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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.
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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.
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
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.
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.
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resemblance
"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."
