Late 20s tgirl. Elf ear pervert. Some say hemipenis girl. Writing mostly original F/F. Stories will frequently be horny so if you're under 18 you're getting blocked.



caffeinatedOtter
@caffeinatedOtter

Motley and Bold

There are days when the endless labour of vigilant stabilisation of reality's torn edge weighs heavy, and the princess lies abed instead of rising and donning the crown; face turned to the wall, back bent into a knee-hugging ball, eyes open but expression slack and grey.

"Highness," Glorie says softly, her own back held straight, hands twisted together behind her. "I will fetch you anything you need."

It is not even (— as it should be —) that she would fetch anything, in return for the princess rising and seeing to her duties. Glorie's duty has both a sense and a letter; and the letter, for which she would lay down her life, is that she is to serve and defend the princess from ills. She is not equipped to fight this; but anything the princess tells her that she may do, she will.

On these days, the princess stares at the wall, and is silent, unable to desire.

And Ser Glorie swallows helplessness, swallows misgiving; she fetches the Fool.

On these days, strangely formal, the Fool attends in harlequinade motley, behatted, bell-strewn, like some strange and delicate creature whose camouflage is unimaginably conspicuous without also seeing its glorious habitat.

The Fool does not appreciably care whether Glorie stays for what comes after, or no. Glorie has never dared. Once only, she hesitated, looked back before leaving; at blankets gently drawn off the princess's huddled body, the sharp line of the royal vertebrae through her nightgown; the Fool, feral-eyed, crawling up from the foot of bed and hovering over her. Mouth whispering unimaginably, lips almost touching skin—

Ser Glorie does not imagine what the Fool's ministrations could be. She has had a long time to practise this particular deliberate lacuna of the inward eye.

Eventually, the princess will appear in her place; dressed, composed, atop the throne, alone.

The Fool, usually, will remain scarce until the following morning.

Ser Glorie maintains her watch, and the unwarm pride of her own unending consistency.


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