#good prose

[sir-big-bass-knight-of-ur-mum]

Scene: The king has been summoned to his servants chambers for an emergency. When he there he’s alarmed to a large crash. Rushing in he finds the jester pouting in the corner, a loud bellowing knight rolling on the floor laughing, and a platter of cheeses and wine seemingly thrown across the room. The jester begins yelling obscenities at the kings favored knight while struggling to walk.

“HE CALLED ME VANILLA” says the jester, with a look of genuine insult in his usual high pitched voice

“AYE, Cuz the lad is somehow still a virgin despite being a god damned burlesque comedian” comes the hulking voice of the knight

That’s as far as I got in this head canon but definitely assume there’s a threesome after where they both gentle dom the jester until he can’t move the next day and yells at them both for leaving him sore and feeling hollow in his crotch

[theleakypen]

I'm listening to the Gentlemen of the Road audiobook (which is great) for the first time, but this book has been a favorite of mine for well over a decade. The story is fantastic & the prose is impeccable.

I mean just look at this, opening sentence of all time:

[gallavichfanficlibrary]

hi this might be super hard to answer so don’t worry about it if you can’t but... i was wondering if you could rec some like artfully written fics?? it can be au or not i just love really poetic fics and i’ve been having trouble finding them 😭

Assuming you meant good prose, this is our understanding of artfully written fics x)

Fe + Au

Heartstrings

The Needle And The Burning Body

Proof

Minutes

Boy in the Box

none the wiser

Life, or Something

Iron & Blue

Also, I know that @wehangout plans a very poetic fic for the Big Bang ;) So, pay attention to the Big Bang schedule :D

[amethystline]

One summer when i was a child, my Aunt B came to stay with us. My mom said it was because she broke up with her boyfriend, and we weren’t s

I want to be as funny as aunt B

[robertcday]

Visualisation

I was thinking today about how good it is to find a book where you can actually visualise the ideas, concepts, experiences and exercises as you read. It adds an extra dimension to the words – an experiential dimension.

Then I was wondering how much of a challenge it would be to write prose in such a way that the scenes and people could be brought to life in the mind’s eye of the reader.

This is…

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[somstory]

Beauty makes me hopeless. I don’t care why anymore I just want to get away. When I look at the city of Paris I long to wrap my legs around it. When I watch you dancing there is a heartless immensity like a sailor in a dead calm sea. Desires as round as peaches bloom in me all night, I no longer gather what falls.

from Plainwater, Anne Carson

[nothingxgoodx]

“It had stopped raining, but Peter Keating wished it would start again. The pavements glistened, there were dark blotches on the walls of buildings, and since it did not come from the sky, it looked as if the city were bathed in cold sweat. The air was heavy with untimely darkness, disquieting like premature old age, and there were yellow puddles of light in windows. Keating had missed the rain, but he felt wet, from his bones out...Now he walked slowly, through the streets full of rain that would not come. He looked up and saw empty space where the towers of familiar buildings had been; it did not look like fog or clouds, but like a solid spread of gray sky that had worked a gigantic, soundless destruction. That sight of buildings vanishing through the sky had always made him uneasy. He walked on, looking down.” -Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead, pp. 593-594

[nothingxgoodx]

I’m a quarter of the way into The Fountainhead and I just love the character of Dominique Francon. In describing something as simple as posture, Rand gives Francon an air of devastating elegance and demonstrates a type of femininity that is both severe and graceful:

“She moved away from him. She sat down on the bed, leaning back on straight arms, her legs crossed and pressed close together in a long, straight line. Her body, sagging limply from her shoulders, contradicted the inflexible precision of the legs; the cold austerity of her face contradicted the pose of her body...

...She sat leaning forward, gathered into a dim black huddle; the lamp light fell on one hand she had dropped limply on her knees, palm up, the fingers half-closed, a thin edge of fire outlining each finger, the dark cloth of her dress making the hand too naked and brilliant.” Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead, p. 212, 213