Author of "Simple Pleasures, Simple Pains"

. . . . . . . .

Here's a written college lecture crash course that goes into much more detail on the "why" and with some wonderful sources to back up:

https://www.ling.upenn.edu/courses/Fall_2014/ling001/prescription.html

The wikipedia article for prescriptivism, comparing it to descriptivism:

And this one helps explain the place of either in writing from a published author, professor, and publishing professional:

It's so easy to do as he says, but so hard to obey; to keep doing it when all their body wants to do is twist into the couch cushions to hide away from the burning pain every time their hitching lungs jump against the intrusion. Their throat hurts from holding back anything that wants to pass through. Now hurry to catch a couple more gasps before the blade twists further… In, out, in, out-in-out-in-out-in — !

As long as their breathing is controlled, they can continue on. As long as they can swallow down every whimper, every plea, every little morsel of sound that wants to escape and scream out to the world how much it hurts, they can keep playing. If they can last long enough, they can win.

However, their lungs are burning, and it feels more and more like their esophagus will split open from all that pressure that's stuck in there to keep themself from crying out. The next time the knife moves, just before it could fully slide out of their flesh, the tip gets caught and pulls on the raw edge where their skin was torn, and the exhale that leaves them comes dangerously near to forming a pitchy moan. Master heard it, he had to have, his ears are so sharp; they cannot let that happen again.

He hums giddily as he watches them bleed, bringing his blade closer to taste them. In their suffering, they have slid all the way down, now despairing spread across his lap where he fixes them when they worm their way a bit too far. The hand in their hair anchors both their body and their focus. — “Be-ware, be-ware, the maw of spirits’ nocturne grows ni-err, ni-err…” — he sings, hauntingly light. Childhood mischief is not quite what his rendition of the nursery rhyme brings to mind. His eerie singing voice sounds much closer to a spirit’s. — “Where to next?”

Master Grim's imagination paints a picture in which Mori’s body is the map that the lost children must navigate to find shelter from the witching spirits that hunt them. They cannot take long to choose; the children will be caught if they dawdle, so they quickly lift a trembling hand to point to where they want to hurt next.

They choose an old scar just above their hip. That one is long and deep, but it wasn't as bad as it looks, and they know their master loves opening up old wounds. Something about making their old pains newer and binding them to him, so every time they look at them, they remember him instead. In some way, Mori finds this comforting.

It doesn't really matter where they point, they think, because nowhere on their front is there a single patch of skin where getting stabbed would hurt any less — but they know well that there are certainly points their master can find where it hurts worse. Mori has to assume he will be careful not to hit anything that could end the game too early, though the only thing they can go off of is that he aims the blade diagonally, rather slipping it just under their skin, as opposed to impaling them right through their lungs. A mercy, — since they aren't choking on their blood right now, — but a punishment at the same time, because the upper layers of flesh are where an intrusion sears most.

The blade lines up once more and they brace, their teeth grit in preparation. In, out, in, out, in, out… but there is no agony spreading into them. Fearfully they watch as their master plays his knife on their flesh, tickling the roughened scar. He tests the limits of their heart as he lifts it up, then lets it fall with gusto; only for the tip of the blade to stop a hair’s width from their vulnerable belly.

Their twitching brings great amusement to his laugh. — "Breathe, love, breathe…” — he snickers, witnessing the first tear that finally escapes those lovely dark cages. It’s rarely the pain that brings those out; more often than not helplessness and terror are what let the shimmering drops slip. — “If it upsets you so, you can close your eyes instead. I can't scare you like that, can I?”

Worth to keep around slaves act with quick and efficient obedience — but Mori only furrows their brows. ‘Has to be a test; he's taunting me,’ they think, because they were told to keep watching just a little bit ago, so they must keep watching; he’s just trying to catch them slip up. When he sets a hand over their eyes and leads the lids closed, they're powerless to stop it.

The Reaper's claws draw goosebumps as they skate along his little fawn’s body, sliding down the crevasse of their hitching chest, visiting the concave curve of their hollow belly tense and heaving, take a playful loop around their bellybutton, and stop just above where their hair turns thick and becomes soft, precious fur. However, the scar at their hip isn't where his attention returns to.

