𝑔𝑜𝑜𝑑 — ʷⁱᵗᶜʰ

𝑰 believe in the good in you.       𝑰t was always there.

[goodliest-moved]

zoya's g(a)linda the good witch from the wicked series. thematically inspired by the novel with aesthetics taken from the film. married to @fabala ♡

[folkpoet]

@goodliest asked nessa; [ aloud ] sender reads aloud to receiver

fingernails dig into the leather of her armrests. nessa's gaze is cast over the streets of munchkinland. her land, now. black shrouds still decorate the brightly coloured houses, still mourning the loss of her father. a heart attack, the doctor's told her, likely brought on by the shame elphaba has brought upon their family. it had planted the seed of resentment that had grown over time, which had turned a bright beating heart black as coal and cold as ice. galinda's words finally cease and a silence hangs in the air between them for a beat too long. nessa hasn't heard from her sister since she fled the emerald city. finally, it seems, she has her independence, but the price had been too high.

❝ burn it. ❞ her words are harsh. she wants nothing more than to cradle the letter, to trace the ink formed by elphaba's hand, but she cannot. she cannot savour her sister's words least someone find them and claim they are in cahoots. what's left of her reputation would not survive a direct attack from the wizard. she's already holding on to her position by a thread. the wicked witch of the east, they've started to call her. ❝ you could have stopped her. ❞ there's a shakiness to her tone. a danger that a tear may fall from the corner of her eye. everything lies in ruin. her sister gone, boq barely speaking to her, and her people hate her. ❝ she trusted you. you could have made her see sense. ❞

[goodliest-moved]

⋆˙ ⟡ galinda stands where the light cannot quite reach her, too gold, too perfect for the shadow she casts. her hands twist the silk of her gown like it might hold an answer, though it only whispers, soft and useless, against her palms. the letter burns in the hearth just as nessa commanded, curling black at the edges, and the ink, elphaba’s ink . . . blisters into nothing. galinda watches until the paper folds in on itself, an ember of the witch she loved too fiercely and too late. ❝ i could have stopped them? ❞ she repeats, the words bright and brittle, something that might almost sound like laughter if it didn’t hurt so much. her smile is too sharp, too white, a porcelain thing, made to hide the cracks beneath. ❝ oh, nessa, you think anyone could stop her? you think anyone could make her do anything she didn’t already decide? ❞ her breath trembles, the kind of sound that doesn’t belong in a queen’s voice. [ there are nights when she still dreams of green, of hands ink-stained and shaking, of laughter in the rain, of the witch who made her believe she could be more than a gilded doll built to smile. ] she blinks and looks away before the memories can finish their climb up her throat.

❝ elphaba trusted me, yes. and i betrayed them. ❞ the words hang like ash, softer than the smoke rising from the hearth. ❝ i told myself it was for oz. for peace. for everything she couldn’t understand. ❞ her voice lowers to a whisper. ❝ but it wasn’t. it was because i was afraid, and because i loved them too much to follow. ❞ for a moment, the only sound is the fire sighing out its last breath. galinda turns, and her reflection in the window looks almost like a ghost, all pale silk and tired eyes . ❝ you have your kingdom now, nessa. your people. your order. ❞ she says it without looking back. ❝ i have nothing left but their shadow. and you would have me burn that, too? ❞

[fabala]

Against their better judgement, or perhaps due to their own selfish bias, Elphaba is all too willing to forgive⠀⠀—⠀⠀but it would seem forgetting was not exactly within the cards tonight. As beautiful as Glinda is with pinker cheeks, another clock tick spent watching her visibly shake against the harsh weather is going to make them even more agitated for reasons they can't seem to name. It was easy enough to storm off after the initial spat, but now that Elphaba has taken a second⠀⠀—⠀⠀or third, or perhaps fourth?⠀⠀—⠀⠀glance at her, miserably trying to keep up with them, they've come to a decision.

“ So? ” They ask, casually readjusting how their coat sits atop her shoulders. It was a heavy wool; visibly worn, but well taken care of. If the cold was having an effect on them in any way, it doesn't show, beyond the slight grimace that Elphaba gives as they fuss over her. The pair were halfway back anyhow, and if Glinda protests any further, Elphaba has more than enough ways to deflect until the two of them are indoors again.

