#random writings

[masoch1stickat]

Pumping me full of cum until you can't anymore.. telling me "hold it in you stupid slut." I try my best to squeeze my legs together, but it's no use. I can feel your cum start to graze my thigh and I start to internally panic. I try to avoid your stare, but you already know. It's too late now.

"I thought you were a good girl? Good girls do as their told. I guess we'll just have to try again" you growl, grabbing me by my hips and throwing me back onto the bed.

[the-maesters-chronicles]

ON THE NAMING OF PRINCESS CORYANNE MARTELL.

From the Collected Records of House Martell.

The youngest daughter of Prince Maron Martell and his princess-consort Daenerys of House Targaryen was recorded in the official rolls as Coryanne Martell, named—so the court was told—in honour of another Coryanne, younger sister to Aliandra Martell, who was the head of House Martell during the reign of King Aegon III Targaryen. It was a fitting explanation, presented without ceremony, and no maester present thought to question it.

The official record stands. It has never been amended.

Yet those who knew Princess Daenerys well—and few truly did—noted a particular quality to her expression when the name was first announced. Not the solemnity appropriate to the occasion, but something lighter, carefully restrained. A maester of long memory might have called it amusement.

For it is whispered, though never written in any document the Princess herself did not burn, that the name was chosen with a different figure entirely in mind: one Coryanne Wylde, daughter of Lord Morgan Wylde of the Rain House, a woman whose name had survived the centuries not through any great deed of arms or statecraft, but through scandal. [...]

It is precisely this quality—the grand ambition, the ignominious result, the sheer audacity of the enterprise—that is said to have appealed to Princess Daenerys.

She was a Targaryen by birth and a Martell by alliance, and she bore both with considerable composure. But composure, it should be noted, is not the same as serenity. Those who served her closely recalled that she possessed a wit she seldom permitted herself to display openly and that certain provocations, particularly those involving her royal brother King Daeron, could draw it out against her better judgement.

It is recorded, by no source more reliable than the memories of her ladies, that upon hearing the name Coryanne Wylde mentioned in some now-forgotten context, Princess Daenerys laughed—genuinely, without restraint, the laugh of a woman surprised out of her dignity. She apparently composed herself with some effort, and said nothing further on the matter.

Some months later, her youngest daughter was born.

[reverse-january]

You'll keep breaking my heart,

You don't really mean to,

It's me and my feelings,

Beating into me, purple and blue.

Thanks for the companionship,

the joking, the banter,

the type of exchange

We'd never expect from the other.

It suffocates me, you know?

How much I feel for you,

can't hold back the smile

when it comes just for you.

It tickles my throat,

like flower petals on the skin,

hints of an unrequited love

that's unkempt, barely even hidden.

It's the avoidance in your eyes,

the nervousness in my lips,

always in the halls,

moments only I will keep.

we never fill the blanks, only

indirectly through sarcastic remarks

as if a hidden secret

is waiting, wanting in the dark.

is it just me?

who finds it difficult to reach out?

to be able to joke

just everything we know about.

But none of us are brave

enough to send a normal message

but reading between the lines

is reserved for other pages.

Not a smile or a grin

only the faraway gaze of yours

why is it so easy for them

while I'm stuck between the hours?

I'm not one to assume

I've been through this before

yet never quite the same

that once shook my core.

the most unexpected things

are always memorable enough to hold,

but as you walk by me

your chapters are ones I'll fold

Cause even from afar

you ignite a spark in me

for simple admiration

won't be written this unruly.

the longer there is

to the stanzas I write,

the easier it is for me

to finally let go of this fight.

not the header of a written paper

not even the body of an essay

a footnote to complete it,

the sources of what you say.

Never the credible reference

just an afterthought in between

A little more waiting,

until we've been left unseen.

I'll start avoiding you now,

I'd like to apologize to you

for having such thoughts

of memories we'd never do.

Taking my leave, as I pen this

please don't forget,

Making you smile or grin

is something I won't regret.

Though never said out loud

—maybe to myself just once,

my feelings aren't something

I'll ever share or announce.

So I leave all of this here,

with the unshared, unwritten two

almost reached, but ungrazed

of the incomplete ten poems for you.

