Tension & Regret™
Elphaba had one goal today: get organized and ignore the inconvenient feelings trying to claw their way to the surface.
She had her books stacked, syllabi printed, and pens laid out with the precision of a surgeon. If she stayed busy, if she hyper-focused on being prepared, she wouldn’t think about what happened at breakfast. Wouldn’t think about the way Glinda had smirked at her, how she had laced her fingers through Fiyero’s like a deliberate performance. She wouldn’t think about how much it had worked.
Except now, Glinda was in her room. With Fiyero. And Elphaba could hear everything.
The laughter first, light and breathy, borderline flirtatious—the kind of sound designed to be overheard. Then the low murmur of Fiyero’s voice, smooth, easygoing, the way he always was. Then a muffled sound—movement, shifting, the unmistakable noise of a body being pressed against something soft.
Elphaba’s jaw clenched.
Her pen hovered over her notebook, a problem she definitely wasn’t solving half-written on the page. She should leave. She should not be listening. But her muscles locked, her breath slowed, and she just—
Listened.
The rustle of sheets. A soft giggle. Glinda’s voice, playful, teasing, low enough that Elphaba shouldn’t be able to hear it, but she could.
—
“Fiyero,” Glinda purred, a deliberate whine in her voice. “You’re so impatient.”
A chuckle from him, deep, smug. “Can you blame me?”
-
Elphaba’s fingers tightened around her pen, her throat dry, burning.
Another noise—a sharp inhale, a low moan.
She definitely should not be listening.
But the problem was, she wasn’t just hearing it. She was feeling it.
She squeezed her eyes shut, but that only made it worse. Her brain filled in the gaps she couldn’t see—the way Glinda must be sprawled across her bed, the way Fiyero’s hands must be on her, the way her lips must be parting against his skin—
Elphaba shot up from her chair so fast her books nearly toppled.
Nope. No. Absolutely not.
-
Glinda had been doing this on purpose.
Not entirely, at first. It had started as a need for distraction—a need to prove a point, to herself more than anyone else.
Fiyero was easy. Effortless. He wanted her, and she could let herself be wanted. It made sense.
But then she heard it—the slight shift of movement in the common area, the way Elphaba hadn’t left.
And suddenly, she found herself leaning into the game.
She arched beneath Fiyero’s hands, let out a breathier-than-necessary sigh, just to see what would happen. Would Elphaba stay? Would she leave? Would she care?
Fiyero took it as encouragement, his lips dragging along her neck. “Mm, you’re distracted.”
Glinda forced a giggle, threading her fingers through his hair. “No, I’m not.”
Liar.
His hands slid lower, slipping beneath the hem of her top, fingers trailing across her skin. Glinda shivered, but it wasn’t just from him—it was from the knowledge that just outside her door, Elphaba was still there. Listening.
“Are you sure?” Fiyero murmured, voice thick with amusement. He dipped his head, kissing just below her ear, nipping at the sensitive skin. “Because you feel a little… distracted.”
Glinda exhaled, slow and deliberate, pressing her body against his. She was playing a game, but she was also losing herself in it.
“Shut up and kiss me,” she whispered.
Fiyero chuckled but obeyed, his mouth capturing hers, his hands roaming with slow, practiced ease. Glinda let herself sink into it, letting the warmth of his body press against her, the steady weight of him grounding her even as something in her refused to settle. She sighed into his mouth, parting her lips just enough to let him deepen the kiss, let her breath hitch, let the sound drift just loud enough that it would be impossible for Elphaba to ignore.
Fiyero’s grip tightened, his palm trailing down her thigh, fingertips pressing into her skin just hard enough to leave a mark. Glinda gasped, barely holding back a breathy moan as she tilted her head, exposing more of her neck for his lips to claim. The feeling was dizzying, the heat of his mouth, the rough scrape of his stubble against her jaw—but her mind was elsewhere.
She let Fiyero shift her beneath him, let her back press into the mattress as his hands gripped her hips, but she wasn’t thinking about him anymore. Not really. Not when she was imagining green fingers curling into fists, a sharp jaw clenched, dark eyes burning even though Elphaba would never admit it.
She tangled her fingers in Fiyero’s shirt, pulling him closer, letting her own breath hitch as he pressed her into the mattress.
Another sound slipped from her lips—this one genuine.
And that was when she heard it.
A sudden noise outside. A chair scraping. A door opening, forceful, loud.
Elphaba had just left her room.
Glinda stilled, something hot and dark curling in her stomach.
“Oh?” Fiyero hummed, oblivious, trailing kisses down her collarbone. “Now you’re really into it.”
Glinda barely heard him. Her heart was pounding, but for a very different reason.
She had won.
And somehow, it didn’t feel like a victory.
-
More sounds. Soft murmurs. The rustle of sheets. A hushed moan.
Elphaba gritted her teeth. Fiyero was an idiot. A charming idiot, but an idiot nonetheless. And Glinda—
Glinda was proving a point.
Elphaba could almost admire the audacity.
Except for the fact that it was working.
She stormed toward the door, half-blind with something she refused to name. Anger. That’s all it was. Frustration at the sheer audacity of this situation. At the fact that Glinda had to know she could be heard.
And maybe that was the point.
Elphaba barely registered storming into the common area, her pulse pounding in her ears, rage simmering just under the surface. She wasn’t even sure where she was going—just away from the sounds and the implications and the absolute audacity of it all.
And then, of course, Glinda’s door cracked open a minute later, like she had been waiting for this.
