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We were in a race to grow up
Yesterday through today 'til tomorrow
– Nettles by Ethel Cain
Glinda couldn’t tell you how it started even if you held a gun to her head. The years in the Emerald City have a tendency to blur. A haze of unreality covered in layers of alcohol and parties, excitement like bubbles of another variety. Beneath it all a desire to forget as unease settles in her gut heavy and rotting like a dying thing. So perhaps it should be a sign that one of her clearest memories from her time here is when Nessarose arrived for her first visit as the new Eminent Thropp ruling over Munchkinland.
Glinda remembers the set of her shoulders, the tension in her jaw and the stern expression that brooked no argument. Glinda knows this was never supposed to be her role. But here she was. Her father died too young, his death hastened along by the treachery of the Wicked Witch, or so the whispers go. (Glinda can’t say she much misses the man she met at that train station years ago.) The nail in the coffin for Nessa’s ascent was the departure of that same witch who happens to be her older sister. There she went, gone with the wind. Leaving only Nessa with resentment growing in her heart.
Brown eyes had sought out her own in an act of desperation. (When their eyes met that first time Glinda was startled to find it felt like staring into a mirror. A pair of mournful guarded brown eyes staring back at her. So similar to her own.) There is a familiarity not simply from their time at Shiz, but from recognition of the other. Having responsibility placed on shoulders that feel unable to carry it, much too young.
Perhaps that is how it started. Finding in the other a companion, a confidant, someone with whom to share the burden of rule. Neither of them wholly prepared for what they would be thrust into after their Shiz bubble popped. They would sit together in Glinda’s room to drink and reminisce. Doing their utmost not to mention the name of the person that lingers in the room with them. (Elphaba exists like a ghost, a haunting between them.) She exists in Glinda’s memories in her love and desire. But also in the ways Nessa is alike to her sister even as she tries to deny it, tries to resist it. Glinda sees it in the way she dresses, the way she laughs, the shape of her eyes.
And so no one should have been surprised when on one such evening, inebriated and lost in a haze of memory, Glinda leaned in and kissed her. What was a surprise was that Nessa kissed her back.
And what a revelation that first kiss was. And then it kept happening over and over and over again. Until it spiralled from chaste kisses into heavy petting into the sexual encounters they now enjoy. (Perhaps it was more of a revelation for Glinda who has always denied where her desires truly lie. Harder to lie to yourself with your face buried between another woman’s thighs. Glinda can’t find it within herself to care for Fiyero’s role in her life. They are simply two horses hitched together, forced to pull a cart which neither of them particularly wants to drag along with them.) In any case, the encounters keep happening whenever Nessa is in the city. A way for them to unwind. Or if Glinda is honest with herself which she rarely is, a way to fill a void with the other.
There is an ease to it. Neither of them has any particularly strong feelings, no romantic intentions getting in the way. No risk of hearts being broken. It is a simple equation really. Two young women with too much power who can’t seek out comfort with anybody else. Behind closed doors, they seek bliss before they part ways again for months on end.
The first time they let the kissing flourish and progress into something more, Glinda was surprised to find that she knew exactly where all the hidden buttons and clasps were on Nessa’s dress. It was a dress that reminded her of those black frocks which Elphie had worn at Shiz. She remembers how after they became friends she would sometimes help Elphaba when a particular button was being difficult, or when she simply offered to help a friend out. (A barely hidden desire to be close to her.) She recollects a memory of revealing skin with a flick of her wrist, wishing now that she had been braver back then to reach out and touch when she heard a sharp intake of breath. (Or perhaps wishful thinking makes her misremember.)
These days Glinda makes up for time lost to cowardice. When her hands release the clasps from their familiar holds now, her hands touch exposed flesh with a self-assurance her past self could only dream of.
Neither of them ever touches on why they seek each other out. Not for years while their arrangement continues. Glinda avoids speaking on it, knowing Nessa’s resentment of her sister lingers. (When she speaks to dignitaries, Elphaba is always merely the Wicked Witch. Glinda follows suit. Her name doesn’t leave her lips in Nessa’s presence.) In turn, Nessa never divulges her own reasons for taking Glinda to bed.
Perhaps it was always bound to come to a head, when Glinda slips up. They are situated on her bed in the Emerald Palace. Nessa propped against the pillows as Glinda straddles one of her thighs. Both of them as naked as the day they were born. Her mind too far away, too dazed by sensation as the green walls of her room haunt her. The name falls from her lips without conscious thought, pure instinct, buried beneath the haze of a dream. “Elphie,” Glinda releases the name with a moan of pleasure.
Nessa’s hand tightens in the hair at the nape of her neck. She pulls sharply on the hair, drawing Glinda’s head back with a suddenness that hurts. Glinda groans at the sensation. Warm lips drift from her lips to her neck. The exposed column of her neck left exposed to an assault as she is unable to lean away from the strong grip on her hair. (Nessa is surprisingly strong, Glinda has found. Perhaps she shouldn’t be surprised as she has felt the callouses on her hands when they touched her body.) Such thoughts vacate her mind when the pinpricks of pain from the pull on roots of her hair is overshadowed by the sting from the bite on her neck. Glinda inhales sharply, as pain mixes with pleasure in a heady concoction that makes her want to drive her hips down to gain friction. Nessarose’s mouth sucks on the skin, aiming to bruise and claim and mark. Glinda’s hands cradle her head close.
