Small, soft, so infuriatingly delicate
The first time Glinda kissed Elphaba, it had been a tease—soft, fleeting, meant to be brushed off as a silly, impulsive mistake.
The second time? Well. That was different.
Elphaba was pacing, back and forth across the dormitory floor, her long fingers threading through the dark waves of her hair, muttering to herself like a woman possessed.
“It was just a joke,” she hissed under her breath. “A stupid, foolish—” she stopped, exhaling sharply. Her lips still burned.
Glinda, lounging against the headboard of her bed, watched her with a smirk that held just the slightest edge of something darker. Something hungry.
“Oh, Elphie,” she finally purred, stretching like a cat who knew exactly what it had done. “You’re so fun when you’re unraveling.”
Elphaba whirled on her, golden eyes blazing. “I am not unraveling!”
Glinda’s lips curled. She stood.
The air between them shifted, thick and crackling like a spell gone rogue.
“Then why,” Glinda murmured, stepping closer, “won’t you look at me?”
Elphaba’s jaw clenched, her fingers twitching at her sides. She didn’t look, not even as Glinda moved into her space, the scent of sweet rosewater and something unmistakably her curling around Elphaba like a spell she couldn’t break.
“I—” Elphaba swallowed, but it was no use. Glinda was right there, inches away, looking up at her with a mix of challenge and something softer, something devastating.
“Tell me to stop.”
Elphaba’s throat went dry.
Glinda’s fingers—small, soft, so infuriatingly delicate—traced up her arm, slow and teasing, dragging fire in their wake.
“Tell me,” Glinda whispered again, eyes locked on hers, lips hovering just close enough to be a threat.
Elphaba was shaking. She could feel it, the way her body betrayed her, heat pooling in places she refused to acknowledge.
“This is—” her voice faltered as Glinda pressed closer, her breath warm against Elphaba’s jaw, lips barely grazing green skin in a way that made her exhale sharply, like she’d been burned.
“Wrong?” Glinda asked. Her hand slid higher, grazing Elphaba’s neck. Her nails dragged just a little.
Elphaba sucked in a breath.
It was torture—the good kind. The kind that made her knees weak and her head light and her resolve shatter into dust.
Glinda knew.
“Then say it,” she dared, her lips brushing Elphaba’s ear now, her voice low and smooth like honey dripping slow.
Elphaba’s hands fisted at her sides.
Her whole world narrowed to the pulse between them, the whisper of fabric, the unbearable, aching closeness.
Glinda leaned in.
Elphaba broke.
With a choked sound, she snapped—one hand gripping Glinda’s waist, the other sliding up into her hair, pulling her in like she was something Elphaba needed to survive.
Glinda barely had time to gasp before Elphaba kissed her like she meant it.
It was not soft. It was not careful. It was a storm—hot and desperate and years of restraint unraveling in a single, reckless moment.
Glinda whimpered—actually whimpered—and Elphaba swallowed the sound, deepening the kiss, pressing her back until Glinda hit the wall with a quiet thud.
“Elphie—”
Elphaba wasn’t listening. She was drunk on this—on Glinda’s nails dragging down her spine, the way her breath hitched when Elphaba’s tongue skimmed the edge of her teeth.
“I hate you,” Elphaba murmured between kisses, lips trailing along Glinda’s jaw now, down the slope of her neck.
Glinda laughed, breathless, fingers tugging harder at Elphaba’s collar.
“You really don’t.”
Elphaba bit down, just enough to make her gasp.
“Oh, Oz,” Glinda whispered.
And Elphaba just smirked.