Glinda leaned against the frame, smug, flushed, glowing, and wearing an expression that made Elphaba’s teeth grind. Self-satisfied. Victorious. "Oh, sorry. Was I too loud?"
And worst of all? Not alone.
Fiyero was still there, standing just behind her, his shirt rumpled, his hair a little out of place, looking exactly like a man who had spent the last hour doing exactly what Elphaba had heard.
Elphaba’s stomach twisted violently. Her hands curled into fists at her sides, fingernails biting into her palms.
She wasn’t mad because of Glinda. Not in the way Glinda thought, anyway.
She was mad because this was stupid.
Because Fiyero had a history of playing things off as a game, and Glinda had a history of not knowing when she was being used. Because the second Fiyero got bored, he’d move on, and Glinda would laugh it off like it never mattered, but Elphaba knew better.
And Glinda was too smart to be playing stupid.
Fiyero chuckled lazily, like this was all one big joke. His arm slid around Glinda’s waist, pulling her back against him. "Don’t worry, Elphaba, we’ll try to keep it down next time."
Elphaba saw red.
Her glare snapped to him, and the weight of it must have landed because for once in his charmed little life, Fiyero actually looked uncomfortable.
"Oh, for Oz’s sake, go away," she snapped, voice cutting, clipped. "Unless you suddenly developed self-awareness, you have nothing left to contribute."
Fiyero blinked, glancing between them like he had just walked into a very different conversation than the one he thought he was having. His lips twitched, like he was about to make another joke— but something in Elphaba’s expressionmust have made him think better of it.
He exhaled loudly, stepping back, hands raised in mock surrender. "Fine, fine. I know when I’m not wanted."
He pressed a quick, infuriatingly casual kiss to Glinda’s temple and sauntered toward the door, flashing a smirk over his shoulder. "Try not to kill each other, yeah?"
Elphaba didn’t blink. "No promises."
Fiyero laughed and left.
The door clicked shut.
And suddenly, it was just them.
Elphaba should have walked away. Should have said something cutting and ended this. But she didn’t move. Neither did Glinda.
The silence between them stretched too long, too thick, too dangerous.
Glinda shifted first, crossing her arms over her chest, her chin tilting just enough to look up at Elphaba—a carefully practiced expression of detached superiority.
"What’s the matter, Elphie?" Glinda cooed, faux innocence coating every syllable. "I thought you’d be happy. You’re always complaining about me being too much, and here I am, keeping myself very occupied."
Elphaba’s jaw clenched. "I don’t care what you do."
"Mmm." Glinda’s eyes sparkled, a predator scenting blood. "Then why do you look like you’re about to snap that very expensive pen in half?"
Elphaba glanced down. The pen in her hand—her favorite, because of course she had a favorite—was dangerously close to breaking. She forced herself to loosen her grip, but it was too late.
Glinda laughed, low and delighted. "Oh, this is too good. You’re actually mad."
Elphaba bristled. "I’m not—"
"You are," Glinda purred, stepping closer. "What was it? The moaning? The sheets? Or was it just knowing exactly how my lipstick got smeared?"
Elphaba took a step forward before she could stop herself. Too close, too fast.
Glinda didn’t step back.
She should have.
The air between them felt static, electric, unbearable. Glinda’s smirk had faded, but her eyes—blue, bright, dangerous—hadn’t lost their edge.
"Tell me, Elphie," she murmured, voice dipping low, velvet-wrapped steel. "What exactly about Fiyero fucking me made you so mad?"
Elphaba’s pulse hammered in her throat. Her breathing shallow, sharp, uneven.
Her teeth ground together. "He’s not serious about you. And you don’t even care."
Glinda blinked. For a moment, just a flicker, something raw crossed her expression. The kind of hesitation that spoke louder than words. A crack in the carefully maintained performance, a flicker of something vulnerable beneath the veneer of arrogance. A crack in the carefully maintained performance, a flash of something that looked almost like recognition—like she knew Elphaba was onto her but hated that it had been said aloud. At this rate, Elphaba would see who was using who soon enough.
Her lips parted, but no words came. She could have laughed it off, could have twisted the moment back into something light, something inconsequential. But she didn't. Instead, her throat bobbed as she swallowed hard, her arms folding across her stomach like she could physically hold herself together. Her hands clenched at her sides before she smoothed them down her nightshirt, a movement so deliberate it almost masked the tension in her shoulders.
Elphaba saw it—the briefest glimpse of something real, something unguarded. And then, like a snapped rubber band, it was gone. Swallowed whole, replaced by something lighter, something teasing. Her lips curved—not into a smirk, but something softer, more dangerous.
Glinda exhaled, tilting her head just slightly, as if she had just settled on a decision. Her lashes fluttered, a slow, deliberate motion, and when she finally spoke, her voice was velvet-soft, dangerous in its ease. "Oh, Elphie," she murmured, stepping closer, so close Elphaba could feel the warmth radiating off her. "If you were that concerned, you could’ve offered to keep me entertained instead."
Elphaba’s entire body went rigid. The air felt thick, oppressive, like the walls of the dorm had closed in around them.
She didn’t take the bait. She didn’t snap back with something cutting or cruel.
Instead, her voice was quiet. Dangerous.
"Stop calling me that."
Glinda’s smirk faltered, just for a second.
Elphaba didn’t wait for a response. She turned sharply on her heel and walked away, leaving Glinda standing there, the taste of victory turning strange on her tongue.