly.

“So.”

Camila immediately noticed.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“That’s your panic smile.”

“I don’t have a panic smile.”

“You absolutely do.”

Boq grabbed his water glass immediately and took a sip to buy himself time.

Unfortunately, he swallowed wrong.

Now he was coughing too.

Camila stared at him with growing amusement.

“…Boq.”

“I’m okay.”

“You’re unraveling.”

“I’m being mysterious.”

“You look like you’re fighting demons.”

“That too.”

Camila laughed softly, the candlelight catching warm gold in her eyes.

And honestly?

That nearly made things worse.

Because now Boq was thinking about how beautiful she looked.

Which led directly to thinking about marrying her.

Which led directly to:

OH OZ I’M GOING TO ASK HER TO MARRY ME.

His leg started bouncing anxiously beneath the table.

Camila reached across gently, resting her hand over his.

Instant calm.

Every time.

“There,” she whispered teasingly. “Better?”

Boq looked down at her hand over his.

Then back up at her face.

And suddenly his nervousness shifted.

Still there.

Still terrifying.

But softer somehow.

Because it was her.

Just Camila.

The same girl who laughed at his terrible flirting, wiped tears off his face, taught him racquetball, and kissed him after a Pocky challenge.

The same girl who stayed.

Boq squeezed her hand gently.

“You know something?” he said quietly.

“What?”

“I still get nervous around you.”

Camila smiled immediately.

“Good nervous?”

“The kind where I care too much.”

Her expression melted a little.

“That’s not a bad thing.”

“I know.” He laughed softly under his breath. “I just really want tonight to be perfect.”

Camila tilted her head curiously.

“Well now I’m suspicious.”

Boq froze.

“…Why?”

“You said that like someone hiding a secret.”

“I don’t have secrets.”

“Boq Woodsman.”

His soul nearly left his body.

Camila narrowed her eyes playfully.

“You’re acting weird.”

“I always act weird.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

Boq pointed at her accusingly. “You’re supposed to be helping me.”

“With what?”

“…Existing.”

She burst out laughing again.

And the sound settled his nerves for one brief, precious moment.

Then the waiter returned with drinks.

Boq nearly jumped out of his chair.

Camila tried—and failed—to hide her smile as Boq nearly levitated out of his chair when the waiter set down their drinks.

“You are unbelievably jumpy tonight.”

“I’m elegant under pressure.”

“You almost screamed at a bread basket five minutes ago.”

“It arrived aggressively.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head while the ocean breeze drifted across the terrace.

For a moment, they both sat quietly listening to the waves below the cliffs.

The lanterns overhead swayed gently in the evening wind, casting warm gold light across Boq’s nervous face.

Camila studied him for a second.

Then smiled more softly.

“Hey,” she murmured.

Boq looked up immediately.

“Mhm?”

“Look outside for a second.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Just do it.”

Still suspicious, Boq turned toward the ocean.

The view was breathtaking.

Moonlight shimmered across endless dark water while waves rolled slowly against the rocks below. Lantern reflections danced gold across the surface, soft and dreamlike.

Boq exhaled quietly.

“It’s beautiful.”

But then—

his eyes shifted.

Not to the ocean.

To the reflection in the window beside it.

Camila.

The candlelight softened every feature of her face while the lantern necklace glowed faintly against her skin. She was watching him with that same warm expression she always got when she thought he wasn’t looking.

And suddenly the ocean disappeared completely from his mind.

Because somehow she was still the most beautiful thing in front of him.

Camila noticed the exact second he stopped looking at the waves.

“…Boq?”

He turned back toward her slowly.

His expression had changed again.

Less panicked now.

More overwhelmed in the quietest, most honest way.

“You tricked me,” he said softly.

She smiled innocently. “Did I?”

“You told me to look at the ocean.”

“You did.”

“No,” he murmured, unable to stop smiling a little. “I saw you instead.”

That hit her immediately.

Her cheeks warmed under the candlelight as Boq kept looking at her like he genuinely couldn’t help it.

The nervousness was still there.

But underneath it was something bigger.

Love so obvious it almost hurt to witness.

Camila leaned forward slightly across the table.

“That was smooth,” she admitted.

Boq blinked in surprise.

“…Really?”

“Mhm.”

“I didn’t plan it.”

“That’s probably why it worked.”

He laughed softly under his breath, finally relaxing just a little.