“ You need it more than me, and you'll keep it safe. I know black isn't particularly your color, so you'll have to make do. ” There's a teasing grin, a hand lifting to gingerly skim her frostbitten cheek, then at last moving to tuck a windblown curl back into its proper place.

“ I can't have you getting sick on me. I can only let you borrow so many of my notes, my dear. ”

[goodliest-moved]

galinda can’t breathe for a quick second, the wind stealing it, the sight of them stealing the rest. the coat is too large, too dark, too them, and when elphaba drapes it over her shoulders, it feels less like wool and more like penance. she’s sure her blush burns brighter than the chill ever could, painting her cheeks pink enough to match the ribbons still trembling in her hair. ❝ well, ❞ she manages, though her voice wavers, soft as frost, ❝ i’ll have you know, i make everything my color. ❞ there’s a little laugh tucked in there, a sparkle she can’t quite hide, the kind that sounds like it was meant to defuse tension but ends up betraying affection instead. her hands clutch the edges of the coat, gathering it close as though she’s afraid it might vanish, as though warmth itself might be a thing she could lose. she tilts her head, curls falling loose again despite elphaba’s careful touch, a nd something in her eyes gentles. ❝ you didn’t have to, you know, ❞ she murmurs. ❝ i’m perfectly capable of freezing to death in the name of style. ❞ i ache to touch your skin again. brush your fingers against mine. come closer. i dare you. the teasing dissolves into something quieter, something fragile. her gaze flickers toward their hand, the one that just brushed her cheek and lingers there, reverent, almost shy. ❝ you say you can’t have me getting sick, but i think it’s rather unfair, really, ❞ she adds, a tiny smile playing at her lips. ❝ you do this, and now i’ll be the one suffering. because when you take it back, elphie, i’ll never be warm again. ❞ the wind howls, catching her words, scattering them like petals, but galinda doesn’t look away. she just stands there, glowing faintly beneath the storm and their coat, every inch the foolish, glittering girl who would brave the cold a thousand times over just to see that teasing grin again. her smile grows, the cold settling against her nose. ❝ let's get some hot chocolate. it'll fix everything! ❞

[goodliest-moved]

peaks my head

[goodliest-moved]

this affects me, too, you know.

⋆˙ ⟡ the words land softly, too softly, as if gentleness might disguise their weight. this affects me, too, you know. there is a pause, a silken stillness, the kind she’s learned to wear like perfume, composed, glittering, unbreakable. but something in the air shifts, the way glass hums before it cracks. she turns slowly, every inch of her posture a performance rehearsed in the mirror: the perfect witch, the perfect puppet, the perfect smile. ❝ does it? ❞ she asks, voice like spun sugar stretched too thin. the words glimmer, delicate and dangerous. ❝ how extraordinary for you, to finally feel the weight of something. i had almost begun to think i was carrying it alone. ❞ her hands fold neatly in front of her, a queenly gesture, though her knuckles ache from how tightly she clasps them. the room feels smaller, all marble and candlelight and mirrors, mirrors everywhere, and in each one, she sees another version of herself: golden, obedient, hollow. galinda the good. galinda the symbol. galinda who smiled while oz burned and sang hymns over the ashes.

❝ it must be terribly inconvenient, ❞ she continues, a soft lilt to her tone, the kind that would have fooled a less knowing ear. ❝ for the world to finally ask something of you. for the grief to stain your hands as it has stained mine. ❞ the smile she wears is almost tender...almost. but her eyes are bright and fevered, a cracked kind of loveliness. ❝ forgive me, ❞ she whispers at last, voice trembling with something sharp. ❝ i forget sometimes that i am not the only one the gods chose to punish for loving them. ❞ the silence that follows is heavy, almost holy. glinda exhales, her lashes trembling, and for a moment, her mask slips, not enough to reveal the woman beneath, but just enough to show the shadow. just enough to remind them both that even puppets, when they break, bleed gold.

[just-your-average-shiz-student]

CYNTHIA ERIVO and ARIANA GRANDE in new Wicked: For Good teaser

[goodliest-moved]

i love writing on g(a)linda something about her just comes so naturally to me and i find her prose and thoughts so fun and she's so complex and cute and she just wants to run away with her little witch lover and instead she has to deal with all this shit

[goodliest-moved]

i've dealt with enough pain over the years.