He teases at the opening below their ribs instead. Circles it softly with one finger, then tests it with two at once, and all Mori can think to do is beg, beg, beg! Be pitiful, be small and sweet, show how good they can be so the torture will end, so their master will be satisfied sooner.

They can stay quiet. They must stay quiet.

“If you are too noisy, we will have to find a more suitable place to play.”

They don't want to go, they don't want to go — so please, no, please — they can hold out, they have to, it hurts, but they have to, but he pushes deeper, stretches their wound wider and — please stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, they can't, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy — !

Mori screams. They scream and thrash, and the pain doesn't ebb, so they keep crying and sobbing out pleas slotted in-between two apologies for being bad, for disobeying, for ruining the game, for not being able to hold out any longer with the Reaper's lifeless claws mangling them from the inside like this.

Somewhere to the side where a large half-moon desk sits on an elevated island, there is the sound of a pen being returned to the inkwell, and the disgruntled sigh of someone who just had enough of the Reaper's shenanigans. — “Grim.”

The shrieking continues for a while, Mori not any less helpless to stop it, but His Majesty is nothing if not patient, and he knows it will have to stop eventually. That is why he summons hands to hold them still and muffle them, because his ravenous god-friend isn't so patient, and he will not allow for his plaything to be made silent like this by someone else.

Sure enough, the Reaper clicks his tongue in fleeting annoyance. — “So ugly with his hands all over you…”

“Grim.”

As if only just now remembering his existence, Grim looks up towards his Lord. — “Ye-es?” — he sings, still knuckles deep in his little fawn's torso, happy as can be. Though held down, Mori still squirms around him. He loves when they do that.

The hands grow ever more suffocating, tighter and tighter the more Mori struggles. If only they muted their pain, not just their noise. The Lord does not care for that; he only cares that they won't disturb him any longer. — “Do you mind?”

The Reaper grins. — “No, not at all.”

Mori is certain that Master Grim can hear the Lord's nails softly scrape against his desk as he wills his limbs to crush Mori bit by bit. They know he can see them turning purple, they know he could make this end before their bones break, but they can only hope he will save them eventually. He seems pleased for now just watching them be slowly crushed like this in his lap without him having to even lift a finger.

They whine, more and more desperate. ‘Please, let me go. Please, make him stop. Please, I can do better, I can be better, I can cry and writhe without broken ribs. Let me please you better.’ In the eye that wasn't covered by those dreadful puppet limbs, where they can stare at their Master with absolute horror, they beg him not to let them die yet, because ‘I am more fun alive than dead!’

Finally, finally, Master Grim sighs, and swiftly removes his fingers from the torn open wound. — “Fine, fine,” — he says, smiling as he licks the blood off his claws. — “As you wish.”

Suddenly, the pressure disappears, the hands returning to whatever void they came from, and Mori’s lungs are allowed to expand once more. Disregarding their wretched wheezing and coughing, the Lord merely smiles back, sharp and impassive. — “Much obliged.”

There are more hands grabbing onto them and Mori cries out when they pull them back, position them so they face the ceiling, but they are only Master's hands now, and they are gentle, always gentle when he holds them. He turn their head easily, something like pity in his frown. — “I had said we would have to leave if you were being too loud, hadn't I?”

They shake their head, whispering as if they were still playing, as if a whisper wouldn’t count even if they were; — “p-please, I'll do better, I'd like to try again, Sir, we don't have to go, I-I'll be quiet this time…”

But it's no use. They already lost, and now they have to be punished. They lost, and Master won, and now he gets to take them as his prize. — “Shhh…” — he soothes, sweet like poison when their misty eyes melt and their mouth starts quivering, hiding against his palm, — “none of that now. Do not weep, my sweet dearling, I have you.”

His arms encircle them from below, and now they rise with him, curling around their wounds and holding onto their Master weakly. Mori’s body shakes like a wilted leaf, but they say nothing as Grim holds them close and turns to leave, and whispers, lovingly, in their ear; — “I know a place where we can be as loud as we want.”

