#you can't just say PURPLE PROSE and not

[blitzbuckz]

Stolas: people say I'm too purple prose and not explicit enough Blitzø: well, you are fancy as fuck but purple suits you. Like, me for example, I'm too red. I don't think it's as appealing? sorta blinding- *continues rant* Stolas: no, blitz. I mean "purple" "prose" as in using too many unnecessary words. Blitzø: .... Blitzø: y'know what? they're right, you are too poetic.

[wario-speedwagon]

woah, woah- sorry I'm not used to being so riled up by advice I disagree with, so forgive me for being out of character, but I have to throw shade on this (please note that all further ranting is petty in nature, just let me have this, I'm not actually dying on any hills over this lol)

Writing advice that is like "hey lazy/beginner writers do this and it's wrong, but you should write like I do, because my writing style is just objectively "stronger writing"!--

What is "stronger writing"? is it "more impactful"? "Stronger message"? That kinda stuff is so subjective to the reader that it can't be objectively "stronger writing". Please tell me what "stronger writing" is, what the goal of "stronger writing" is. Is it to be enjoyable or easy to read, or to be poetic and layered in meaning, or to be the kind of stuff schools could analyze for years, or to simply tell a good story?

"Short cuts?" what is wrong with being to-the point sometimes? Why are "thesis statement" sentences wholistically bad? Cuz when I was reading those bad/fixed examples, all I saw were perfectly great, if simple characterizing sentences being padded out for the sake of more details. But I'm not at all against details, those are great! So I thought "oh I get it, they're saying don't rely on just the "thesis" but also add those contextualizing details to enrich/support the thesis and then put it back"--No. Axe the thesis entirely! It's "lazy writing!" If a reader is worth their salt, they'll know exactly what you're taking the scenic route to say, and none of them won't skim your word walls at all!

Those "fixed" examples are also wonderful and great writing, don't get me wrong, (and I'm not saying your writing has to appeal or be accessible to every kind of reader). But why are the original sentences bad? Why shouldn't they also be good writing in conjunction with the details? Are we so allergic to clarity? Is it such a sin to say what you mean? But really, the crux of my ire isn't what style is "better" or "stronger" or "lazier", but that these are just different approaches, different styles to writing. Not "correct and incorrect" methods of storytelling; get out of here with that self-important BS. It's okay to prefer purple prose and using more words than fewer, just don't pretend it's the only worthwhile way to write, or the only way to get readers to engage and critically think about your writing!

And a larger issue I see a lot is that people think "telling instead of showing" is the boogeyman, and "showing instead of telling" is the universally better way. Realistically, both are very important approaches to include for different effects. And what is most compelling/interesting to read is varied writing--balanced writing. However, this advice reads as someone who saw the flanderized "show don't tell" advice and decided it was the end all be all gospel and that all telling is bad (sorry; "lazy" or "beginner").

Be clear, and be elusive; be detailed, and be direct; and know when to be which. These different approaches have their different strengths and weaknesses, their times and places, so take advantage of all of them. And most importantly, whichever way you lean, know the strengths and limitations of your preferred aproach and aim to compensate for them! (Lord knows that my in my school essay days, I had to learn to cut the details and be more direct with my point; meanwhile in my fiction, with my more "direct" writing style, I've had to learn to get better at adding more enriching details to support my "theses" and make the reading experience feel more rich; I wish every purple prose leaning writer extended the same courtesy and knew what details were enriching and what details are distracting from the thesis and should be cut for focus.

I want to specify for clarity and especially intellectual honesty: I know the point of his advice is to practice writing without thesis sentences for a while until you get good enough to know how to include details that tell a larger truth to use that skill and not rely on always-direct statements that eventually get stale or are less engaging. I actually like a lot of bits of advice in the middle, like burying simple facts among larger statements instead of giving them outright, because it's very efficient and undistracting writing. I strongly support including relevant details about the characters or environment to do the showing-not-telling (showing not telling IS good!!! When used appropriately!!)

But even though it doesn't say so directly (ha.) this advice is really just focused on "okay, here's how you get published and recognized by Big Writing as a respectable work of literature, this is what professional editors are looking for." And that's just... such a narrow demographic of advice being framed as universal (common in a lot of ivory towers in general tho tbh). Please frame it as such if that's the intent of the advice (but alas, you don't like telling outright, so I had to use my critical thinking as a reader to intuit that this is the true "meaning" of your advice. If that's not the intent, then tell me outright in one of your detested direct sentences.).

But different styles of writing also are also effective and worthwhile, and also thrive, especially when they learn to maximize on their own strengths and minimize their weaknesses, and especially when they find their own audience! I'm tired of people worshipping exactly one approach to writing and discounting the rest.

(p.s. I know I'm taking much of this advice in bad faith. Let me have this, I almost never let myself be a hater.)

So... I found this and now it keeps coming to mind. You hear about "life-changing writing advice" all the time and usually its really not—but honestly this is it man.

I'm going to try it.

[mortalityplays]

This is a dangerous sentiment for me to express, as an editor who spends most of my working life telling writers to knock it off with the 45-word sentences and the adverbs and tortured metaphors, but I do think we're living through a period of weird pragmatic puritanism in mainstream literary taste.

e.g. I keep seeing people talk about 'purple prose' when they actually mean 'the writer uses vivid and/or metaphorical descriptive language'. I've seen people who present themselves as educators offer some of the best genre writing in western canon as examples of 'purple prose' because it engages strategically in prose-poetry to evoke mood and I guess that's sheer decadence when you could instead say "it was dark and scary outside". But that's not what purple prose means. Purple means the construction of the prose itself gets in the way of conveying meaning. mid-00s horse RPers know what I'm talking about. Cerulean orbs flash'd fire as they turn'd 'pon rollforth land, yonder horizonways. <= if I had to read this when I was 12, you don't get to call Ray Bradbury's prose 'purple'.

I griped on here recently about the prepossession with fictional characters in fictional narratives behaving 'rationally' and 'realistically' as if the sole purpose of a made-up story is to convince you it could have happened. No wonder the epistolary form is having a tumblr renaissance. One million billion arguments and thought experiments about The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas that almost all evade the point of the story: that you can't wriggle out of it. The narrator is telling you how it was, is and will be, and you must confront the dissonances it evokes and digest your discomfort. 'Realistic' begins on the author's terms, that's what gives them the power to reach into your brain and fiddle about until sparks happen. You kind of have to trust the process a little bit.

This ultra-orthodox attitude to writing shares a lot of common ground with the tight, tight commodification of art in online spaces. And I mean commodification in the truest sense - the reconstruction of the thing to maximise its capacity to interface with markets. Form and function are overwhelmingly privileged over cloudy ideas like meaning, intent and possibility, because you can apply a sliding value scale to the material aspects of a work. But you can't charge extra for 'more challenging conceptual response to the milieu' in a commission drive. So that shit becomes vestigial. It isn't valued, it isn't taught, so eventually it isn't sought out. At best it's mystified as part of a given writer/artist's 'talent', but either way it grows incumbent on the individual to care enough about that kind of skill to cultivate it.

And it's risky, because unmeasurables come with the possibility of rejection or failure. Drop in too many allegorical descriptions of the rose garden and someone will decide your prose is 'purple' and unserious. A lot of online audiences seem to be terrified of being considered pretentious in their tastes. That creates a real unwillingness to step out into discursive spaces where you 🫵 are expected to develop and explore a personal relationship with each element of a work. No guard rails, no right answers. Word of god is shit to us out here. But fear of getting that kind of analysis wrong makes people hove to work that slavishly explains itself on every page. And I'm left wondering, what's the point of art that leads every single participant to the same conclusion? See Spot run. Run, Spot, run. Down the rollforth land, yonder horizonways. I just want to read more weird stuff.

[ithinkimfaking]

One of my hobbies is listening to the tma q&a with jonny and Alex and clipping out bits that I'm like, this is just martin and Jon bickering. The girls are fighting. This conversation could happen in season 5 and I would not bat an eye.

[VD: An excerpt from The Magnus Archives Season 5 Q&A Part 2. Jonny Sims stutters, "... stuff like, it's just, it's just horrible," but Alex J. Newall speaks over him in a disagreeing, emphatic tone and says, "Ah, now you’re— Nothing wrong with a good mold. You can do a lot with a good mold. Also, the Corruption is a Power that you can kick. So I'm okay, I'm okay with The Corruption, doesn't bother me."

Jonny asks, "What do you mean it's a Power you can kick?" and Alex responds casually, "'Oh no, creepy mushroom.' Kick it." Jonny splutters and says, "Yeah, no, what-- You can't kick it-- Like, if the mold has buried into your flesh—" Alex repeats, "'Oh no, creepy mold.' Kick it."