Then Camila tilted her head teasingly.

“So maybe stop worrying so much about being perfect.”

Boq looked at her carefully.

And for the first time that night—

he actually believed he might be okay.

Their food arrived soon after, carried out beneath warm lantern light while soft music drifted across the ocean terrace.

The second the plates touched the table, Camila’s eyes lit up.

Boq smiled immediately.

“There she is.”

“What?”

“The hungry version of you.”

“I’ve been exercising all day,” she defended. “I earned dramatic levels of hunger.”

Boq laughed softly while she immediately stole a bite before the waiter had even fully stepped away.

“Camila!”

“What? It’s good!”

“You attacked that pasta.”

“I regret nothing.”

Watching her enjoy herself settled his nerves more than anything else had all evening.

Because this was his favorite version of happiness.

Not grand speeches.

Not perfect moments.

Just Camila laughing with him over dinner while ocean waves crashed softly below the cliffs.

At one point she reached across the table to wipe sauce from the corner of his mouth.

Boq nearly died instantly.

“You’re staring again,” she teased.

“You touched my face unexpectedly.”

“That’s all it takes?”

“Yes.”

“Adorable.”

By the time dessert arrived, both of them were warm with laughter and full enough that Camila leaned back dramatically in her chair.

“I physically cannot move.”

“You said that before dessert.”

“That was before the cake appeared.”

Boq grinned helplessly.

Then Camila suddenly pulled out a small enchanted camera from her bag.

“Oh! Picture.”

Boq immediately panicked again.

“Why?”

“Because you look handsome tonight.”

That completely destroyed him.

Camila laughed while sliding her chair closer beside his until their shoulders touched.

“Come here.”

Boq obeyed automatically.

Of course he did.

She held up the camera while he still looked mildly overwhelmed by being called handsome.

The flash glimmered softly.

One picture.

Then another.

One where Camila kissed his cheek while Boq turned bright red.

Another where both of them were laughing too hard to pose properly.

And finally one quieter than the others—

their foreheads resting together beneath lantern light with the ocean behind them.

Camila looked at the final picture afterward and softened instantly.

“Oh,” she whispered. “I love this one.”

Boq looked too.

And his heart nearly burst.

Because they looked happy.

Real.

Like something permanent.

That terrifyingly wonderful feeling returned immediately.

Forever.

—

Later, after dinner ended and the restaurant slowly quieted around them, Boq offered her his hand.

“Wanna walk with me?”

Camila smiled softly. “Always.”

The ocean air felt cooler now as they wandered down a lantern-lit path leading toward the cliffside park nearby.

Trees swayed gently overhead while moonlight painted silver across the pathways and grass.

Camila walked close beside him, occasionally bumping his shoulder on purpose just to make him smile.

But Boq was getting quieter.

Nervous again.

Very nervous.

Because hidden safely in his coat pocket was still the ring.

And every step closer into the park made his heartbeat worse.

Camila noticed eventually.

“You okay?”

Boq nearly tripped over absolutely nothing.

“Mhm.”

“That sounded fake.”

“I’m walking.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Boq laughed weakly under his breath.

The park opened up ahead into a beautiful overlook above the ocean, glowing softly beneath hanging lanterns and moonlight.

Boq stopped there.

Camila turned toward him curiously.

And suddenly his pulse was so loud he was convinced she could hear it.

His hands shook slightly.

His throat went dry.

Okay.

Okay Boq.

Just ask her.

Simple.

Easy.

Absolutely horrifying.

Camila stayed quiet as Boq stopped near the overlook.

The ocean stretched endlessly behind him, waves crashing softly below the cliffs while lanterns glowed warm gold through the trees around them.

And Boq—

Boq looked terrified.

Not in a bad way.

Just deeply, sincerely nervous.

Camila noticed the way his hands kept flexing at his sides like he was trying to work up courage for something. His breathing was slightly uneven too.

But instead of interrupting, she simply watched him.

Patiently.

Warmly.

Boq looked out toward the ocean for a second before glancing back at her.

Then away again.

Then back.

His poor heart was visibly fighting for survival.

Camila smiled a little.

“You’re thinking very loudly right now.”

Boq laughed nervously.

“Sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize.”

That made him soften instantly.

The wind stirred gently through the park, moving her hair slightly in the moonlight while the lantern necklace glimmered softly against her chest.