He doesn't have to tell them where that is; they knew as soon as the rules were established, so when they start climbing the wooden staircase in the eastern wing, Mori can only close their eyes and let Master Grim carry them off to his bedchamber to collect his reward in utter, muted horror.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @sordayciega @insurance-fag @mirrormurmur @letitbehurt @yet-how-they-creep @it-is-whumptastic @tabbycatenthusiast @paperprinxe @notlikeothernurses

It's so easy to do as he says, but so hard to obey; to keep doing it when all their body wants to do is twist into the couch cushions to hide away from the burning pain every time their hitching lungs jump against the intrusion. Their throat hurts from holding back anything that wants to pass through. Now hurry to catch a couple more gasps before the blade twists further… In, out, in, out-in-out-in-out-in — !

As long as their breathing is controlled, they can continue on. As long as they can swallow down every whimper, every plea, every little morsel of sound that wants to escape and scream out to the world how much it hurts, they can keep playing. If they can last long enough, they can win.

However, their lungs are burning, and it feels more and more like their esophagus will split open from all that pressure that's stuck in there to keep themself from crying out. The next time the knife moves, just before it could fully slide out of their flesh, the tip gets caught and pulls on the raw edge where their skin was torn, and the exhale that leaves them comes dangerously near to forming a pitchy moan. Master heard it, he had to have, his ears are so sharp; they cannot let that happen again.

He hums giddily as he watches them bleed, bringing his blade closer to taste them. In their suffering, they have slid all the way down, now despairing spread across his lap where he fixes them when they worm their way a bit too far. The hand in their hair anchors both their body and their focus. — “Be-ware, be-ware, the maw of spirits’ nocturne grows ni-err, ni-err…” — he sings, hauntingly light. Childhood mischief is not quite what his rendition of the nursery rhyme brings to mind. His eerie singing voice sounds much closer to a spirit’s. — “Where to next?”

Master Grim's imagination paints a picture in which Mori’s body is the map that the lost children must navigate to find shelter from the witching spirits that hunt them. They cannot take long to choose; the children will be caught if they dawdle, so they quickly lift a trembling hand to point to where they want to hurt next.

They choose an old scar just above their hip. That one is long and deep, but it wasn't as bad as it looks, and they know their master loves opening up old wounds. Something about making their old pains newer and binding them to him, so every time they look at them, they remember him instead. In some way, Mori finds this comforting.

It doesn't really matter where they point, they think, because nowhere on their front is there a single patch of skin where getting stabbed would hurt any less — but they know well that there are certainly points their master can find where it hurts worse. Mori has to assume he will be careful not to hit anything that could end the game too early, though the only thing they can go off of is that he aims the blade diagonally, rather slipping it just under their skin, as opposed to impaling them right through their lungs. A mercy, — since they aren't choking on their blood right now, — but a punishment at the same time, because the upper layers of flesh are where an intrusion sears most.

The blade lines up once more and they brace, their teeth grit in preparation. In, out, in, out, in, out… but there is no agony spreading into them. Fearfully they watch as their master plays his knife on their flesh, tickling the roughened scar. He tests the limits of their heart as he lifts it up, then lets it fall with gusto; only for the tip of the blade to stop a hair’s width from their vulnerable belly.

Their twitching brings great amusement to his laugh. — "Breathe, love, breathe…” — he snickers, witnessing the first tear that finally escapes those lovely dark cages. It’s rarely the pain that brings those out; more often than not helplessness and terror are what let the shimmering drops slip. — “If it upsets you so, you can close your eyes instead. I can't scare you like that, can I?”

Worth to keep around slaves act with quick and efficient obedience — but Mori only furrows their brows. ‘Has to be a test; he's taunting me,’ they think, because they were told to keep watching just a little bit ago, so they must keep watching; he’s just trying to catch them slip up. When he sets a hand over their eyes and leads the lids closed, they're powerless to stop it.

The Reaper's claws draw goosebumps as they skate along his little fawn’s body, sliding down the crevasse of their hitching chest, visiting the concave curve of their hollow belly tense and heaving, take a playful loop around their bellybutton, and stop just above where their hair turns thick and becomes soft, precious fur. However, the scar at their hip isn't where his attention returns to.

He teases at the opening below their ribs instead. Circles it softly with one finger, then tests it with two at once, and all Mori can think to do is beg, beg, beg! Be pitiful, be small and sweet, show how good they can be so the torture will end, so their master will be satisfied sooner.