Jonny argues, "If you are rotting, you can’t just... kick your own rot out." Alex says brightly, "Yeah, you can. Kick it." Jonny says wearily "Okay." Alex repeats, "The Corruption is a Power that can be kicked. I have-- I have no time for it." Jonny hums argumentatively and says, "Disagree," making Alex laugh. End VD]

Described by @princess-of-purple-prose

[thefudge]

Advice for writing smut???

gonna do bullet-points of things i tend to live by when it comes to smut (this is just my opinion):

don't switch styles: the way you write the smut has to be consistent with the way you write the rest of the story, so if your story is more comedic or romcom-y in nature, the way you write the smut should have those stylings. i personally find it very jarring when authors decide to break the format for the smut, almost like the story has to stop for the sex intermission; if you're writing a horror story, the smut must be informed and influenced by that genre, and if you are breaking genre for the smut portion, tell us why you're suddenly switching gears (it has to be an aesthetic choice you're making on purpose). likewise, if your style in that story is more lyrical, the smut has to be somewhat lyrical too, or if your story is more cormac mccarthy-esque-cut-and-dry, the smut can't suddenly involve an effluvia of purple, sappy prose. integrating the smut in the story and treating it like any other part of the story is key to me. too often i've seen ppl switch to this anonymous pornified style when they get to the smut

which brings me to specificity. i'll talk about het sex, since that's what i tend to write most: not all men are going to be fingering or eating pussy the same way, not all dicks are big and they shouldn't be, not all women immediately get excited by fingering, not everyone moans the same way or makes the same sounds. you're writing about particular characters so it has to be particular to them. i know this is very old advice, but i think it bears repeating

there isn't an exact formula or sequence you have to follow, there aren't precise steps, you don't have to go "well, first he has to kiss down her neck, then reach the boob area, then play with the nipples, then put the nipple in his mouth, then slowly go down on her, then prepare her for entering her etc. etc. etc." this can get boring and repetitive and you start thinking of your characters as these mechanical dolls who have to fuck for your audience. and that can be a vibe too, if you do it on purpose. but sometimes you can get stuck in a porn routine (and ofc, having only the guy show initiative can also get boring)

in order to break that, insert some character moments. what are the characters thinking during this? sometimes they might be thinking of something completely unrelated on the surface, but which has a thematic relevance that can make the scene hotter. likewise, maybe they're doing smth that seems unsexy on the surface, but which, within the context of the story might be really hot. sex doesn't just involve, well, sex, but so much weirdness and humanity and creativity. two bodies (usually) are trying to do this really awkward thing together and they might have a lot of baggage and history to inform it. there's a lot you can do with that.

don't make it glossy and clean, where everyone smells of strawberry shampoo and there is never anything out of sync. the most boring smut tends to be the kind where no one makes any mistakes and everything is super efficient. i imagine it feels like using an industrial pump to milk various farm animals.

and you know what? you can make that hot too. you CAN write a kind of robotic efficient smut and make it really interesting based on the context. let's say you're writing a 1984 AU fic where ppl are forced into intimacy only to procreate and their sex drive is diminished. you can play with that premise and lean into the dehumanizing industrialization of sex, but you have to mean it, aka your narratorial voice must be conscious of these factors.

if you're writing dubcon, make the dubious part present, make sure you draw out the ambivalence and ambiguity. if you're writing noncon, the character whose consent is being violated has to be transformed by this in some way. it can be forced pleasure, for instance, but not only. it has to be a journey for them too, some kind of spiritual pit, or a form of access to terrible knowledge. i know this is a personal thing, but noncon doesn't work for me if the character being noncon'd is just sort of *there*, suffering passively. i think that sort of dead passivity can be done very well too, but the narratorial voice has to persuade me.

that being said, don't be afraid of fear in consensual sex. terror and vulnerability are a part of consensual sex too, imo, and again, depending on the story and the characters, there's a lot you can explore there

i personally find it really hot when the narratorial voice starts discussing some of the ideas that the story wants to convey during the smut. so like, you can characterize person A and outline their worldview and their plans while they're ramming person B, and the thinking & fucking are thus entwined. idk, i dig that

speaking of which, smut can convey world-building details and social/philosophical ideas, not just emotions and character beats

not all smut has to end with mutual orgasm or even one-sided orgasm, it depends what you want to do or where you want to go. again, you don't have to follow a sequence. plus, it's fun (and hot) to write about frustration and failure too.

if you want to mix up the descriptions, resort to the story & characters. you'll find it's easier to describe someone fondling a boob in a new or at least interesting way if you're thinking about that particular character in that particular story, and not just Man X from planet porn (sorry to be snarky, but mainstream erotica is soooo guilty of this)

screaming & really intense reactions are cool but they have to match the characters and the situations

sometimes, it's hotter if an effect is mild or negated, if the usual outcome doesn't happen; mix up the order of events, toy with the usual reactions. it's not about being original, it's about finding out what works for your characters. writing about sex is, in a way, a performance of it, an attempt to go through the sexual motions, to find out what works and doesn't, to engage with the erotics of text (roland barthes entered the chat)

if you are bored by your own smut, that's a problem. i know we all talk about how hard we find writing smut, and IT IS hard, and sometimes it's not enjoyable, because writing itself is often not enjoyable, but even when it's painful and annoying, it gives you that little intellectual kick like "huh, i'm creating this and making these people do this, and ohh look, i can maybe put this unnamable thing into words". but if you become bored, that's a sign you have to look at the language & characters and figure out what's not working for you

last thing i'll underline: pay attention to your narratorial voice. in this ordeal, you are the seducer. not the characters. you have to seduce us with words and context. your voice matters the most. you can persuade us of anything. but you have to be confident in your weirdness and particularity. this is your bedroom (so to speak), so invite us in.

[max-nico]

I won't even click on a fic if all of the tags are just relationship tags, character tags, and the description is less than 2 sentences long

[angio2244]

[ID: A Trigun Stampede comic. Wolfwood goes "Oh shit" before the news van crashes into him, sending him flying. Meryl shouts "There's no dying on my watch, Mister!" while Wolfwood comes to with Vash beside him. He thinks, "Huh? Where am I? Wait..." He sits up, worried. "Huh? I can't remember anything... (Except my name.)"

Baffled and captioned "Head empty," he thinks, "What was I doing again? Who's Michael?? An eye? Huh?! Something about a knife? Two knives?" Vash exclaims, "Ah! He's awake!" He's shown sparkling as he smiles and asks, "Um... Are you alright? Sorry for running you over..."

Wolfwood's glasses shatter as the background goes black. Vash sweats, "Um... What's wrong? Your expression's terrifying..." Wolfwood shoots up and grabs Vash's hand. "Angel!! My love." Vash sweats, "HUH? Angel?"

Wolfwood, blushing, says seriously, "It must be fate. God brought us together to meet! I know we just met but... Please, would you marry me?" Wolfwood continues to look enamored and Vash bewildered while, in the front, Meryl says with dead eyes, "I should run him over again." Roberto, equally dead-eyed and drinking, says, "Too late. He's got brain damage."

Next, Wolfwood protectively holds an arm in front of Vash and growls, "I will protect you!" Vash sweats, "There's really no need!!" Then, Wolfwood smiles and rubs Zazi's head, and Zazi thinks, "Wow, he's really good at acting..."

Last is another comic. Zazi tells Wolfwood, "You're supposed to be guiding Knives' brother (Vash) to him." Wolfwood says nonchalantly, "No I'm not. We're getting married." Zazi goes wide-eyed and then reports to Knives, who shouts, "The Punisher said what!?" End ID]

Thank you @princess-of-purple-prose for description!

[polarolds]

From @thedreadslayer's fic Unbroken, Chapter 37.

Sometimes I like to make comics, as a treat. See below the cut for a snippet of my progress. :)

Clothing refs for Ch 37, Ellie's hand-cropped shorts and red flannel were given, but Abby's clothes were not as clear so I took some artistic liberties. :')

+ lighting test - was aiming for early morning/dawn colours. Purple hues are some of my favourites to work with.

The section of the fic I was adapting, written by the brilliant @thedreadslayer:

“What … the hell am I doing?” Her legs go numb and unsteady. She plants herself down on a boulder. “Oh, god. I could’ve … oh, my god.” “But you didn’t,” says Abby, kneeling beside her. She gently rotates Ellie’s arm and indicates her masked bite. “Because of this. Because you believe in what we’re doing here.” Abby takes Ellie’s hand, clamps it around her Firefly dog tag, and just … holds it there. It’s terribly intimate. And terrible. “You did a good thing.” Ellie glares at Abby and imagines ripping her pretty face right off.  Because the Fireflies, the cure, humanity - her supposed “greater purpose” - had little to do with her decision to stay. 

I've made comics from prose a few times before in the past, but I can't say that I've developed any specific process for it lmao 🥲 i just try to make thumbnails and see what vibes well

from sketch (damn they messy)-> lineart -> to final

it isn't shown here, but I've learned to start blocking out the colours before I line and found it's been a great help figuring out the tone and layout :')

and that's p much it!