When she releases the skin with a pop, Glinda feels a shiver run through her body. Nessa speaks flippantly as if Glinda didn’t just cross an invisible boundary by moaning her sister’s name while in bed together, “That is the first time you slipped up in years. I have to say I’m impressed, when we were at Shiz her name was close to every second word to leave your mouth.” The last words are said derisively, scornfully.
She lets the words settle between them for a moment, organising her thoughts. Glinda has always been good at steering the conversation, at shaping the narrative. She pulls away slightly from their close entanglement to look her in the eye, “Even if I didn’t say it, you knew what this was about. Others might underestimate you, but I see the keen intelligence in your eyes. You knew, admit it.”
Nessarose tucks a sweaty blonde lock of hair behind her ear to expose the bruise she determinedly sucked into her skin. Her hand runs over the purple mark reverently. A smile pulling at her lips. Glinda can’t quite read the emotion behind it, even as close as they have grown in many regards they are still a mystery to the other. (Intimacy without vulnerability.) Nessa’s eyes travel across her face, she briefly meets Glinda’s brown eyes which stare at her with quiet defiance.
She contemplates that look before replying, “I figured you were having sex with me, because the woman you actually wanted was out of reach. And I think all of Shiz could see that who you desired was my sister.” (The last word has a certain venom to it that can only come from deep hurt and betrayal. Glinda elects not to comment on it.)
“Yes, I wanted her though I didn’t know it at the time,” Glinda confesses as she chooses her next words carefully, “That desire has not abated, not even after her departure.”
Nessa snorts at her choice of words, “You always have such a delicate way with words, Your Goodness.” The title is a mockery on her lips. Glinda relishes in the quiet rebellion of releasing the power it's supposed to wield, of forgoing reverence. (She likes her disregard for the title, likes the way she doesn’t treat her like a doll made of glass. Glinda thinks mayhaps that is what Nessa seeks from her as well.)
“If you knew all this time that she was on my mind when we were together, then why continue with this arrangement? What are you getting out of this?” Glinda questions even as she wants to stop the words from pouring out. She does not wish to end their dalliance.
Nessa’s finger winds around one of the sweaty curls at the nape of her neck. Glinda braces herself for the expected pain, but instead the finger wanders through the blonde locks to soothe the knots that have formed there. She hums before offering Glinda what at first appears to be a non sequitur, “Boq broke my heart when he left me.”
Glinda tilts her head consideringly. She reads the pain in brown eyes and hoping to alleviate that pain she tries for levity, her oldest companion in times of conflict. “Bick, you mean,” she retorts jokingly. She knows full well what his name is by now, but there is an ease in falling back on old worn jokes. It pulls a wry smile from Nessa, which Glinda counts as a win.
Nessarose continues undeterred, “He broke my heart. So when you kissed me, it felt like a way to get over him while getting back at him. Being with you is like my own secret revenge. I obtained something he could only ever dream of: your body, your closeness, your undivided attention. In the end even if he doesn’t know it: I win.”
The last words are spoken in a whisper against Glinda’s ear. Her voice is low and raspy in a way that makes heat travel straight down to her sex. Nessa’s hands have migrated to her hips, drawing her in closer. Their grip on her is possessive, covetous, all-consuming. Glinda lets herself be handled, lets herself be drawn against her body. She leans in again to capture her mouth in a messy kiss, all tongue and teeth. Her wetness presses against a thigh that she gladly begins grinding against. Gaining relief through her own selfish movements, taking pleasure from her willing body. Nessa doesn’t mind, she encourages her rutting as she chases her climax. She gets closer, closer, so close.
When Nessa whispers cruelly with jealousy dripping like poison from her tongue, “Come for me the way you never did for her.” The words confirm Glinda’s musings. That it wasn’t only Boq that motivated Nessa. Not with the way her anger flared at even the mention of Elphaba’s name. At the betrayal in her eyes, at the feeling of abandonment. It was never truly just one person who drove her ire, never one person who motivated her need for revenge through the claiming of Glinda’s body. (Glinda finds she doesn’t care as she teeters on the edge of that cliff of desire. Let Elphaba find out for all she cares. Nessa wasn’t the only one she left behind.)
Glinda comes with a loud moan. The climax is overwhelming in a way that leaves her disoriented, floating like she was locked away inside a bubble. Her brain reels from overstimulation. With her eyes firmly shut, there really is no way to tell the difference between the hopeful dream of the woman she wants and the grounding reality of the woman she has. Brown eyes closed against the vision that would shatter her reality, like shards of the twisted mirror image of the brown eyes boring into the side of her head. Glinda lets herself sink into the ambiguity, collapsing into the warm embrace of pleasure and sin.
Gardenias on the tile
Where it makes no difference who held back from who
To love me is to suffer me