They can stay quiet. They must stay quiet.

“If you are too noisy, we will have to find a more suitable place to play.”

They don't want to go, they don't want to go — so please, no, please — they can hold out, they have to, it hurts, but they have to, but he pushes deeper, stretches their wound wider and — please stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, they can't, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy — !

Mori screams. They scream and thrash, and the pain doesn't ebb, so they keep crying and sobbing out pleas slotted in-between two apologies for being bad, for disobeying, for ruining the game, for not being able to hold out any longer with the Reaper's lifeless claws mangling them from the inside like this.

Somewhere to the side where a large half-moon desk sits on an elevated island, there is the sound of a pen being returned to the inkwell, and the disgruntled sigh of someone who just had enough of the Reaper's shenanigans. — “Grim.”

The shrieking continues for a while, Mori not any less helpless to stop it, but His Majesty is nothing if not patient, and he knows it will have to stop eventually. That is why he summons hands to hold them still and muffle them, because his ravenous god-friend isn't so patient, and he will not allow for his plaything to be made silent like this by someone else.

Sure enough, the Reaper clicks his tongue in fleeting annoyance. — “So ugly with his hands all over you…”

“Grim.”

As if only just now remembering his existence, Grim looks up towards his Lord. — “Ye-es?” — he sings, still knuckles deep in his little fawn's torso, happy as can be. Though held down, Mori still squirms around him. He loves when they do that.

The hands grow ever more suffocating, tighter and tighter the more Mori struggles. If only they muted their pain, not just their noise. The Lord does not care for that; he only cares that they won't disturb him any longer. — “Do you mind?”

The Reaper grins. — “No, not at all.”

Mori is certain that Master Grim can hear the Lord's nails softly scrape against his desk as he wills his limbs to crush Mori bit by bit. They know he can see them turning purple, they know he could make this end before their bones break, but they can only hope he will save them eventually. He seems pleased for now just watching them be slowly crushed like this in his lap without him having to even lift a finger.

They whine, more and more desperate. ‘Please, let me go. Please, make him stop. Please, I can do better, I can be better, I can cry and writhe without broken ribs. Let me please you better.’ In the eye that wasn't covered by those dreadful puppet limbs, where they can stare at their Master with absolute horror, they beg him not to let them die yet, because ‘I am more fun alive than dead!’

Finally, finally, Master Grim sighs, and swiftly removes his fingers from the torn open wound. — “Fine, fine,” — he says, smiling as he licks the blood off his claws. — “As you wish.”

Suddenly, the pressure disappears, the hands returning to whatever void they came from, and Mori’s lungs are allowed to expand once more. Disregarding their wretched wheezing and coughing, the Lord merely smiles back, sharp and impassive. — “Much obliged.”

There are more hands grabbing onto them and Mori cries out when they pull them back, position them so they face the ceiling, but they are only Master's hands now, and they are gentle, always gentle when he holds them. He turn their head easily, something like pity in his frown. — “I had said we would have to leave if you were being too loud, hadn't I?”

They shake their head, whispering as if they were still playing, as if a whisper wouldn’t count even if they were; — “p-please, I'll do better, I'd like to try again, Sir, we don't have to go, I-I'll be quiet this time…”

But it's no use. They already lost, and now they have to be punished. They lost, and Master won, and now he gets to take them as his prize. — “Shhh…” — he soothes, sweet like poison when their misty eyes melt and their mouth starts quivering, hiding against his palm, — “none of that now. Do not weep, my sweet dearling, I have you.”

His arms encircle them from below, and now they rise with him, curling around their wounds and holding onto their Master weakly. Mori’s body shakes like a wilted leaf, but they say nothing as Grim holds them close and turns to leave, and whispers, lovingly, in their ear; — “I know a place where we can be as loud as we want.”

