20 Works by starryrules
Listing Works
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Summary
Jules walks home on an ordinary spring afternoon.
The weather is wonderful.
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Twenty years is long enough for a life to take shape.
Or: on an ordinary Tuesday, Professor Jules Vaughn finds herself thinking about the forty-one-year-old Rue Bennett she never got to meet.
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Two Houses. Centuries of rivalry. A world meticulously divided between light and shadow.
In gilded halls and guarded corridors, in whispers and glances, in gestures too small to name, they find a connection neither was meant to survive.
A story of devotion and defiance. Of secrecy sharpened by scrutiny. Of desire that cannot endure the daylight.
And of a tragedy that does not arrive suddenly - but waits, patient and precise, for its due.
OR
Romeo and Juliet AU
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Everything is gray. Roads stretch endlessly beneath low, stubborn skies. One moves through the world without leaving traces; another stands indispensable, hollowed out by necessity. Recognition passes like a note that fades before it lands. Time waits - silent, unyielding. The intermission stretches longer than anyone remembers.
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“I thought about you,” Glinda says. It’s a small truth. A coward’s truth.
She does not look at Elphaba when she says it.
Elphaba’s jaw tightens. “I know.”
- Language:
- English
- Words:
- 1,912
- Chapters:
- 1/?
- Kudos:
- 6
- Hits:
- 112
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But love, Galinda would learn, does not protect you from the world.
It only gives you something to lose.
And somewhere deep in the stone bones of Shiz, the cracks were already forming.
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happy new year (we might as well lay down and die) by starryrules
Fandoms: Wicked - All Media Types
17 Dec 2025
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The city celebrates, lights blazing and music spilling, while one sits alone, haunted by the person who never let joy in and is gone. Snow drifts past the windows, memories burn quietly, and outliving the one who made life bearable is its own cruel, beautiful ache.
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Elphie suffers.
Glinda remains.
Neither of them says it aloud, but devotion, it turns out, needs no witness.
OR
“You need clothes,” Galinda said, going to the wardrobe.
“I don’t,” Elphaba called weakly. “Let me die in this shirt.”
“It smells like spilled ale and despair,” Galinda replied. “So no.”
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Elphie drinks too much; Galinda helps her survive the morning after.
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Somewhere below the balcony, beneath layers of stone and scaffolding and ancient machinery, a trapdoor has just shut. A plan has just completed its final, unforgiving step.
A life has just been smothered in theatre.
A death has been staged, rehearsed, perfected.
And Glinda-
Glinda is the only one who doesn’t know she has just been written into the cruelest part.OR
It’s the end. You know how it goes.
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Galinda and Elphaba’s study sessions in a sunlit library alcove turn into a slow-burn of heart-eyes, almost-touches, and growing affection.
“I like the way you think,” Galinda tells her - and she means far more than philosophy.
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A girl finds a hat that feels older than the world, heavier than her small hands, and full of secrets she doesn’t yet know.
Years later, she passes it on to another, pretending it is nothing, when it has always been everything.
OR
That godforsaken black hat.
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Elphaba made a small, frustrated noise and tried to roll away again, but Galinda’s hand landed gently on her arm, halting her retreat. The touch was featherlight, but it carried weight. “Please don’t hide,” Galinda said quietly.
“I’m not hiding.”
“You’re under three blankets.”
“Drafts,” Elphaba muttered.
Galinda smiled helplessly. “Elphie.”
The name was soft but deliberate, a tether. Elphaba stilled. For a long moment, the only sound was the faint tick of rain against the window.
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Galinda can barely think straight around Elphaba.
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“I can’t stay,” Glinda says finally. “They’ll be looking for me.”
“I know.”
“Then say something,” she pleads. “Anything to make it easier.”
Elphaba turns to her, eyes soft with everything she’s never said. “There’s nothing that makes it easier, Glinda.”
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Elphaba brings water.
Glinda leans in.
Neither of them says it aloud, but kindness, it turns out, can be its own confession.
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Originally a one-shot that became a four-part story about small mercies and what’s left unsaid.
And then, at last, a fifth and final orbit..
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In a city that never sleeps, the night belongs to those who can survive it.
Elphaba hosts a late-night radio show, sharp, exhausted, and quietly carrying burdens no one else sees. Glinda is the city’s polished TV anchor, brilliant and perfectly composed - at least on camera. Their feud is legendary, but the quiet hours of a neon-lit diner tell a different story.
Between flickering lights, half-empty coffee cups, and stolen glances, tension, wit, and longing thread through every moment. Love emerges in the spaces no one else notices, in acts of care unspoken, in the delicate, absurd, beautiful rituals that make two people see each other fully - and maybe, finally, survive the city together.
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And if she were to gather one thing from her miserable life, it would be the memory of Glinda - radiant, untouchable, always slipping just beyond reach.
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They ate because hunger was louder than despair. They breathed because air insisted. They walked the roads into town for bread because stale loaves did not fetch themselves, and perhaps no one else would. There was no heroism here. No martyrdom. Only persistence, the cheap imitation of life carved from rot and habit.
OR
And if there is any mercy left in the world, it is this: that when the end comes - and it will - it will not come to either of them alone.
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She wears the crown, carrying a strength the world demands, yet shadows linger - whispering of a lost light and a love that can no longer speak.
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Every morning, Glinda wakes at 7:32. The light is always the same - thin, grey, indecisive. The silence carries weight, like a room holding its breath. She lies still, already knowing: today will not be new.
She has begged the day to change. Spoken different words, held her differently, tried not to hold her at all. But no matter how gently she navigates the hours, they collapse. And then it begins again.
There is no lesson. No progress. Only repetition, exquisite and cruel. And Glinda, trying to remember how to love someone whose death she cannot prevent.
It’s not hope she clings to now, but memory. And the fragile belief that even if nothing changes, she might still change the way she remembers her.
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She never got the implication.
Glinda never missed it.
Even when the world mistook resistance for ruin -
and carved “Wicked” where her name should’ve been. -
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“You’re in pain.”
Elphaba gave a dry laugh, hollow and practiced. “Aren’t we all?”
“I’m not being poetic.”
“Shame,” she murmured. “I was enjoying the illusion.”
Glinda stepped closer. “Elphie - please.”
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Being the Wicked Witch has a price - one measured not in infamy, but in exhaustion, in the quiet erosion of self, and in blue eyes that never stop watching her fall apart.