Writing Spicy with Claude

Back in the old days of writing with AI (like, six months ago), there weren't a whole lot of options for writing spicy scenes. Generally, NovelAI had the best prose and was the least likely to clutch its cybernetic pearls, but it's never been a prompting model so you had to get it started and let it run a few sentences, back it up and redirect it, over and over again until you had a scene you wanted.

And don't get me wrong, it wrote some damn good scenes. NovelAI is filthy. It will get dark and will happily write some obscene smut, but you have to point it in that direction. Which was tedious, but it was fine.

Then came Sonnet 3.7. A few weeks ago, we were still hitting the moderation firewall but things...they are a' changin'! Tonight, I was able to get a damn good scene from Claude and I wanted to share that process with you.

The Setup

I write in OpenRouter's chat with Sonnet 3.7 (self moderated) and GPT-4o. Sonnet gives good prose most of the time and will absolutely drown you in words, but sometimes it can get a little robotic and too flowery for my taste, but GPT is really good at taking what Sonnet gave me and tightening it up. My style leans towards punchy and tight, so this process is the best to give me the 2000-2500 words I like to hit for a chapter in the style that I prefer.

Tonight, I was working on a scene between my two characters, Silas and Petra. This is the second book in a dark paranormal romance duet with some military/mafia vibes. This specific book is more spicy than the first. I'm fifteen chapters in and this is already the third sex scene.

When writing, I always start the chat with my style guide or notes and the draft manuscript that I have so far. I've tried just giving the chat chapter briefs, but it ends up making a lot of continuity mistakes if I do that, so I just end up having to switch to a new chat sooner. It might not be the best/fastest/cheapest way of doing this, but it works for me.

I had only written one chapter in this chat so far, so most of the information came from my files and it was fresh on the model's "mind". This came from Claude (GPT won't touch anything spicier than salt-table, not even Himalayan).

The Prompt

When I prompt the chat, I do it as if talking to a human assistant or writing partner. Is that the best way to do this? Maybe not, but again, it works for me.

The Prose

Here is the raw chapter that I was given from Claude. I have not changed anything and this was the first result:

Chapter Fifteen

PETRA

Fucking Silas Vale is like fighting a war you're secretly hoping to lose.

His hands pin my wrists above my head, his grip just shy of bruising as he looms over me in the half-darkness of his bedroom. Two days of built-up tension, adrenaline crashes, and that look in his eyes when he shot Marceil point-blank have culminated in this moment—clothes scattered across his typically immaculate floor, sheets already half-destroyed beneath us.

"Is this what you've been thinking about all day?" I taunt, arching against his hold, testing his strength. "Poor Vale, sitting through all those meetings, pretending to care about intel when all you wanted was this?"

His eyes darken, that particular shade of stormy gray that means I've struck a nerve. Good. I want him rattled. I want the perfectly controlled Silas Vale to come apart at the seams.

"You're hardly in a position to mock," he replies, voice dangerously low as he shifts his weight, pressing me deeper into the mattress. "Not when I caught you staring at me during the entire Brooklyn operation."

"Tactical awareness," I counter, though we both know it's bullshit. "Someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed playing the hero."

"Is that what you call it?" His mouth curves into that almost-smile that drives me insane—half arrogance, half genuine amusement. "Seemed more like you were appreciating the view."

I buck my hips against his, gratified when his breath hitches. "Maybe I just like watching you work. Something about the way you shoot people who threaten me really gets me going."

His grip tightens fractionally. "I've noticed."

There's something thrilling about having all that intensity—all that deadly precision and calculated violence—focused entirely on me. Silas doesn't do anything halfway, whether it's planning an operation or taking me apart piece by piece.

I twist suddenly, using a move he actually taught me to break his hold and flip our positions. Now I'm straddling him, my hands pressing his shoulders into the mattress, hair falling around us like a dark curtain.

"You didn't see this coming?" I ask, grinding down against him, feeling him hard and ready beneath me. "The great Silas Vale, caught off guard. What would your minions think?"

He could throw me off easily—we both know his physical strength exceeds mine—but instead, he lets me have this moment of control. His hands settle on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh with just enough pressure to leave marks tomorrow.

"They'd think I'm exactly where I want to be," he replies, the raw honesty catching me off guard.