Boq’s chest tightened painfully with love.

She was watching him so carefully.

Like she already knew something important was happening and wanted to make it easier for him somehow.

That nearly undid him.

Camila tilted her head slightly.

“What’s going on in that brain of yours?”

Boq swallowed hard.

“A lot.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“It probably is.”

She laughed softly under her breath, still watching him.

Still waiting.

Not pushing.

And somehow that made him even more emotional.

Because after everything they’d survived together…

she still looked at him gently.

Still trusted him with her heart.

Boq took one slow breath.

Then another.

And finally stepped closer to her beneath the lantern light.

Camila’s smile faded into something softer immediately.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Boq looked at her for a long moment.

Then reached carefully into his coat pocket.

And instantly forgot how words worked.

Boq’s fingers trembled slightly as he pulled the small velvet box from his coat pocket.

The second Camila saw it, her breath caught.

“Oh my god…”

Boq looked moments away from fainting directly into the ocean.

But even through the fear, he stepped closer.

Then slowly—

carefully—

he lowered himself onto one knee beneath the lantern light.

Camila immediately covered her mouth with both hands.

Her eyes were already shining.

Boq looked up at her, overwhelmed beyond words for a moment before finally laughing softly at himself.

“I had a speech planned,” he admitted shakily. “A really good one actually.”

Camila laughed through the tears already forming.

“What happened to it?”

“You happened.”

That nearly destroyed her immediately.

The ocean wind curled softly around them while lanterns swayed overhead, casting gold light across Boq’s face as he opened the ring box with trembling hands.

Inside rested a delicate ring that caught the moonlight like a star.

Boq swallowed hard.

Then finally spoke.

Not perfectly.

Not polished.

Just honest.

Like him.

“Before you,” he began quietly, “I spent so much of my life feeling small.”

Camila’s expression crumbled softly.

“You walked into my world and somehow made me feel seen.” He smiled shakily. “Not for what I could become. Not for who I was trying to impress people into believing I was.” His voice softened. “Just me.”

A tear slipped down Camila’s cheek.

Boq kept going, eyes never leaving hers now.

“You saved my life before I even realized you’d become my home.”

The lantern necklace glowed faintly against her chest.

Home.

Boq’s voice trembled slightly as he continued.

“So I wrote something for you.”

Camila pressed her hands tighter over her mouth as he took one unsteady breath before reciting softly:

“If love were loud,

perhaps I’d never understand it.

Because ours lived quietly first—

in nervous glances,

shaky hands,

and the space between almost-touching.

You found me in moments

I thought would break me.

And somehow,

every version of my future

began looking like you.

Like your laugh in the morning.

Like your hand finding mine in crowds.

Like the way you say my name

when I’m afraid.

You are the reason

the world stopped feeling lonely.

You are every safe place

I never thought I deserved.

And if I spend the rest of my life

loving you badly at first

and then better every day after—

I think that would still be

the happiest story I could ever live.”

By the end, Camila was openly crying.

Boq laughed weakly through his own tears.

“Okay, now I’m crying too.”

“You idiot,” she whispered emotionally.

“I know.”

He looked down at the ring once before back up at her with all the love in the world written plainly across his face.

“Camila…”

His voice nearly broke on her name.

“I don’t know what the future looks like.” He smiled shakily. “But I know I want every part of it with you.”

Then finally:

“Will you marry me?”

Camila laughed through her tears, hands still covering her mouth as Boq knelt there beneath the lantern light looking terrified and hopeful all at once.

Boq Woodsman and Camila had found their way back to each other every single time.

And hand in hand beneath the lanterns and stars of Oz—

they chose each other forever.

[coolcatcamila]

Wicked for Good as Wolves!!! I mean I can’t draw people as well so I manly try to draw them in an animal form.

[coolcatcamila]

Here some more to the story am making. It a work in progress plus am not much of a writer myself sooo it will take some time.

Tell me if you can see it. 😅

[coolcatcamila]

Working on a little story on theme of Wicked for good. Here a little bonus. ❤️

[madmaxified]

𖤝 wicked masterlist

will write for: galinda upland, & elphaba thropp

glinda upland.

jealous galinda headcannons

[multifamdomfan]

Hi, Wicked fans! I want to make a Wicked OC and I was wondering if Dev Patel looks like he could be the Wizard's son? I like to give my OC faceclaims so that's why I am asking