⋆˙ ⟡ for a heartbeat, glinda almost laughs, it's not a joke, but she laughs because the sound of it breaks something inside her that’s been cracking for years. pain. as if the word could ever fit inside a sentence so small. the good witch breathes in, and the world tastes like dust and perfume; the air still carries the ghost of emerald smoke and rain. her hand hovers, not quite reaching him. [ she remembers a boy made of sunlight, careless and golden, who once threw his crown to the wind just to make her smile. ] that boy is gone now, somehow buried beneath guilt, and graves, and all the things they never said. still, she looks at him and sees the shimmer of what was. that is the curse of love, she thinks: it refuses to rot when it should.

❝ you speak of pain like it’s something you’ve outgrown, ❞ she murmurs, voice soft, almost reverent. ❝ but i’ve seen the way it clings to you, it's like ivy, curling around your ribs, winding through your veins until you can’t tell where it ends and you begin. ❞ i know this because i feel the same. her lips tremble into something that isn’t quite a smile. ❝ you wear it well, you know. you always did. you made grief look like a crown. ❞ i know you miss them too. [ there’s a pause, long enough for memory to slip its hand into the space between them, a flash of green, a laugh like lightning, the sound of a heart breaking under the weight of righteousness. ] she turns her face away, because looking at fiyero too long hurts.

❝ i’ve dealt with enough pain, too, ❞ she admits, the words delicate, dangerous. her voice is a whisper, almost silent. ❝ but i never learned how to stop loving the things that caused it. ❞ or at least i lie well. glinda exhales, a small, shattering sound that feels like surrender. ❝ maybe that’s the difference between us, fiyero. you survived your pain somehow. i kept polishing mine until it shone. ❞ and when she looks back at him, the light catches in her eyes, not forgiveness, not even hope, just the hollow beauty of someone who has learned to live inside her own ruin. she turns from the mirror, her reflection lingering like a ghost behind her, a perfect bride, hollowed of truth. her hands tremble only once, smoothing invisible wrinkles over her gown. ❝ she won’t come, ❞ glinda whispers to no one. ❝ she’s smarter than we ever were. ❞ yet, when the trumpets sound, she still looks to the horizon. just in case the wind remembers to carry the scent of rain. just in case somewhere, in all that green, elphaba is looking back.

[nottobehornyonthemain]

This has definitely been done before.

[goodliest-moved]

do you have a death wish or something?

the question lands like a gauntlet, all clipped edges and disdain, but glinda answers not with the practiced sparkle the city expects but with something that trembles at the seams. [ there is a smile trained into her face like toothwork, and tonight it rattles when she lets it. ] she inclines her head, slow, as if measuring the angle of a bow to an audience that no longer applauds for the right reasons. the words she offers back are silk and splinters. ❝ perhaps i do, ❞ glinda says, and the syllables fall like pearls into a long, empty theater; each one rings hollow in the vaulted hush where elphaba’s voice once braided with hers. the city thinks her jesting — they do not know the weight beneath the joke: a hunger that is not for ruin but for the exacting ache of being seen. [ to laugh at the world while it eats you from the inside is the politest form of suicide. ]

her hands fold at her waist, fingers too pale, joints rehearsed into grace. the chandeliers overhead scatter their light into a constellation of gossip and expectation; she has learned to walk under it like a savant of illusion. yet whenever she moves, a string tugs at her spine, invisible, manufactured, threaded from the governor’s desk to the chorus line to the very bones of her name. she is a marionette in a gown: the glitter is a trap, the curtsy a trapdoor. she knows every angle of the stage because she is the stage now, and the applause that follows is a metronome marking out her loneliness. [ oh, elphaba — if you could see me now. ] the thought is a flame that she hides in a handkerchief, because to whisper it aloud would be to confess treason against the very court that crowned her. the green is gone from the world’s palette; the city paints its banners pallid and polite, deodorized grief in emerald satin. glinda’s heart remembers green as a bruise and a prayer: thunderclouds and stubborn, bitter laughter that smelled of rain. she misses the way elphaba used to make the air ache with truth, the way the other witch's presence rearranged the light, not to flatter, but to expose.

