Oh dear. [That's the best Galinda can muster, face flushed, hair messy, her skin seeming to hum with the sort of giddy delighted desire that steals her logic and her reason. She forgets to toss her hair around this boy, forgets how to arch her eyebrows and sway her hips and tease and tease, because she -- wants, she wants his hands up under her clothes, she wants his sharp, giddy grin teasing at her mouth, she wants and wants and can never quite get enough.

But for the moment she leans back, pats her hair into place, squeaks soft and shuddery when Fiyero teases her, when his palm slips up her thigh. There's a bubbling giggle in her throat, and it takes all Galinda has to keep a whisper.] That is a very scandalocious idea, Fiyero Tigelaar. What will people think? They might start to whisper all sorts of things.

[She has to stand on tiptoe to play with the loose collar of his uniform, always a touch rakish, toeing the line of indecent. She's seen students walk into walls from staring at the exposed hollow of Fiyero's throat, the same hollow she ducks down and kisses, leaving a perfect pink lipstick mark.] ...what other fantastical things did you have in mind?