He doesn't have to tell them where that is; they knew as soon as the rules were established, so when they start climbing the wooden staircase in the eastern wing, Mori can only close their eyes and let Master Grim carry them off to his bedchamber to collect his reward in utter, muted horror.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @sordayciega @insurance-fag @mirrormurmur @letitbehurt @yet-how-they-creep @it-is-whumptastic @tabbycatenthusiast @paperprinxe @notlikeothernurses

It's so easy to do as he says, but so hard to obey; to keep doing it when all their body wants to do is twist into the couch cushions to hide away from the burning pain every time their hitching lungs jump against the intrusion. Their throat hurts from holding back anything that wants to pass through. Now hurry to catch a couple more gasps before the blade twists further… In, out, in, out-in-out-in-out-in — !

As long as their breathing is controlled, they can continue on. As long as they can swallow down every whimper, every plea, every little morsel of sound that wants to escape and scream out to the world how much it hurts, they can keep playing. If they can last long enough, they can win.

However, their lungs are burning, and it feels more and more like their esophagus will split open from all that pressure that's stuck in there to keep themself from crying out. The next time the knife moves, just before it could fully slide out of their flesh, the tip gets caught and pulls on the raw edge where their skin was torn, and the exhale that leaves them comes dangerously near to forming a pitchy moan. Master heard it, he had to have, his ears are so sharp; they cannot let that happen again.

He hums giddily as he watches them bleed, bringing his blade closer to taste them. In their suffering, they have slid all the way down, now despairing spread across his lap where he fixes them when they worm their way a bit too far. The hand in their hair anchors both their body and their focus. — “Be-ware, be-ware, the maw of spirits’ nocturne grows ni-err, ni-err…” — he sings, hauntingly light. Childhood mischief is not quite what his rendition of the nursery rhyme brings to mind. His eerie singing voice sounds much closer to a spirit’s. — “Where to next?”

Master Grim's imagination paints a picture in which Mori’s body is the map that the lost children must navigate to find shelter from the witching spirits that hunt them. They cannot take long to choose; the children will be caught if they dawdle, so they quickly lift a trembling hand to point to where they want to hurt next.

They choose an old scar just above their hip. That one is long and deep, but it wasn't as bad as it looks, and they know their master loves opening up old wounds. Something about making their old pains newer and binding them to him, so every time they look at them, they remember him instead. In some way, Mori finds this comforting.

It doesn't really matter where they point, they think, because nowhere on their front is there a single patch of skin where getting stabbed would hurt any less — but they know well that there are certainly points their master can find where it hurts worse. Mori has to assume he will be careful not to hit anything that could end the game too early, though the only thing they can go off of is that he aims the blade diagonally, rather slipping it just under their skin, as opposed to impaling them right through their lungs. A mercy, — since they aren't choking on their blood right now, — but a punishment at the same time, because the upper layers of flesh are where an intrusion sears most.

The blade lines up once more and they brace, their teeth grit in preparation. In, out, in, out, in, out… but there is no agony spreading into them. Fearfully they watch as their master plays his knife on their flesh, tickling the roughened scar. He tests the limits of their heart as he lifts it up, then lets it fall with gusto; only for the tip of the blade to stop a hair’s width from their vulnerable belly.

Their twitching brings great amusement to his laugh. — "Breathe, love, breathe…” — he snickers, witnessing the first tear that finally escapes those lovely dark cages. It’s rarely the pain that brings those out; more often than not helplessness and terror are what let the shimmering drops slip. — “If it upsets you so, you can close your eyes instead. I can't scare you like that, can I?”

Worth to keep around slaves act with quick and efficient obedience — but Mori only furrows their brows. ‘Has to be a test; he's taunting me,’ they think, because they were told to keep watching just a little bit ago, so they must keep watching; he’s just trying to catch them slip up. When he sets a hand over their eyes and leads the lids closed, they're powerless to stop it.

The Reaper's claws draw goosebumps as they skate along his little fawn’s body, sliding down the crevasse of their hitching chest, visiting the concave curve of their hollow belly tense and heaving, take a playful loop around their bellybutton, and stop just above where their hair turns thick and becomes soft, precious fur. However, the scar at their hip isn't where his attention returns to.

He teases at the opening below their ribs instead. Circles it softly with one finger, then tests it with two at once, and all Mori can think to do is beg, beg, beg! Be pitiful, be small and sweet, show how good they can be so the torture will end, so their master will be satisfied sooner.

They can stay quiet. They must stay quiet.

“If you are too noisy, we will have to find a more suitable place to play.”