[utilitycaster]

okay watched Cloak and Dagger and here are my thoughts in brief

I don't think showing Ripley's backstory is bad. Part of why Ripley is an interesting character to me in a way that, to use my favorite punching bag, Otohan, is not, is because we had hints of what made her this way - fleeing the Empire; a list of names on Animus that included Bertrand Dwendal. Part of why I mock Otohan relentlessly is because she is a one-dimension villain, and Ripley never was that, which is why she's an interesting villain. Tragic backstory, in my opinion, enhances one's villainy, rather than reduces it: what sort of monster suffers and decides to do the same to others, rather than is driven to work to improve the lot of others? That's essentially why Caleb is in the end a heroic character and Ludinus is the culminating BBEG more so than Predathos.

Glintshore is one of my favorite battles of Campaign 1 and it also would not, in my opinion, translate well to animation. There was a great line in the Midst Messages from Xen in reference to Moonward about how in most rules-heavy TTRPGs, when you enter a big battle, time stretches out significantly, but in a systemless game like Moonward, it goes very quickly, which gives it a very different vibe and makes players make very different decisions. The emotional weight derives largely from how the party enters combat already heavily drained and never regains their footing, and how the cast is well aware and the sense of dread (and belief that Percy might be permanently dead and Taliesin will have to roll up a new character) sets in long before the battle ends. [long tangent about good parasocial vs bad parasocial in actual play put off until I have time to actually read Watch Us Roll, but this is Good Parasocial]. It's actually an interesting test of the challenge we face for the finale of the series: you are not going to get as efficient an emotional punch as Sam saying "Nine" in a show that doesn't have a concept of spell levels. I had struggled with how one might recreate the Glintshore battle and the answer is "you don't".

Ripley's speech was great no notes, love her being fucking awful and consumed with vengeance to the end. I think just as the theme of "your resentment will destroy you" is an enduring one throughout Critical Role, so is "every mortal is in theory someone who could change and become better, but if you shoot the hand that's trying to help you, well, get rekt lol"

The music over Percy's death is corny as hell. However, I am already on the record as someone who mutes It's Thursday Night for being corny as hell and who pokes fun at Matt's more purple prose and I seem to have stuck around regardless. I have made my peace with the fact that a good chunk of the cast spent their formative years just absolutely immersed in anime, and given the Extreme Anime Vibes of Percy in TLOVM I can't say I love it, but I also can't say it's not sort of fitting. Please do cut that scene with different music though, because it would be funny as shit.

I need to watch episodes 8 and 9 (going to now!) but much as I love the glintshore fight, you know what I love more? Episode 1x69 (nice). Real Tragedy Enjoyers know the proof is in the aftermath. If 8 and 9 also suck then I'll be back here in like an hour but if they're good then it's whatever.

Grog is always on some level experiencing a Sitcom B Plot and if you ever find yourself disliking a TLOVM episode, remember you're watching a sitcom where Grog is dealing with a Bird that is Very Here (metaphorical).

[pa-pa-plasma]

Example of actually intriguing tense switching:

He just looked at me with those deep, troubled eyes—eyes I can now see only in my memory. (Animorphs: The Invasion, by K. A. Applegate)

Example of bad tense switching:

They go to the store and grabbed some milk, because they are out and really wanted to have some cereal. (random bullshit I made up, by me)

The first one is good because the narrator is cutting in to give some ominous foreshadowing that is actually relevant. Jake isn't describing events as they happen, he is looking back on his life, & therefore talking about the events of The Invasion in past tense. His little comments being in present tense reminds us of all this while hiking up the dread & anticipation.

The second isn't good because the tenses randomly switch between past & present for no reason, which only serves to create confusion. When is this happening? Who the hell knows! Questions unrelated to the plot & characters (issues with consistency, characterization, grammar, etc) are not questions you want your reader to be asking. It doesn't "create intrigue" & "break the rules in a fun way," it ruins the immersion. Editing is your friend. Getting into the habit of paying attention to what words you're using is your even better friend.

doing unspeakable violence in my mind to this guy on reddit arguing that flip-flopping between tenses is actually good writing & creates intrigue rather than just look stupid

[zeninprincess]

rehab; a. hayakawa

wc: 3.6k | aki hayakawa x reader | nsfw 🔞

warning(s): mentions of nicotine addiction 🚬, toxic relationship (aki is neglectful partner, reader is too attached to aki), power dynamic, gaslighting, p in v, cunnilingus, fingering, blowjob, creampie, breeding 🥧

aki keeps saying that you're the one needed him as if he didn't need you when you left him. but then again, maybe you did need him as much as he needed his cigarettes

a/n: purple prose, im trying to expand my english vocabs. sorry if it's annoying. ty for understanding!! also guess what songs inspired me to write this.

i. withdrawal

aki loves to smoke even though he knew it would hurt his lungs, however it's hard not to smoke. he knew it could kill him someday yet he still do the very thing that might end him. smoking traps the man in a vicious cycle of needing to consume and feeling guilty to the point he'd stop smoking for a couple of day but then, withdrawal would hit him hard and before he knew it, he relapsed.

it's a never ending cycle of hurt, guilt, and a desire to burn. its addicting and when it hits you, it hits hard. to say that you hate that aki has an addiction to something as bad as cigarettes is an understatement, although you yourself is addicted to something else that hurts you. and it was love. you love him even though it hurts you, even when it rips your self worth apart.

you found yourself crying to sleep after an argument, but just like a smoker to nicotine, you can't get enough of him. in the morning you'd come to him and everything will be fine. he’ll pat you on your head and fucks you good. to say you needed him is an understatement but it's not far from the truth. you couldn't shake the feeling that you needed him, almost as if you were addicted to his presence. it was more than just a strong desire; it was a deep-seated need that seemed to consume you.

waking up in the dead of night, you couldn't feel his presence on his side of the bed. the duvet was cold, mirroring his words a few hours ago when you two were screaming at each other over the fact he rarely comes home. the coolness of the duvet being a stark reminder of his absence.

you'd find him on the balcony smoking. he does this everytime he can't sleep. and when he's done he'd flick them out on the street. you watch him as he inhale nicotine and exhale smoke.

perhaps you two are more alike than you've realized. both of you seem drawn to the thrill of danger, the adrenaline rush of near misses. addiction, in its various forms, seems to have a hold on both of you. the highs and lows of your tumultuous relationship, much like the intense cravings and withdrawals experienced by those addicted to substances, keep you both coming back for more. it's a dangerous cycle, fueled by the intense heat of your passion, akin to the burning sensation of aki's cigarettes.

remember, addiction can be a destructive force, and if left unchecked, it can lead to devastating consequences. thrilling sensation and feelings of hunger for love destroys you little by little.

being with aki really deconstructed you as a person. the way he made you feel so lonely yet fills your loneliness it was a paradoxical experience. you also felt that you're the only one who's trying in this relationship, aki acts like a broken radio, echoing nothing back to you. he kept you waiting, hoping he'd say something back or repay your effort but it was met with radio silence. he made you question your desirability with the way he treats you.

he's not a jerk who hurts you physically nor did he fool around with other chicks, sometimes you wish he did so it'll help you hate him and justify your actions. he just doesn't give any attention outside when he's dicking you down, he doesn't really give you praise or express his love to you. he just doesn't care that much. it's torturing you. it really looks like a one sided love to outsiders who don't know that you two are together.

but you're no saint either. aki felt like you were too attached to him, unhealthily. but that feelings of your inability to live without him is a better feeling than being loved by you. he felt alive and sober with you needing him. he loves your effort, though he hated the way you keep uttering phrases like

“do you love me aki?” you ask with puffy eyes.

to him, he's a silent lover only showing how much he loves you through hard love and his own way. he prefers working hard til morning than to cuddle with you after waking up because he wants you to live a comfortable life. he'd rather risk his life killing devils just to get minimum wage than see your feet swollen after taking orders for 6 hours a day as a waitress.

“a question that need not be asked nor answered” he replied as he drew a big one.

“you never took me out on dates anymore” you nagged.

“woman i cook dinner for you every time i'm home, besides it's not safe out there what if some devil eats you alive? what then? i'm not paying for your funeral when we could barely feed ourselves” he said in his neutral tone. you rolled your eyes. “you're not even at home every day aki”

“and you never told me how pretty i am”

“am i just a free dishwasher who you only fuck whenever you wanted?”

“have you ever cuddled me these days?”

“i guess i wasnt wrong when i say you're cheating huh? i guess thats why youre rarely home”

“answer me aki!!”

you were growing desperate after each question. and still he's soundless.

“god i hate you. please let me go aki. please i beg of you” this doesn't feel like home anymore, the strange foreign beauty in front of you didn't even bother looking your way as you paced to the shared bedroom and pack your belongings.