❝ or maybe, madame, ❞ she continues, voice thinning like a ribbon pulled taut, ❝ i have only forgotten the way to live small when i have been taught to live like a star. ❞ the stars, she means, that used to burn for two. now they are compass points in a sky that no longer contains her constellation. she tilts her face up as if to catch meteors on her tongue, and for a breath the practiced brightness splinters into something raw: wet lashes, a mouth that wants confession instead of coyness. beneath her rosewater breath and crystal tiaras, a fracture runs through her like a map of old battles. she is the marionette who learned her master’s commands and then found, one bitter dawn, that the hands that pulled the strings had traded tenderness for ledger. so she performs. she smiles. she files away each missing laugh and wears it as though it were jewelry. [ i will perform until the last curtain falls — because the alternative is to stand still and listen to the echo of the world that took her elphaba. it's too cruel to bare. ] ❝ if by death you mean the death of pretense, of the scripts sewn into my lips, then perhaps i am dying a little every night. if by it you mean something simpler, something quick and clean, then no. i am a longer sort of ruin. ❞ she lets the last words hang like a challenge and a benediction both, and for a second, just a breath, the puppet’s hands are empty and the woman inside is visible: small, fierce, and unbearably hollow.

[mcflymemes]

"STOP PUTTING YOURSELF INTO DANGER!" PROMPTS *  assorted dialogue for expressing your fear that the person you care about might get themselves hurt if they keep acting like this, adjust as necessary

i thought i told you to stay back.

i love you too much to let you get hurt like this.

this affects me, too, you know.

every time you leave, i sit up all night waiting, praying you'll come back alive.

you keep pulling stunts like this and something bad will happen.

do you have a death wish or something?

this isn't fair to me.

i deserve better than this.

i didn't get any sleep last night because i was so worried about you.

you promised me you'd stop going out at night.

i don't like hearing this.

you've been risking your life, and for what? so you can feel like a goddamn hero?

i said i would handle it.

what the fuck are you doing here?

you told me you'd stay put.

so much for laying low.

you remember how bad it was last time.

seems like you haven't learned anything.

i believe you promised me you'd lay low.

i can't keep doing this.

don't give me that look.

we'll discuss this later.

this stops now.

i'm tired of picking up the pieces once you've left.

you keep throwing yourself into danger.

you don't give a shit about yourself, do you?

i'm sitting here, worried out of my mind, while you're out doing god knows what.

that was really stupid of you, and you know it.

i thought you knew better than this.

what's your excuse this time?

you do realize what this does to me, right? seeing you get hurt like this? you know it hurts me, too?

you really don't give a shit how this affects me, huh.

that was the dumbest possible thing you could have done.

i need you to stop throwing yourself into harm's way.

that was completely unnecessary.

they had it handled.

you didn't need to step in like that.

why do you think you're invincible?

the last time you pulled a stunt like this, it nearly got you killed.

i can't just sit here and watch you get hurt.

what are you trying to prove?

you just like fucking with my heart, don't you.

this shit hurts me, too, you know.

you're not the only one affected by this shit.

you've got a lot of people counting on you to come home every night.

what happens if you don't come back?

you think we can just carry on without you?

you think i can handle things if you end up dead?

i'm not sticking around to watch you get hurt.

you're not even slick.

you think you're invincible, don't you.

quit pretending you've got everything under control.

let someone else do it for a change.

you can't keep putting yourself through shit like this and expect me to just sit back and watch.

i'm done with this.

next time you do this, i'm not coming back.

promise me this is the end.

look me in the eyes and tell me you'll stop doing this.

let the authorities deal with it.

you're making a big mistake.

is it worth dying for?

i've dealt with enough pain over the years.

[cthaehart]

Come with me~

[notearsnora]

So is everyone ready for WICKED: FOR GOOD? We know Glinda isn’t.