"Till next time, A."

10 Poems for A collection

- unrequited writer

[eljeebee]

The Dollmaker - (Short AU)

He was careful when he assembled her parts; careful carving her sensitive and miniscule areas, molding it into shape, digging his fingers to make crevices, almost intimately, and patting it gently, as if reassuring it. He was gently when he popped each limb in its sockets.

He made sure it was accurate–he wanted her to be the best –the most beautiful. He bought her a sparkly dress, a pair of lacy socks, and pointe shoes. He bought her pearls, and he fashioned a corsage with a flower that will never wither, just for her.

He painted her face; added humanly details. Her eyelids–painted shimmering pink, glittering when the rays of the light hit it. Cheeks were rosy, lips were glossy.

And then, with his own magic, he breathed life to her.

She wobbled; he caught her. He let out a chuckle. She moved her mouth, trying to mimic him, but there was no sound. So, he kissed her.

With the kiss, she gained her voice. Her voice, small, let out a soft noise. He looked at her dearly.

“Shall we test your limbs?”

She hummed.

They danced.

“Aren’t you a pretty doll?”

Indeed, she is.

A pretty doll pliant under the hands of her maker.  

[starborne-writes]

The Boy Down by the Creek

There was a boy down by the creek. It was not long after her family moved to that small house where she had seen him first. She saw him every time he went to collect water lilies in the night. His tall, strong, slender form was always backdropped by the fading sky behind him. He was always there, but for some reason it was only she who ever saw him.

Her mother called her imaginative as the young girl described the sight. Her father was less impressed. There was never a boy out there, as he always insisted when the girl pled them to look outside. Eventually she quieted down, disheartened by their comments. Yet every evening all the same, the boy came. And every evening he stood by the creek picking water lillies.

While she may have silenced to her parents wishes, the girl's dying curiosity had yet to be stifiled. One night before the dusk, she slipped outside and made her way to the marshy valley below the house. By the time she had arrived the sun had dipped below the tree line. The hues of the sky melted into each other as she settled by the water.

The girl waited, but the boy never came.

She tried again the next night, but to no avail. Another attempt was made, but after her mother scolded her about sneaking out of the house they were ceased. The girl did not go out the next night and she did not bother to look out the window. But had she done so, she would’ve seen the boy down by the creek, picking water lilies.

[corviids]

resemblance

[pidayforpi]

"I won't do anything to that thing, Coot," the hoarse voice on the other side of the telephone chuckled. "They are a protected group of people. As...pragmatic as I am, I have my code of conduct. I am still a professional."

On the outskirts of the jungle, Clinton Coot stood beside a wall-mounted telephone inside a village hut. He held the receiver close to his ears, as the person on the line continues.

"We are still professionals. I believe you will know what is the right thing to do with it."

"It is a young man, a him," Clinton retorted. "And he has a name."

"Clinton, I am not trying to play semantics with you. Nor am I trying to sound condescending," the voice softened, if only for just a bit. "You...really shouldn't be getting too close to that boy. You know you won't be there to stay."

"I know what I am doing," Clinton argued.

"Then I urge you to think again," the voice plainly replied, before breathing out heavily. "This is your last expedition, Coot. We both know you don't have much time left. You could drop dead anytime, anywhere. Whether you can really find those artefacts is an unknown in itself, let alone bring them home."

Clinton's grasp on the receiver tightened, his beak pursed into a slight frown. The voice paused, as if able to see the recipient's response, before continuing.

"In fact - and I should have asked you way earlier - why are you even doing this? A set of artefacts, usable only by descendants of three families. Out of - I don't know - so damn many families in the whole entire world. I know yours is one of them, but isn't there enough magical stuff for your family members? The artefacts aren't particularly powerful either."

Clinton closed his eyes, listening to the questionings of his colleague, against the backdrop of heavy rain falling outside and onto the hut.

"You are really in this alone, Coot. With so little help, so little clue. For what? No one else will go after them, nor will anyone congratulate you even if you do successfully return from your jungle adventure with your spoils.

"You know this is only going to be a labour of love, right?"

"I do," Clinton firmly stated. "And love...is exactly why I am doing this. For...someone in my family, I have to do this. I want to do this."