“i'm leaving you for good. goodbye aki, may we never cross paths ever again” you say for the thousandth time as you put on your coat and unlock the entrance to your freedom. hearing the slam of the door he could only sigh knowing you’ll be back.

you always come back.

right?

a week passed by and nothing changed except you're gone now and it's eating aki from inside. he fell deep into a spiraling mess, he didn't eat, did not sleep, he never came home instead he distracted himself by working incessantly. afterall, his sanctuary was gone, and the lingering scent of your perfume stuck inside the 16 by 16 unit you two used to share and it brings him to reality that the only trace of you left was the unwashed dishes and messy duvet from the day you left.

he isn't the same man anymore, he was just a shell of what once was inside. lost in his thoughts which were dominated by you, he sighed. today he's smoking at the park where you two met each other for the first time. ashes fall to the ground. he flicks off the half burned ciggy, he finds it hard to enjoy the cigarette not knowing where you are and who you're with.

you had him blocked off on every social media, you changed your number, cut your beautiful hair to above the shoulder it was a much needed reset. staying in a cheap motel, you found solace in nicotine. aki was right, smoking helped numb the pain and for a moment it gave you the illusion that aki was near you smoking on the balcony like how it used to be.

“may you never forget me aki hayakawa and the pain you've caused me” you muttered under your breath.

ii. anticipation

‘ahh~ ahhnn’

‘s-shoo good!! harder aki harder!!’

“Fffuck” up and down the shaft he copies the rhythm from the video. aki watches you bounce up and down his cock on his phone. you're so pretty all sticky and flustered like that on top of him. his body trembled in pleasure, eyes shut tightly and toes curling as he heard you moan on max volume.

“fuck name i need you so bad” he cried out as he rode the highs feeling the building up orgasm. he reminisce how tight and warm your pussy was around his cock. his heart pounds as he reaches orgasm, he calls out your name, riding the orgasm. in his mind you were there lapping his tongue while going up and down pounding your cervix letting him fill you up with his cum.

the fluid overflows from the tip of his cock to the duvet under him. the video still playing on his phone, he was brought back to reality. sitting at the edge of the bed naked, post nut clarity hits him. aki puts on his boxer before reaching to the bedside table for his cigarette box. seventeen minutes past midnight, aki had found out that the box was empty, sighing he put on his jeans and shirt. he needed a quick fix, thus he went to the convenience store across the street which was a familiar destination.

inside the convenience store, he picked one cigarette between selections of many. he picked the one with cotton candy flavour. it smelled like your perfume that has long gone in the span of 7 weeks. he tried everything in his power to keep the residual odour inside. going as far as refusing to open the window and balcony but it was no use because in the end he had inhaled all the scent.

at the same time you were walking home from the waitressing shift which you took since you needed money to pay rent. kicking the rock on the curbside, you reveal white stocking underneath your miniskirt you had to wear as it's part of the dress code. walking down the street near your old apartment. you stop by a convenience store, a familiar figure was leaning against the glass window. neon lights illuminates the figure. a smoke came out of his system.

his hair were longer, eyebags presents itself, he noticed you walking towards him. was that really you? he thought to himself. you wore a long coat, a mini skirt and a white blouse that hugged your figure just right and your hair, it's shorter now he didn't think you'd look that good in short hair. he knew you'd come back, though a bit longer than what he had anticipated.

your heels clicking against concrete, his eyes glimmering with hope as you get closer and closer. you clutch your handbag tightly. you stand beside him, leaning on the glass window before falling to your knees crying exhausted. aki removed the cigarette on his lips and crouched down to your level.

“i hate you but i don't have anywhere else to stay” you confessed, chin resting on your knees. “you have me. i'm where you're supposed to stay at” he said, hesitating to pat your back. as excited as he might be, he couldn't express the fact that his longing for you had ended the second you made eye contact with him.

you tilt your head towards him, “i missed you”

“come back to me doll” he say as he opened his arm far and wide waiting for you to fall into his hug to which you didn't take a second to do. you cried in his arms. you keep relapsing back to him no matter what you do. it's a bad habit yet you don't mind if you destroy your life chasing the never ending fire.

you took his hand and walk back to your forever home with him.

iii. relapse - intoxication

he kissed you incessantly on the way there, groping you all over your curves. as soon as the door closed he took your coat off and ripped open your blouse. buttons flew everywhere. still kissing you, his tongue explores your cave, one hand cupping your cheek, the other one fondling your breast. he broke the kiss for a moment to regain his breath.

“let me show you the way i love you dollface”

he sucks on your neck leaving a red mark, grinding his hardness on your exposed black laced panties. your skirt rode up to your navel, aki pinned you to the door. “mmm aki~” you cooed as he bury his face on the crook of your neck.

he picks you up in the bridal style to the bedroom. you sprawl yourself onto the sticky duvet, god knows what's making it sticky. ugh. your attention snapped back to the man who's pinning you on all fours. chills send down your spine as you're half naked. the room was dark. the only thing that illuminates the room was the moonlight.

“aki i know you want me but-” you paused, parallel to his hand that were fondling your mounds. “i'm here to crash not to stay”

“yeah yeah keep yapping angel i know you” his pepper kisses on your mound felt like a rapid fire. using your free hand you unzipped his pants, freeing his member. “you think you can leave me that easily? nuh uh baby. you're addicted to me” that cocky remark really did something to you because now your folds are soaked.

“shit we got hurricane katrina under here”

after cupping your pussy through your panties he felt how damp it was. he slid it down to your thighs. his index finger circles your clit, you writhe in pleasure, moaning loudly as he keeps torturing your clit enjoying the way you tremble in pleasure each time his plush finger flicks your clit. “ahn- aki!!” you screamed, at this point your neighbours probably has heard your unholy mewls.

he undresses you properly before opening his clothes. you two are naked now. he sat on the bed. leaning himself against the headboard, his cock twitches. aki looks at you, he waits in anticipation as you begin to lubricate your hand with your spit. you pump your fist around his member, he moans as you move your hand up and down. lowering your head, his tip kisses your plush lips. precum overflows, god you are heavenly.

aki is enjoying your sweet time, licking and kissing his cock, worshipping him. he's afraid this feeling might turn into a full blown addiction, he loves the whole thing, the 7 weeks, the emotional turmoil he felt when you left, and the happiness when you came running back to him. he loves your hopelessness, he loves that you're addicted to him, and especially he loves the way you're choking on his cock right now. “s too big akii” tears running down your eyes, yet you keep bobbing your head on his shaft. such a hypocrite.

“you're acting as if we've never done this before baby” he grabs a handful of your hair and slams your head down to his cock. spit and cum pools on your mouth and cheeks. “god you're such ah~” he moans “s-slut” you fasten your pace and sucking on his cock harder to stimulate him. not long after you change pace, thick ropes of cum spurt on your mouth “ffuck” his eye rolls in pleasure.

this was so long overdue, it was what you two needed after all. communication maybe the key to a good relationship but nothing beats a good sloppy head. “you're so pretty. fuck when was the last time we did this?”

“um like 6 fucking months ago? since you're so busy you just go straight to bed” you replied with a hint of annoyance on your tone.

“get on all fours since you wanna be a bitch” he smacks your ass before getting behind you waiting for you to get on all fours. “jerk” is all that you can say before his tongue assaults your folds. and all you can do is shriek in surprise before you melt in his mouth. he flicks his tongue, eating you out, making out with your pussy. his hands grips your rear end you're positive it'll leave a nice red mark in the morning. he pulls out with a hitching breath with a string of saliva being the only reason his lips are still connected to your pretty pink pussy. “god you're so sexy” he watched your trembling body from behind your only response was to pull his head back to your pussy. “you're awful at this aki” feeling challenged, aki enters two digit inside while he sucks on your clit you can feel him smirking when you tremble.

feeling your pussy tightens, he pulls out his digits, denying you the pleasure of cumming. he smacks your ass with his hand again.

“uhn aki why did you do that” you changed position into laying back

he didn't mutter a word, instead he spit on his cock, preparing to enter you. spreading your legs apart. he looks godly like this, with his hair down, sweat trickling down his toned abs, and the way he eye you down like a predator preparing to strike its prey. he smacks his cock on your wet pussy.

“were doing it raw tonight, ill make sure you're pregnant with my bastard after this is done” he said

while waiting in anticipation, you watch him as he spit on his cock, lubricating it so it'll slide easier inside your tight pussy hole. you felt your core burning inside. then he spreads your legs apart, his cock dangling, sticking on your fold. using one hand he guides his long thick erect member inside you. you hissed as he brute forced his way inside of you.

“fuck- that's it baby, take it all” he kissed your forehead before licking your tears away.

“ngghhh aki~ i can't take it anymore”

“shh baby, you're doing so good” he starts moving in and out of your pussy.

fuck, he needed this, more than cigarettes. listening to your mewls and looking at your hair sticking on your bare skin, you drooling, pussy clenching his dick tightly just like the way you hug him, you just can't let go of him.

and it took him all his fibre muscle not to cum right now. you scratch his back just enough to make him shudder in pain and pleasure. he definitely needed to make you a mama. wet sloppy sounds echoing in the small room, mixed with a faint sound of bed creaking.

“aki I cant- I'm gonna-” he cuts you off by sucking your tits. “ahhh fuck. aki I'm gonna cum”

his mouth left your nipples, “yeah you're gonna cum f’me baby?” he looks at you with those puppy eyes of his that he only showed you when he's lovesick.