[goodliest-moved]

five mirrors, five ghosts

the first mirror is small and oval, framed in gilt and pearls. it hangs above her dressing table in the palace, catching the morning light the way it used to catch laughter. glinda brushes her hair, counting strokes like prayers, and for one fleeting moment, between breath and blink, there is another reflection beside her. dark hair, green skin, eyes full of storms. the comb slips from her hand. by the time it hits the floor, the vision is gone. instead, she can hear madame morrible calling for her now. glinda, the wedding awaits. glinda, your prince is here. glinda, my, you look so beautiful perhaps the old witch will come out just to see you. she can dream.

the second mirror is older. warped glass, silvering at the edges, the kind that keeps secrets. it lives in a corridor no one walks anymore, where the air smells faintly of candle wax and roses left to die. glinda passes it one night on her way back from council, weary and aching, and the mirror shivers. her heart stumbles. she turns, and there they are again. elphaba. standing close enough to touch. her lips part. you came back— but there’s nothing, only her own voice echoing off stone. the wizard would berate glinda for being so late. she leaves, but the haunting remains.

the third mirror is water. the lake outside shimmers like mercury beneath the moon. glinda kneels at its edge, her skirts trailing in the shallows, and watches ripples form where none should be. a shape gathers there, impossibly familiar. she knows that face, even blurred by waves. she reaches out, but her fingers break the illusion, scatter her lover’s ghost into starlight. she stays there until dawn, drenched and trembling, whispering half a lullaby to the wind. fiyero scolds her, that she'll catch a cold but she thinks death would be better than this.

the fourth mirror is cruel. a ballroom, a thousand candles, and too much glass. her reflection dances without her, poised, perfect, a queen made of porcelain. then, across the floor, she sees them. no emerald skin now, only the shadow of it in memory, the shape of love she can never hold. glinda’s smile cracks like thin ice. the wizard asks if she’s unwell, and she says no, of course not, though her voice sounds far away, like someone else’s.

the fifth mirror finds her when she’s grown older, even if the years are not many passed, her hair is silver, her hands unsteady, and the world has long since rewritten their story into myth. they call elphaba a monster still, and glinda doesn’t correct them anymore — not aloud. but when the storm rolls over the emerald city, she stands before her last mirror and watches the lightning split the sky. for an instant, the glass glows green, and there they are. not monstrous. not gone. just theirs. | @fabala

[thegrimmerie]

NO ONE MOURNS THE WICKED... Elphaba and love, a web weave.

Wicked, the Graphic Novel: Part I, illustrated by Scott Hampton ( 2025 ) / Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, written by Gregory Maguire ( 1995 ) / The Sound of Music, by Rodgers and Hammerstein ( 1965 ) / Wicked, the Graphic Novel: Part I, illustrated by Scott Hampton ( 2025 ) / Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West, written by Gregory Maguire ( 1995 ) / Out of Oz, written by Gregory Maguire ( 2011 ) / Chantal Janzen as Glinda and Willemijn Verkaik as Elphaba in the 2011 Dutch production of Wicked, photo by Roy Beusker / In Memoriam, written by Alfred, Lord Tennyson ( 1850 ) / Sketches by aelphabaofthewest / Illustration by s-aint-elmo / dinner, written by Ghost Note / Mary Kate Morrissey as Elphaba on Broadway / Illustration by Pale Moon / Dark Places, written by Gillian Flynn ( 2015 ) / Mckenzie Kurtz as Glinda on Broadway / Wicked, lyrics written by Stephen Schwartz ( 2003 ) / Mckenzie Kurtz as Glinda on Broadway / Fragment by heavensghost / Nicole Parker as Elphaba on Broadway in 2011, photo by Joan Marcus / Fragment from Half-light: Collected Poems; "End of a Friendship", by Frank Bidart ( 2016 ) / Sketch by aelphabaofthewest / Wicked, lyrics written by Stephen Schwartz ( 2003 ) / Rachel Tucker as Elphaba and Kara Lindsay as Glinda on Broadway in 2015, photo by Joan Marcus / Mary Kate Morrissey as Elphaba and Jordan Litz as Fiyero on Broadway / Illustration by a-crickets-art / Sketch by aelphabaofthewest / Fragment by heavensghost / Mary Kate Morrissey as Elphaba and Jordan Litz as Fiyero on Broadway / King Henry VI, written by William Shakespeare ( 1592 ) / Kendra Kassebaum as Glinda in the First National Tour in 2005, photo by Joan Marcus / Fragments written by anonymous / Mary Kate Morrissey as Elphaba and Jordan Litz as Fiyero on Broadway