A sigh passed through the unstable telephone connection, but the sentiment conveyed was clearly received.

"You've always been too good of a researcher, Coot. You started this trip for someone's sake, and now you are phoning me for another person's," the voice sounded genuinely concerned. "I won't pry what you don't want to talk about, just as you never pried anything about me. However if this expedition is really because of your love for a certain family member, shouldn't you be spending your last few years - or months - with them?"

"I would rather do something that will benefit the rest of his life. Even if I spent all the rest of my time with him, doing so wouldn't change that child's fate," Clinton replied, remembering the promise he had made to himself the last time he met his great-grandson.

"This discovery can't change his cruel fate either, I know that. However, if only for his smile, I would do anything. Even if it's just a transient happiness with no guarantee, I would give it to him. If one day he discovers this artefact, and with it someone that understands him, someone that walks with him in his life...even for only a chance of that happening, I would do it.

"Just like the Caballeros: Someone who fights alongside you, no matter how cruel fate is. The companionship is what I wish to preserve and pass on."

"Then think about this aracuan bird you have been talking to me about. How's that any different?" The voice argued, almost immediately. "One day you will leave this jungle. One day you will leave this world, and we both know that day will come sooner than later. You will leave him. And how will that make him feel?"

Clinton unconsciously turned his head to the bedroom beside the living room, where he knew a young, pink bird was struggling to sleep alone in the thunderstorm.

"Of course I knew our time together is borrowed, but...what else can I do?" Clinton cursed himself for not having a sound reason to argue back. "I...I see my great-grandson in him: A young child, tormented by the cruel hand of fate, crying for something that is not their fault for a single bit. I can't leave him alone. I...can't. If our encounter could change his life for the better, this will all be worth it."

"And that's where the problem is, Coot. Before, he had always been alone. Now you enter his life, have him become attached to you, make wonderful memories, experience what it is like to be cared and loved...and then you leave?" The voice retorted, before becoming silent. Only the sound of occasional, deep breathing indicated the call was still ongoing.

After a deafening minute passed, the speaker restarted the conversation with another heavy sigh.

"Coot, you know I care for no one. Not you. Not the aracuan bird. I am the worst person you can ever ask for help from. If you still want to continue, let me say this. And although it will sound coldhearted even coming from me, I mean this in the most factual, impassive way possible," the voice warned.

"To you, he should be just a tool. For the sake of you and him, treat him as such."

In response to this, Clinton felt he had long prepared the words to retaliate with.

"If only for a single person to feel like they are not just a tool, I will give my life."

Clinton could feel his opponent shrug through the telephone line.

"I wish you good luck then, Coot," the voice returned to its nonchalant, business tone. "I will be waiting to meet this aracuan bird in person. Should he ever come to the Institute, I will make sure he is properly taken care of. Before then, let me know if you need any additional help in your journey. You must be really desperate to seek refuge in an unknown village in a strange jungle."

"Thank you for your offer, Sheldgoose," Clinton replied, his tone also reverted to a faux professional one. "Although, I believe Ari and I can handle the rest ourselves. You've given me enough help."

"I see. Ari, eh...?" Baroness Von Sheldgoose snickered. "I pray you can really change his life for the better. Show him he is not just a tool the world views his people as. I have no respect for neither good nor evil. But what I have respect for, is a person's perseverance in pursuing good or evil.

"I pray you will stick to your words to the very end. Although, having known you for so long, I believe I need not worry.

"You really are a kind soul, Clinton."

Sheldgoose softened her voice for that last sentence, to the point Clinton would have thought she had handed the telephone to someone else.

Before Clinton could say anything in reply, the call hung up from the other side. Listening for a few moments to the beeping sound of an ended phone call, he returned the receiver to the telephone on the wall.

His eyes drifted once again to the sleeping aracuan bird, through the slightly opened door. Ari twisted and turned in his sleep, especially whenever a thunder echoed from afar.

Remembering his meeting with the lonely aracuan bird on the jungle floor for the first time, Clinton's determination burned only brighter.

"If only I can save a single soul from despair, this life will be worth it."

(23-7-2025)