“fuck name, let's do it together. get pregnant with my kids yeah?” he asks you hoping you'd let him knock you up. your mind was hazy as climax approached you couldn't think of anything else but cumming. “yes! yes aki! please make me pregnant!!” he thrusts deeper before finally feeling how tight your hole is, clenching him tighter by the second. hot liquid fills your womb while you squirt your cum all over his cock. you felt a little touch of death, aki fell on top of you, arms around your waist, cock still snuggling inside of you.

heavy breathing paced between you and aki. he kissed your eyelids, spouting praises and sweet talks. you've never felt so loved before. face buried on his neck you struggled to breath with aki on top of you, and only you can know how nice it felt to be so closed like this even when you're crushed under his weight. aki, noticing the way you struggle to breath moved himself beside you. he grabbed a cigarette from the mahogany table near the creaking bed, he reached for the silver plated lighter adjoining the pack. this habit of cigarettes after sex wasn't unknown of aki.

“i know you'll come back to me eventually” aki fires away his sassy remark while inhaling the fumes. hands extending to his, you reached for the cigarette that sits between the plush pale lips of his. it's your turn now.

“my landlord kicked me out” you confessed. “i don't miss you aki” but this was probably a lie, a snort came out of aki as he eyed you. smoke escaped your lips while you were spatting out those words.

“you needed me name” but maybe aki did need you too, maybe more than you needed him. it's ironic how akis now the one addicted to the burning sensation of you, things have flipped around.

“you're the one that's been babbling about me til now. let's talk about how you actually feel bro. but for starters, fuck you and all of your shits aki. i missed you” sigh escaped your lips

“i want you to need me like you need your cigarettes. i hate to admit this but i'm jealous of the devils you hunt everyday, i wish you'd dedicate your time to me the way you dedicate it to do your job that doesn't even pay you that good aki. is it that hard to do so?”

aki took the cigarette out of your mouth. he sat up, his digits traced your moon lit skin, separating baby hairs that sticks from your forehead. “atleast tell me how much you care about me aki” he laughed at that statement not in a mocking way, but in a playful way.

“im sorry for treating you the way i've treated you”

love can be as addicting as nicotine, it's craving as intense, and withdrawal will always be as painful as a heartbreak. and just like a smoker needs their fix, a lover needs love to fill the absence they feel.

he ruffles your hair, finishing his cigarette.

“thank you”

even when you know all these are just talk no substance, you still feel at bliss. aki himself smiled before he kissed you and one day you'll learn that love doesn't need to feel like a nicotine in the sense of it's addicting. and that sometimes, it's best to let go of the remaining cigarette before it reaches the end of the stick and burns your lips. but for now, bask in the intoxicating warmth and the overwhelming intensity because rehab isn't needed when destruction feels this good.

©️ zeninprincess 2024. reposting, plagiarizing, translating or claiming my works are strictly forbidden.

[prettyboykatsuki]

“Their bodies fitting together like they always were intended to become one.” - with my pookie…u already know him…pretty please…

✮ tags ; gn + afab!reader (use of word cunt), dry-humping (my dearly beloved), purple prose about astarions general neediness, smut is very light but there so 18+

✮ a/n ; sorry about this tumblr user nanamimizz. dont yell at me

The tightness in Astarion's chest takes permanent residency. Love is, decidedly, not for him.

He lets his eyes wash over your expression in the moonlight. Your own are blown wide, tinged with embarrassment about the state of affairs. Astarion would prefer to tease you about this. Make an off-handed comment about such a thing, the kind that leaves you pouting and huffing. You like when he does this, calls to your own bids for connection. Makes you feel desired. The kind of thing that gives him an edge over you.

But he can't, at least not tonight. His own expression would betray him instantly he knows, because it has been a long time since he's seen you. He's glad to have saved the world, glad to have been at risk of a parasitic infection. He met you during that.

But your likeness becoming the cities strength takes more of a toll on him than he cares to admits. Sometimes he won't see you for a tenday, and you can only return to each other briefly. In moments like those, it's difficult for Astarion to think clearly. He allows himself to wash away in your attention. To lay in it quietly, without taking.

He is strangely afraid of his desires. It's something that's easy to forget, somehow. Odd, since Astarion knows so clearly what he does not want. Wanting is a different affair. Desire is something so heavy he cannot shoulder it on his own, despite thinking he understood his so well.

Astarion cannot put any specifics to the intangible desires. He wants you somehow. In some way that makes his own body feel hot despite running so cold.

It's not lust. Just want. No more than want. A want to take.

A want so intense, he can't muster up the words to cause you fluster or strife. Even as a student of deception, the desire to be entangled with you is so great the words do not make it out.

Your hand reaches for his shoulder, squeezes thoroughly as you lay underneath him. The firelight warms you, casts a gold to your skin that makes his breath hitch.

"You're staring an awful lot," You say, a characteristic coquettish quality in your voice that Astarion only really likes on you "Is something the matter?"

"It's been a long while, my dear." He replies, raking his eyes over you. Eyes wide and... beautiful and perhaps easy "I wondered if you'd abandon me,"

"Please don't say such a terrible thing," You scoff, frowning "As if I could do something like that."

Right. As if you could.

"Is something on your mind?," You ask, noticing his distance "I'm more than happy to just lay with you."

"And leave you high and dry? Surely you don't think so little of me, darling?" He proclaims, dramatic and overstated. He masks his fondness, waits till your giggling with your eyes closed to smile "It's fine. Really."

You mumble something of him being sure. He tries not to let it bury him, instead opting to shift you until your legs are more open. Until he can press himself against your clothed sex, his own cock pressed. Hard and desperate against the warm, wet outline of your cunt. You squeak, nearly try to shuffle away.

But Astarion holds your hips, lets himself rut into you. He sinks into the desire, into his own want - sucking air between the sharp space between his teeth as you moan so desperately from the friction. That friction alone could bring you to orgasm makes his head feel light

. Over and over, until you're whining so beautifully. Like you need him.

Maybe Astarion can list one of his desires. He likes when you need him, at least half as much as he needs you.

"Like I told you so valiantly," His breath is shorter as he wraps your legs around his waist, lets his teeth brush against your neck "It's fine. I'm more interested in this."

You whine, your eyes fluttering open - mouth widened like you'll drool from so little. Terribly sensitive to the touch, Astarion can't help but push his hips up into you again. Desire to make you needy, make you feel pleasure that he knows he is able to provide. He can give you this much.

Your bodies fit together so perfectly. Limbs entangled and twined together between long, panting breaths. Like they were also so perfectly intended to lock with each other, become one in a way he damn near finds righteous.

You look up at him with a look so dazed he laughs in how sorry he feels. His hand grips around your waist, face buried into your shoulder.

"Don't fret, my love," He hums, soft "I can't wait much longer than this, either."

[sissylittlefeather]

Sissy- I’m so excited you reached your 500 follower mark. You’re very talented and I love sharing this little Elvisey corner with you. ✨

This photo of him is gorgeous and dreamy and sort of gives me Sissy poetry vibes. I’ll trust you to create whatever feels good to you. A little smutty, a little fluffy, whatever tickles your fancy dear 🖤

Thank you for being who you are 😘

@lookingforrainbows Awww you're the best! Thank you! Love you sweet friend!

I might've gotten a little carried away with this one, but you said poetry, so here you go...

Just the Two of Us

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, kissing, fingering, o in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, public(ish) sex, and some really indulgent purple prose

------------------------------------------------------

"We're married."

"I know." You look at your new husband and you're in absolute awe. How did you get so lucky? As you walk hand in hand on the beach, you can't believe this is actually your life. You're married. And not just to any man. You managed to land the most famous man on the planet, but more than that, you love him more than you ever thought possible.

He stops and turns you toward him, wrapping his arms around your waist. The wind blows through both of your hair as the sun begins to set over the water. He leans in and plants a gentle kiss on your cheek.

"I love you so much, baby." He coos into your ear. You can't help but smile at his obsession with telling you how much he loves you as often as possible. This is probably the tenth time he's said it since you've been walking up and down the beach. "Let's lay down."

You spread out the towels you've been carrying this whole time, take off your gauzy white cover-up, and settle on the sand, lying on your stomach. He lays next to you, propped up on one elbow to look at you.

"Do you know how beautiful you are?" He says with a sly smile.

"I'm starting to believe it. It's hard not to when you say it so often."

"I just want you to see yourself the way I see you, baby." He runs his fingertips down your cheek and leans in and kisses you again. Then, he looks out over the waves and surveys the beach around you. It's deserted, but of course it is since this is a private beach reserved just for your condo.

You're soaking in the last of the evening rays when you feel him fiddling with the strings on the side of your bikini bottoms. Your eyes pop open as he pulls on one and it comes untied.

"Elvis. What are you doing?"

"Nothing. Just... playing..." He reaches across to your other side and pulls on that one too until it falls open.