They don't want to go, they don't want to go — so please, no, please — they can hold out, they have to, it hurts, but they have to, but he pushes deeper, stretches their wound wider and — please stop, it hurts, it hurts so much, they can't, mercy, mercy, mercy, mercy — !

Mori screams. They scream and thrash, and the pain doesn't ebb, so they keep crying and sobbing out pleas slotted in-between two apologies for being bad, for disobeying, for ruining the game, for not being able to hold out any longer with the Reaper's lifeless claws mangling them from the inside like this.

Somewhere to the side where a large half-moon desk sits on an elevated island, there is the sound of a pen being returned to the inkwell, and the disgruntled sigh of someone who just had enough of the Reaper's shenanigans. — “Grim.”

The shrieking continues for a while, Mori not any less helpless to stop it, but His Majesty is nothing if not patient, and he knows it will have to stop eventually. That is why he summons hands to hold them still and muffle them, because his ravenous god-friend isn't so patient, and he will not allow for his plaything to be made silent like this by someone else.

Sure enough, the Reaper clicks his tongue in fleeting annoyance. — “So ugly with his hands all over you…”

“Grim.”

As if only just now remembering his existence, Grim looks up towards his Lord. — “Ye-es?” — he sings, still knuckles deep in his little fawn's torso, happy as can be. Though held down, Mori still squirms around him. He loves when they do that.

The hands grow ever more suffocating, tighter and tighter the more Mori struggles. If only they muted their pain, not just their noise. The Lord does not care for that; he only cares that they won't disturb him any longer. — “Do you mind?”

The Reaper grins. — “No, not at all.”

Mori is certain that Master Grim can hear the Lord's nails softly scrape against his desk as he wills his limbs to crush Mori bit by bit. They know he can see them turning purple, they know he could make this end before their bones break, but they can only hope he will save them eventually. He seems pleased for now just watching them be slowly crushed like this in his lap without him having to even lift a finger.

They whine, more and more desperate. ‘Please, let me go. Please, make him stop. Please, I can do better, I can be better, I can cry and writhe without broken ribs. Let me please you better.’ In the eye that wasn't covered by those dreadful puppet limbs, where they can stare at their Master with absolute horror, they beg him not to let them die yet, because ‘I am more fun alive than dead!’

Finally, finally, Master Grim sighs, and swiftly removes his fingers from the torn open wound. — “Fine, fine,” — he says, smiling as he licks the blood off his claws. — “As you wish.”

Suddenly, the pressure disappears, the hands returning to whatever void they came from, and Mori’s lungs are allowed to expand once more. Disregarding their wretched wheezing and coughing, the Lord merely smiles back, sharp and impassive. — “Much obliged.”

There are more hands grabbing onto them and Mori cries out when they pull them back, position them so they face the ceiling, but they are only Master's hands now, and they are gentle, always gentle when he holds them. He turn their head easily, something like pity in his frown. — “I had said we would have to leave if you were being too loud, hadn't I?”

They shake their head, whispering as if they were still playing, as if a whisper wouldn’t count even if they were; — “p-please, I'll do better, I'd like to try again, Sir, we don't have to go, I-I'll be quiet this time…”

But it's no use. They already lost, and now they have to be punished. They lost, and Master won, and now he gets to take them as his prize. — “Shhh…” — he soothes, sweet like poison when their misty eyes melt and their mouth starts quivering, hiding against his palm, — “none of that now. Do not weep, my sweet dearling, I have you.”

His arms encircle them from below, and now they rise with him, curling around their wounds and holding onto their Master weakly. Mori’s body shakes like a wilted leaf, but they say nothing as Grim holds them close and turns to leave, and whispers, lovingly, in their ear; — “I know a place where we can be as loud as we want.”

He doesn't have to tell them where that is; they knew as soon as the rules were established, so when they start climbing the wooden staircase in the eastern wing, Mori can only close their eyes and let Master Grim carry them off to his bedchamber to collect his reward in utter, muted horror.

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long @sordayciega @insurance-fag @mirrormurmur @letitbehurt @yet-how-they-creep @it-is-whumptastic @tabbycatenthusiast @paperprinxe @notlikeothernurses