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

Black and White

The spire in stark chiaroscuro: the Fool's habitual rage has guttered to a dim dreariness, and Glorie has correspondingly warmed to tender solicitousness. The visting knight's newly sharp revealed paranoia hovers blackly around their charge, whose fervid brightness waxes, eyes and gestures burning with purpose, restraint rapidly decompensating.

The spire is the light round which all these moths revolve. And the princess—

Where is the place of the princess? She feels neither bright now dark, fired nor exhausted. Surrounded by private dramas, accelerating on their little hills, headed for rocks or precipice or head-on collision, she feels alienated, set aside; almost not there. The transparent glass, perhaps, encapsulating the spire's bright filament. Merely a thing to break through, to get at it.

She is here because she is necessary to the spire; they are here for her. The visitors, as other did in acient times, will founder on the rocks of expecting things from her, whether her favour or her downfall, and wash away. Her tiny court, trapped in perpetuity in service to her needs—

If they no longer need her, if they find completion in one another, will they, too, leak from the tower into what's left of the world, and leave the thankless management of her eternity to her own hands?

They probably deserve to. Even life sentences, unlike this duty, end.


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