"Elvis..." He slides his hand under the back of your swimsuit and takes a handful of your ass, squeezing it gently. The sound of the waves crashing fades into the distance as his hand drifts a little lower, his finger tracing the edges of your entrance. He moves his fingertip to your clit and begins to make slow circles. Without meaning to, you lift your hips and spread your legs a little. He knows this signal and pulls his hand back to press his middle finger into you.

"Mmm... Elvis we're on the beach."

"So? There's no one around for miles. It's just you and me, baby." He pumps his finger in and out of you and you moan softly.

"But still." He pulls his finger back.

"You want me to stop?"

"No!" He smiles and presses his finger into you again, using his pointer finger to rub on your sensitive button. He leans forward and presses his lips to your shoulder as he continues to play with you.

"I just want to please my wife on our honeymoon. Is that bad?" He adds a second finger to press inside you and continues to drag his other fingertip across your clit quickly.

"No... it's so good..." You can't help but moan as he works you with his hand. You feel your release building as he moves on you. His ability to bring you to a climax with just three fingers will never cease to amaze you. The pressure continues to build in your center and he stops pumping his fingers to focus on your clit. He moves his fingertip over and around you and the blood rushes to your core. "Fuck, Elvis!"

You try not to scream as your orgasm slams into you, spreading you open right there on the beach and burning you up like starlight. Everything is warm and pulsing and all you see is his smile. He knows how he's made you feel and it's all he wants. But there's one more thing he needs.

"Can I make love to you on this beach, baby? I need you... right now..."

Everything inside you is warm, sensuous honey, so the thought of saying no doesn't even cross your mind.

"Yes, please." He kicks his pants off, pulls off his shirt, and rolls over on top of your back, discarding your open bikini bottom. You spread your legs just enough for him to find your entrance with the tip of his rock hard cock. He pushes into you slowly from behind, filling you inch by gasp-inspiring inch. When he's got you fully stretched around him, he pulls almost all the way out and thrusts into you deeply again. He begins a steady rhythm of rolling his hips into you, pumping into you as you try not to make too much noise. You're up on your elbows with your ass raised to give him the best angle. He kisses your shoulder and then slips a hand up under the top of your bikini to play with your nipple. After a few more minutes of thrusting, he unties your top and takes that off of you as well. Now it's just you and him, naked together under the open sky, the sun setting over the water creating a kaleidoscope of cotton candy clouds reflected on the waves.

The places where your skin kisses his are lightning hot with passion and sweat. And his lips. He presses his lips to any place he can reach on your back as he continues to fill you with himself over and over again.

When he pulls out and rolls onto his back, you know exactly what to do. You've made love to him enough to know what he wants. You crawl on top of him, settling a knee on either side of his hips and sink down onto him. The change in angle makes you moan together in unison. Somewhere a dog barks, but you don't care as the wind brushes your nipples causing them to harden even more. He notices and reaches out with both hands to caress your breasts. The waves crest and break on the beach behind you as you move up and down on him, taking him as deeply as you can. The sun is just a sliver over the water, but the moon is full, replacing the purple and orange sunset with silvery beams and glittering stars. He looks at you like you've swallowed the moon, it's light emanating from every edge of you.

"You are the answer to every prayer I've ever spoken into the darkness." He whispers into the night. His hand finds your cheek and he drags his thumb across your lips. No one else on earth knows the poetry of your bond. But he breathes life into it every time he touches you. "I am whole because you exist."

You lean forward and lay on his chest as he thrusts slowly into you from underneath. He pulls you into a deep kiss, your tongues creating a medley of dance steps all their own. When the kiss ends, you whisper back to him.

"You are my sun. The center of my orbit. I am me because you are you." He kisses your cheek and smiles.

"The only thing that ever made sense to me was music. And now you're the only notes I hear." His voice is just for you in the inky black night. Your heartbeats match the rhythm of his thrusting and the waves pounding the beach.

"All I want is to be yours forever." You half-moan into his ear.

"You are mine, baby. And I'm yours. Until we ourselves are moonlight." He groans and closes his eyes.

Before you were married, your union would've ended now to prevent any too-soon consequences. But tonight, here on the beach as husband and wife, there's a longing from both of you to continue. Any uncertainty about the future is now replaced by hope. So he doesn't stop. Your movements create a tapestry of oneness and as he approaches his release, your pace is steady. It's an unspoken agreement, a covenant that doesn't need acknowledging.

"Oh, God, baby..." He moans, eyes closed and lips parted slightly. You look at him with endless admiration. He's almost angelic in this moment and you revel in his beauty as he tenses and then shudders into you. The warmth inside you is not just metaphorical and he fills you with everything he has. This is what it means to be joined forever.

"I love you. I love you. I love you." He whispers, his voice husky with post-climax emotion as he kisses your lips between each phrase. When he's finished and beginning to soften, you readjust to lay next to him. He rolls over to face you, tracing his fingertips along the outline of your body as gently as butterfly wings. There is no more separation between you. You don't end and he doesn't begin. You simply are, like pieces of tracing paper layered together to create a single image.

"My husband." You whisper, your fingertips gracing the side of his face with a kind of holy adoration.

"My wife." He replies, his eyes like oceans deep enough to contain you both.

You lay there under the summer moon, two naked souls bound together by a love beyond comprehension. Tomorrow will bring you back to a reality filled with concert dates and meetings. But tonight? Tonight is just for the two of you.

******

The End

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

[honeyynymphh]

An Ever-Fixed Mark

|| Otto Hightower x Fem!Reader/OC || Rating: T (for now) Chapter: 1 of 5 Words: 2.8k

Married to Aemond Targaryen, life at court has not been what Lady Brakenwyn ever imagined. It is monotonous and lifeless inside the Red Keep with a husband who does care for her and who would rather spend coin in the slums of Kings Landing than with his own wife. She can't help but let her mind wander and yearn for the affections of a man who pays her the slightest attention - a man that she cannot have: the Hand of the King. Tags: pining, forbidden romance, infidelity, author is prone to purple prose (tags will be updated as story progresses) Ao3 Link

A/N: This story is in first person so can be read as a reader insert or as an OC, she is not described nor does she have a first name. No Y/N. Reader is married to Aemond but he is barely in the story. I have not read any books so I am operating on vibes mostly. I just want to write about that old man.

How embarrassing it was to be wed to a child. At least, that was what I felt my life had become. While Aemond Targaryen was a man grown, he still clung to the temperament of boyhood and delighted too much in the station he had been born with. The banquet hall was loud and raucous with the sound of happy chatter and laughter. Though I felt no joy as I sat at the large table on my own, watching my husband whisper to some other lady in a dark corner. I knew our marriage was nothing more than a political alliance and also some sort of punishment for the prince. Or perhaps not a punishment, but a desperate hope that he would act more as a prince should if he were wed. So quickly had I seen the foolishness in such a notion that I was surprised anyone had thought our union was a good idea.

I sighed and stared into my wine cup. I wished to be anywhere but here in the Red Keep, and certainly not at this name day celebration for a man I had tried to love and only grown to resent. As soon as I had arrived in King’s Landing I felt as if I didn’t belong. Where I was older than the prince, I felt out of place in court amongst those my own age. The other ladies were polite but we had not grown together so to them I was nothing but an outsider. The queen was kind to me, in a sort of distant fashion. I felt her disappointment in me, as if I could fix Aemond and unite mother and son once more - more foolishness. I snuck a glance at her and could see the annoyance that caused her lovely face to frown as she watched her second son.

“My lady, would you dance with me?”

The words startled me from my musings and I glanced across the table to see Ser Henry, at least I was sure that was his name. I knew him to be one of Prince Aegon’s Kingsguard, though I frequently saw him speaking with Aemond. He seemed to be the only one who even acknowledged my existence. I was certain that my husband had sent him over to me, to entertain me…to keep me happy. Aemond treated me as if I were one of the family’s dragons, not that I was capable of much strength nor fire breathing or flight. But I was capable of making more little baby dragons and that was all my worth had become, not that he put any effort into such an endeavor.

I forced a smile on my face and nodded at the knight, before making my way towards him. I took his proffered hand and let him lead me into the crush of people dancing amongst the glowing candelabras. I barely paid attention to anything but the music, the glorious sound of lutes and harps mingling together to create such beautiful sounds as I let him lead me across the floor. This I knew would be the closest I ever came to flying, no matter how hard I prayed to the gods to give me wings so I could leave this place.

“He says you should try and look happy,” whispered Ser Henry, his lips barely moving.

My face twitched but I mostly kept it blank as I stared at a point over his armoured shoulder.

“Maybe he should try and make me happy,” I said.

“Lady Brakenwyn.”

It was just my name, my old name, but it was a warning. The ‘Lady from the Riverlands’ was all I was to those in King’s Landing, even though I had not set foot there since I had been a child. As a ward of House Hightower, I had spent most of my life in Oldtown and had assumed I’d be promised to someone in the Reach. How I wish my mother hadn’t been such a scheming woman and my father so happy let her do as she pleased.