The following blogs have been tagged so that they are able to reblog if they wish! And aren't required to do so by any means! @fabala, @thegaissilent, @goodliest, @odditiesofoz

[goodliest-moved]

“it’s maddening, really,” glinda thinks, voice caught somewhere between laughter and breaking. “sharing a room with them. elphaba. everything is sharper with them near — the silence, the air, even the way the light bends. i can’t breathe without noticing it.” she twists her hands together, restless. “they irritate me. they mock me. they glare as though i am a sin painted in pink ribbons. and yet—” she swallows hard, “and yet i find myself waiting for their voice, the sound of it low, barbed, but real. when they leave, the room feels empty, and i… i hate myself for that.” glinda sits on the edge of her bed, the distance between their desks feeling like a chasm and yet too close. “i watch them read until dawn, their head bent, shadows under their eyes, and i think — no one has ever been so alive. no one has ever been so impossible.”

“they hate me,” she admits in a whisper, her smile brittle. “and still, i… gods help me, i want them near. it’s torture, loving someone who would rather burn you with their eyes than hold your hand. but my heart doesn’t listen to reason.” she leans back, staring at the ceiling as if the truth might disappear there. “maybe it’s because they’re everything i’m not. maybe it’s because every fight, every clash of words, leaves me trembling — not with anger, but with wanting.”

a pause, her chest rising unevenly. “they will never know. i’ll never let them. it’s easier if they see only the enemy, the pretty fool across the room. it’s safer that way. because if they ever guessed what i feel…” her voice falters, breaking into silence, “…it would ruin us both.” the lamplight flickers. elphaba shifts in their sleep, murmuring something she cannot hear. glinda watches them in the half-dark, aching, furious with herself, loving them more with every breath.

| drabble, glinda reflects on elphaba years later. being a roommate, an enemy, a lover all in one. @fabala

[goodliest-moved]

the silence presses against her ribs like an accusation, a reminder of everything she’s lost. fiyero’s name echoes in the corridors, spoken with such reverence, such ease, as though this life is something she wanted, as though she has not been carved into a shape that does not fit her. the knives to her throat are jagged, leaving scars covered in blood down her collarbone every time glinda closes her eyes. she doesn’t want it. she doesn’t want him. every laugh, every vow, every carefully rehearsed smile feels like a lie stitched into her skin. [ and she hates herself for pretending it could ever be enough. ] glinda closes her eyes, and there they are. elphaba. the way their voice cut through the clamor of a room, not to charm, not to please, but to be heard. she misses that uncompromising honesty, the way it seared her even as it saved her. she misses the fierce spark in their eyes, the sharp edge of their wit, the way their hands trembled when they thought no one was looking.

stars scatter the sky outside her window, and she wonders if elphaba is beneath the same sky, if the night touches their skin the way it touches hers. [ she imagines them alive, still alive, because anything else will crush her. ] perhaps they are standing on some hidden hilltop, wind tangling their hair, their heart still stubbornly beating. perhaps. she thinks of the night they left — the finality in it. she had wanted to scream, to pull them back, to admit what she never could. but her throat closed, her pride won, and she let them go. [ she will never forgive herself for it. she is haunted. ]

now, when fiyero’s hand finds hers, she feels only emptiness. no spark. no fire. just the weight of duty, pressing her into a future she never asked for. and every time, she thinks of elphaba’s hands instead, calloused, awkward, real. she would rather grasp those hands once more, even if it burned her, than live forever in comfort without them. “you were right,” she whispers into the silence, as though elphaba could still hear her. ❝ i would rather be unhappy with you than happy with anyone else. ❞ her voice falters. she is tired of pretending. tired of being the good one, the pretty one, the one who smiles while her heart bleeds.

and so glinda, the good, sits in her palace of gold and silk, and dreams of green skin against moonlight, of a love she can never claim. [ elphaba was always the one thing she wanted, and the one thing she was too afraid to choose. ]

| drabble, glinda reflects on elphaba as she prepares to wed fiyero. inspired by @fabala