Untitled
Title: Untitled
Book/Musical: Musical
Characters: Boq, Nessa
Length: 100x3
Rating: PG13/R
Summary: Miniscule take on the Wicked Witch of the East
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He thought the wine would help.
He thought perhaps it would deaden him against the whispers he had overheard the past few days. Perhaps fill the hollowness in his stomach which slowly grew as the news permeated, and settled, and slowly began to kill him.
She was getting married.
He should curl his fists. He should fight, scream, destroy something, and leave for good.
But he did nothing. That small, familiar flame of hope, it wavered, flickered, and found itself silently extinguished.
He poured the wine. Begged wordlessly for it to save him. But nothing had ever saved him before.
~*~*~*~*~*~
He had ceased to be a boy some time ago.
She remembered this, as he gulped down glass after glass of wine and she was obliged to follow.
He had accepted this post. And he no longer bothered objecting, as her hand rummaged down the front of his pants, stroking his unwilling member until it stood erect and his skin crawled.
Thankfully, she never requested his touch. He would sooner plunge a blade through his own heart than plunge a hand down her skirts. But, sickeningly, he imagined her to be perpetually moist for him. Constant flattery through perpetual nausea.
~*~*~*~*~*~
He heaved violently, thrusting his face into an urn in the darkened corner.
The witch continued to stare stonily into the wardrobe mirror. He retched again, the long-ago shreds of sympathy tangibly projecting outward from his stomach.
But this employment would wear on. He straightened himself. Brushed his suit in exhaustion.
"Will there be anything else, Madam Governor?"
The witch caught his eye through the mirror. "You will call me Nessarose."
A brief bow. She was alone. From her twisted legs, to her cold face, she looked and looked. Years of pity, gone. But things had been ruined long before.
Book/Musical: Musical
Characters: Boq, Nessa
Length: 100x3
Rating: PG13/R
Summary: Miniscule take on the Wicked Witch of the East
-------------------------------------------------------
He thought the wine would help.
He thought perhaps it would deaden him against the whispers he had overheard the past few days. Perhaps fill the hollowness in his stomach which slowly grew as the news permeated, and settled, and slowly began to kill him.
She was getting married.
He should curl his fists. He should fight, scream, destroy something, and leave for good.
But he did nothing. That small, familiar flame of hope, it wavered, flickered, and found itself silently extinguished.
He poured the wine. Begged wordlessly for it to save him. But nothing had ever saved him before.
~*~*~*~*~*~
He had ceased to be a boy some time ago.
She remembered this, as he gulped down glass after glass of wine and she was obliged to follow.
He had accepted this post. And he no longer bothered objecting, as her hand rummaged down the front of his pants, stroking his unwilling member until it stood erect and his skin crawled.
Thankfully, she never requested his touch. He would sooner plunge a blade through his own heart than plunge a hand down her skirts. But, sickeningly, he imagined her to be perpetually moist for him. Constant flattery through perpetual nausea.
~*~*~*~*~*~
He heaved violently, thrusting his face into an urn in the darkened corner.
The witch continued to stare stonily into the wardrobe mirror. He retched again, the long-ago shreds of sympathy tangibly projecting outward from his stomach.
But this employment would wear on. He straightened himself. Brushed his suit in exhaustion.
"Will there be anything else, Madam Governor?"
The witch caught his eye through the mirror. "You will call me Nessarose."
A brief bow. She was alone. From her twisted legs, to her cold face, she looked and looked. Years of pity, gone. But things had been ruined long before.