“He will send you back to the Riverlands.”

In a box, was clearly left unsaid. Foolishness on my part, that had been, to think my mother would be content with a match from a noble house in the Reach. No, my houses’ army and fealty was worth a Prince.

I held my tongue, not wishing to argue when I knew it would be in vain. It was pointless the threats, I knew they needed my parents fealty and would not displease House Brakenwyn by sending back their only child in a wooden casket. How stupid I had been a year ago to think coming to King’s Landing would be like in the stories, that I would be happy to be wed to a prince and to live in such a castle with the rulers of Westeros. How I missed how hopeful and joyous I had been before coming here.

But I would not let my melancholy ruin one of my only pleasures as Ser Henry continued to sweep me across the stone floor, his steps were a little erratic and his grip unsure but it improved my mood drastically. The music changed, the melody becoming more upbeat and while I could not recall the name of it, I knew it well. It was accompanied by a simple dance that involved changing partners and swinging steps, it was the sort of dance better suited for warm nights outside, not trapped in a stone room. But that didn’t deter me, I was happy as I switched Ser Henry to dance with a stout but cheerful nobleman, red in the face from drink who laughed heartily as he spun me around. I couldn't help but laugh in response to his merriment, even as he repeatedly stood on my feet. My spirits grew when I heard the sound of Princess Helaena’s laughter drift towards me. My head turned to see her as she danced with her grandfather, who smiled at her in such a way that I wished so desperately to have bestowed upon my own person.

It would not do for me to stare, and I did try not to, but I couldn’t help it as the dance drew us near. Helaena smiled dreamily at me, as was her way, before I was suddenly in the arms of the Hand of the King. Unlike the unsure grip of Ser Henry and the over eagerness of the drunken nobleman, Otto Hightower held me with an assuredness and reverence that made my heart swell. The Hand was one of the few people I spoke to at length, as I frequently saw him in the castle library. His gentle manner and keen mind had managed to captivate me, and though I knew it was fatuous to have such thoughts about a man, not only so much older than I, but the grandfather of my own husband, I could do nothing to stop the growing fondness I felt for him.

I smiled at him, unable to help how earnest it was despite my inner admonishments. Afterwards, I would pray that he only thought my exuberance due to the dancing and not him. I didn’t wish to embarrass myself. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately in the case of idiotic fantasies, I was back with Ser Henry, watching as Ser Otto and Helaena were lost in the crowd.

“That’s better, my lady,” said Ser Henry at the expression on my face. “You look so much prettier when you smile. Perhaps you should dance more often.”

I merely nodded in response, it was pointless to speak any further.

When my feet throbbed, no thanks to the drunken nobleman, I returned to the high table and gave my thanks to Alicent, who had been busy attentively whispering in the King’s ear, before slinking out of the Great Hall and to my chambers. I had no desire to speak to Aemond, I had already given him my well wishes in the morning and that had been received as well as anything I ever said to him, which was mostly indifference.

It was much cooler in the empty corridors of the Keep and the silence a welcome respite from the manic noise of the celebrations. I walked distractedly until I pushed through the heavy door and into my room. My chambers were linked to Aemond’s, though it was a passage several feet in length with a heavy door at each end. His door was frequently locked. At first I had locked my own until I realised he had a key and would let himself in, usually to cast judgements upon me. I thought our shared interest in reading would have brought us close but all it did was earn his ire. He didn’t trust me and I had learnt not to trust him. I did not know where Aegon spent most of his nights, or more aptly, whom he spent them with. But I did not care, as long as he left me alone.

The next day dawned slowly, the sun's rays gradually filtering through the high windows of the windows of the Red Keep as if she too were reluctant to rise from her bed. I usually awoke early, preferring to spend the morning in the godswood as it was often empty, though I allowed myself a longer rest after the nights dancing. The bird calls were gentle and the breeze soft when I reached the godswood. Sometimes out here I could pretend I was not trapped in a prison of stone as I sat on a bench and let the wind gently caress my face, the fresh air lifting my spirits. It was a tranquil place that felt disconnected from the Red Keep in a way that I relished. I had chosen a dress of periwinkle blue, I so rarely wore the colours of House Targaryen - a small rebellion on my part, and I admired the way the sunlight made the fabric glitter, reminding me of the Honeywine River during twilight.

I did not linger long as I knew Ser Otto would be in the library at this time, he did not spend every day there but I had learnt his routine without even thinking to do so. Every so often, I made sure to arrive either early or late, so that it would not seem as if I followed him like some unwanted shadow. Perhaps all we would say to each other would be a greeting, but it was enough to keep my melancholy at bay. There were few comfortable chairs but many tables, usually covered in scrolls and other texts. Ser Otto was fond of a small desk in one of the alcoves as it was near a high window, the light filtering through making it easier to read. One of the few chairs that were nearby was my favourite as it allowed me to curl within it like a cat so I could read and bask in the warmth of the sunshine. I hadn’t even noticed him the first time we had shared that little alcove.

I took my usual spot, opening the book I had been reading and settled in. The Hand had not arrived yet and I was uncertain as to whether he would come today after last night. I knew a council meeting would be held soon and surely he would prefer to rest before attending. But my disappointment at these thoughts were short lived when I heard his measured footsteps, I knew the sound by heart. I pretended not to notice him until his low and soft gravelly words greeted me. That was all we said before he sat down to work. I did not ask what he did, I didn’t think it was my business to enquire into the workings of the Hand of the King, but I was glad for it.

I shouldn’t have observed him as closely as I did. My eyes shouldn’t have lingered over the way his hand held the quill and how deftly it would sweep across the page as he took notes. Occasionally, while reading, he would lick the tip of his finger so he could turn a page. I’d feel my breath stick in my throat then as if I could feel his mouth upon my own body. Aemond rarely lay with me, I think I could count upon one hand the few times we had been together as husband and wife. But when we had, he had been so bare, so smooth—the only hair on him that which was on his head. If it wasn’t for his eye, he would be a blank canvas. Ser Otto looked worn in the way that a favourite book did. There were stories there. How I yearned deep in the pit of my belly to trace the lines of his face and to feel his beard scratch against my inner thigh.

I took in a shuddering breath at that thought and looked away, feeling the heat suffuse my face. I knew he was looking at me then and I heard the creak of his chair as he came to stand before me.

“My lady, are you well?” His low voice rumbled and I nodded my head in response. “Are you certain?”

I gathered my scattered wits and looked up at him. “Yes, my lord hand.”

He smiled at me, a small but reassuring quirk of the lips. I treasured it, even though I knew it was nothing more than some sort of perfunctory affection on his part. I was the wife of one of his grandchildren and from a house aligned with the Hightowers. I knew this to be true yet I could not squash the terrible hope within me that he meant it.

I knew I needed to stop this ridiculous fascination. But I clung to it, even more so in the nights. When I lay alone and in the silence of the Keep, with nothing more than the sound of rain pouring against the glass panes, I would think of him and pretend he held me. That he would whisper such sweet things in my ear and offer comfort that I had not felt in years…comfort I don’t think I’d ever truly felt.

Perhaps it was the unattainable nature of it all that enthralled me so. It was a safe dream to have, even though it gnawed at my guilty conscience. Why should I not have such thoughts? It wasn’t as if I were the one spending most nights in the Street of Silk. Even if I had shared a room with my husband, I would have been alone.

The seventh day was tomorrow and I knew I would have to pray even harder for my fanciful mind. I looked down at the book in my lap and tried to go back to the passage I was reading but I barely took a word in.

“It was good to see you enjoying the evening’s festivities during Aemond’s name day celebrations.”

I looked up at Ser Otto again to find his attention was still fixed on me as he waited for my response.

“You dance very well,” I said, wishing I had something more intelligent to say.

“For an old man?”

I blanched and hastily tried to correct his assumptions. “No! I didn’t mean that, Lord Hand, I was simply expressing my commendation.” I shifted awkwardly in my chair. “I do not think you are old.”

The man smiled, an eyebrow raising in amusement. I realised suddenly he had been jesting with me.

“It’s been a long time,” he said with a sigh, “but if your only comparison is Ser Henry and Lord Lyrmount, then I would seem full of grace.” He smiled again at me, it was small but conspiratorial in the way it lingered about his mouth. “I hope your feet have recovered well enough.”

“Yes, thank you,” I replied even as my feet throbbed in remembrance of Lord Lyrmount's clumsy steps.

He said no more and I knew our conversation ended for the day, but how I treasured it and the small but pleasurable smiles he had given me. He packed his things then, I noted how neatly he always did so, and I was constantly drawn to the precise movements of his hands and tried to ignore the thoughts of said hands touching my skin with the same careful reverence that he gave those old books.

As he left, I felt I had achieved something momentous with him being able to jest with me, as if I were waging some little war for his affection - despite how foolhardy the battle was. I tried to tell myself he merely tolerated me because of my marriage but I couldn’t help but think he did like me, in a way. He could have sat anywhere else in the library or avoided me completely - I knew there was ample space in the Tower of the Hand and he had no need to be here.

I smiled to myself at this small victory and happily returned to my book as the footsteps of the Hand faded into the distance.

A/N: I wrote a lot of this with COVID brain fog so I apologise if anything makes no sense.

Title is from Sonnet 116 by Shakespeare

[cipheramnesia]

Part 4: A Midnight Summer Dream

a story by @rox-and-prose and @cipheramnesia

Luna was a pale sliver of paint in the stars, a slip of the brush in the forever of the sky.

"That's it," Michele Loren said. "This is where we head our separate ways for the moment."

Laika took her hand of the control vines for Genghis Khan as she stared wordlessly. The earth civ moon, original version, a system unto itself. She had devoured all she could find about Luna, the multifacet god, in hopes to understand the call she felt in the days after leaving home. She'd put the hope of seeing Luna with her own eyes at the bottom of a box and buried the idea. Her muzzle hung slightly agape as she searched for something momentous to say, to share with GK how much it meant to be in the here and now.

She noticed Sy was watching her, and the dryad smiled and glanced away when he saw her seeing him. She blushed and her face felt hot, and she forgot her train of thought.

"I never imagined I'd rob the moon," she said.

"You're only robbing a very, very small part of it," Cat Nguyen corrected.

The crew of the Paperclip were sharing the bridge of Genghis Kahn, with varying expressions of perplexity on their faces watching the werewolf executing the peculiar movements and footwork involved in manipulating the various switches and nerves and pedals essential to a Pilot. Even Doc seemed entranced, silent through all the system jumps, or structure solutions, or whatever GK liked to call them. All except Dandridge who returned to the Paperclip immediately in a sullen huff, vowing never to set foot on GK ever again. Laika was going to need to find out what exactly GK had done to piss him off so bad.

Now they were gathering up helmets and and gloves for their envirosuits, looking around for just the right way to excuse themselves from the room which Laika had seen enough of before she was eight to recognize. "Okay," Loren said. "Well, you know. This should go fine, just stick with the plan, keep it simple, you know."

"I can do better than that," Doc (Laika still hadn't figured out if the woman was Blake Sloane, or Sloane Blake, or something else), pushing her bracelets along with the sleeve of her purple, double breasted, knitted suit jacket. "I can stick the plan to me." There was a mess of writing which Laika deeply hoped was meant to look smeared and half erased on Doc's forearm.

"That's, that's a great- Good job Sloane."

"Doctor Blake, why can't you ever get my name right?!"

"I'm sorry. Doctor Blake. Fantastic work as always." Loren turned to Laika. "Look, I don't know how to uh. You know how much work this has been for me. Well, just be careful. Make sure next time I see you, you have the godseye or Doc, or both. Or don't let me see you again?"

"Is that a threat," Sy asked.

"Think of it as friendly advice," Loren said.

"And also as a threat," Nguyen added, despite Loren's sharp look. "What?" she shot back at his frown.

"Do I have do go with these guys?" Sy looked at Laika who said "no" at the same time as Loren and Nguyen said "yes."

"We'll keep our end," Nguyen said, "along with your friend. You keep yourself along with Doc."

"Who you wouldn't be sorry to see killed, I gather."

"We'd prefer she come out of this mostly intact," Loren sounded almost apologetic.

"Okay, okay, fine. Let's not draw this out, I get it."

Loren breathed a small sigh of relief and Nguyen just smiled. "We'll get going then," he said.

"Take care of yourself," Laika gave Sy a shoulder pat as he walked by, then impulsively pulled him into a hug.

"I'll be good," he said into fur. "You have the hard job."

"Pulling off the heist?"

"Being alone with, uh, the Doc."

Loren and Nguyen waited at the entryway to the bridge. Laika set down Sy from the hug and stood her full height. "Oh," she said. "Before you go? GK, please threaten them."

Its voice coming from nowhere as usual, GK said, "Thank you Laika, for this commendable request. Captain Michele Loren of the Paperclip, please prepare for receiving a threatening missive."

"What?"

"Captain Michele Loren, Pilot Cat Nguyen, and the remaining crew of the ship Paperclip not present aboard myself, I am placing you under the advisement that should even the smallest fraction of an injury occur to Pilot Laika Blackwood, or Sy Drangea, electrical engineer, I will track you to the end of earth civilization space, and to parts unknown. You will never know safety or peace for as long as you remain alive. I will find your dreams, and take them from you. There will be no power up to and including the total heat death of this universe which will stop me from extracting your lives in payment. If you die, I will find yours souls. I will tear apart the essence of your beings. I will disperse the electrons of your bodies into every star of this universe. I will burn your souls to ash. Nothing will remain. Please ensure Sy returns safely to me upon our next meeting."

Loren stared, open mouthed.

"Uh," said Nguyen, "You're... really good at that."

"Thank you," said GK. "Your praise is insignificant to me. Please have a safe trip."

[blood-orange-juice]

Ok, Childe as a wuxia/xianxia trope. It's honestly a bit embarrassing how well this fits.

(blame @a-yarn-of-purple-prose for this post and if anyone here is a wuxia fan feel free to correct me, I'm new to the genre)

Wuxia is a Chinese martial arts fantasy genre you are all familiar with. An adjacent genre is called xianxia, "immortal heroes", it ramps all the fantasy elements up to eleven and skews tropes a bit (we'll get back to that).

A common trope is some kind of unorthodox school/sect or technique, allowing to achieve greater power without the usual decades of training. It could be straight-out evil or just revolving around chaos.

Such a martial school is usually called an evil/demonic sect (sect is more like a clan in that setting, not the modern concept of sect) and their techniques tend to drive practitioners to insanity. Either because they are inherently corrupting or because getting too much power without growing as a person is really not the best thing for your mental health. They are also often cast from hp points.

And then there's the archetype of a demonic sect heir. The best pupil or simply someone who has inherited a lost art. Proud, always greedy for more strength, often noble in some weird way.

*points to our calamity of a boy*

Common elements of such stories include:

Falling into some weird realm or meeting a weird person who teaches the hero a Forbidden Technique

Learning a technique too quickly through some sort of magic/alchemy/memory manipulation

Some people are so singular in their pursuit they become insane (走火入魔)

Ambition bad, loyalty and family good

Conflicting loyalties, generally a conflict between a chosen path and personal weaknesses/attachments (could be both ego and familal love, and this is more of a xianxia trope)

Fits like a horoscope so far but wait.

There's a very interesting case of Korean murim genre (their version of wuxia) where sects are less varied (I recommend this post for a basic introduction) and we get three paths:

Justice/Righteous/Orthodox/Light — theoretically they keep the Evil Faction at bay, and protect innocent people, but usually are corrupt to the core

Evil/Unorthodox/Dark — these try gaining as much power as possible and attempt ruling the whole world

Demonic Cult — usually dont take part in evil and justice battles, follow their own code of conduct based on their religion, value strength above all else.

(I'm sure there's a similar distinction in wuxia too, I just can't find it in the deluge of lore)

"Demonic" is closer to "pagan" or "heathen" than Christian idea of demonic here, their beliefs are often based on Zoroastrianism and worshipping a sacred flame. Do you remember all the Persian themes used for Khaenri'ah? And Surtalogi being the flame on Surtr's sword in Norse mythology. I also had the impression that Genshin gnostic references are based on the Zoroastrian-flavoured branch of Gnosticism.

In murim the trope of demonic sect heir is called "heavenly demon" (I believe, a more correct translation would be "supreme heathen"), they are utterly badass, live for the glory of battle, seem more like forces of nature and follow a very strict honour code often conflicting with normal human ethics.

(do I need to spell it out)

TvTropes also says this about Korean stories:

(do I need to spell it out pt.2)

I'm not sure why a Chinese studio would focus on the Korean version of this trope but I'm sure something like this exists in China as well or maybe there's a popular manhwa that inspired authors.

Xianxia extends the fantastic element further, focusing on Taoist concepts and practices and adding all kinds of magical realms (celestial, demonic, etc) and magical beings and making immortality achievable. I still need to read more about it but if I understand that right, demonic heir trope turns into a demon prince in this case. An actual visitor from the demon realm or a practitioner who achieved immortality through dubious means.

These are fae-coded in a way very similar to Childe and have a certain nonchalance towards things most humans would consider traumatic. They are simply not bothered by them, having a different set of morals or faring from a realm that is much worse.

Our boy isn't that (he's still very much human) but he's aesthetically coded like one, same as Scaramouche is yokai-coded, despite not being a yokai.

So. When people say Childe's arc is a reference to Journey to the West, it's not entirely untrue, JttW is the classic of xianxia genre and Childe does belong to the same genre. He, however, is not Sun Wukong but a different, darker trope.

This also explains why he has that "shonen anime protag but not quite" vibe. Shonen was heavily influenced by wuxia but this trope never quite made it to anime or maybe never became popular enough. It's not a deconstruction, it's a different story. Or perhaps a deconstruction of that different story.