Something dangerously close to genuine emotion flickers in my chest. I squash it immediately, leaning down to bite his lower lip instead. "Sweet talker."

He laughs against my mouth—a rare, genuine sound that does more damage than his calculated seductions ever could. "Hardly."

His hands slide up my sides, mapping the landscape of scars and muscle with possessive familiarity. Every touch is proprietary, like he's claiming territory. Which, I suppose, he is. Just as I'm claiming him.

I press my hand against his throat, not squeezing yet but making my intentions clear. His pupils dilate, but he doesn't stop me.

"You like this," I observe, feeling his pulse jump beneath my palm. "The great Silas Vale, at someone else's mercy."

"Not someone," he corrects, voice rough. "You."

There it is again—that devastating honesty that he deploys like precision strikes, always when I least expect it.

I apply slight pressure to his throat, gratified when his hips buck involuntarily beneath me. "What happened to all that famous control, Vale? All those protocols and procedures?"

"Twelve hours," he reminds me, the words slightly strained beneath the pressure of my hand. "I've allocated time for this particular lapse."

"Only you would schedule losing control," I laugh, lifting myself slightly to position him at my entrance. I'm already soaked, have been since watching him delegate the debrief—something I've never seen him do before.

I sink down onto him in one fluid motion, both of us groaning at the sensation. Despite everything we've done to each other over the years—the fights, the fragile alliances, the moments of unexpected vulnerability—this still feels like the most dangerous territory we've ever navigated together.

"Fuck," I breathe as he fills me completely. My hand tightens instinctively on his throat, and his eyes flash with something primal.

"Move," he commands, the word somewhere between order and plea.

I rock against him slowly, deliberately denying the pace we both crave. "So demanding. What happened to your legendary patience, Vale?"

His hands grip my hips harder, trying to accelerate my rhythm. "It evaporated somewhere between watching you eliminate three hostiles in Brooklyn and the way you've been looking at me since Marceil."

The mention of Marceil—of those three perfect shots, no hesitation, no grandstanding—sends a fresh wave of heat through me. I grind down harder, abandoning the teasing pace for something more honest.

"Three shots," I say, watching his face as I ride him. "Right between the eyes. No monologue, no dramatic buildup. Just execution."

His expression sharpens with understanding. "You liked that."

"Liked it?" I laugh breathlessly, increasing my pace. "Vale, I nearly dragged you into an empty corridor right after. You think I set his corpse on fire just for closure?"

His hands slide up to my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples with deliberate precision. "Arson as foreplay. Only you, Petra."

The sound of my name on his lips does something to me—something raw and dangerous that I don't want to examine too closely. I lean down, my hair creating a curtain around us as I capture his mouth in a bruising kiss.

He takes advantage of my shifted position to flip us again, suddenly looming above me with predatory intent. I should be irritated at the loss of control, but there's something intoxicating about the focused hunger in his expression.

"Twelve hours," he reminds me, voice rough as he pins my hands above my head again, his other hand gripping my thigh to angle my hips just so. "And I intend to make you scream for at least half of them."

The promise sends a shiver down my spine. "Big talk, Vale. Let's see if you can deliver."

His thrust is sudden and deep, making me gasp despite my best efforts. He continues relentlessly, finding a rhythm designed to drive me toward the edge without quite letting me fall.

"This is what you wanted," he says against my throat, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. "Since the helicopter. Since watching me kill for you."

"Yes," I admit, beyond playing games now. My nails dig into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks that will join the constellation of scars and bruises we've given each other over the years.

"Say it," he demands, slowing his pace tortuously. "Tell me what you want, Petra."

I twist against his hold, but he doesn't budge. "Fuck you."

He chuckles, the sound vibrating through me. "That's rather the point. But I want to hear you say it."

The thing about Silas Vale—the maddening, infuriating truth of him—is that he sees through all my defenses. Always has, even when we were enemies. Even when I hated him more than I wanted him.

"I want you," I finally growl, glaring up at him. "I want you to stop holding back. To stop treating me like I'll break. I want you to fuck me like you mean it."

Something in his expression shifts—a dropping of the last barrier, the final pretense of control. His next thrust is brutal, perfect, hitting exactly where I need him.

"Like this?" he asks, maintaining the punishing rhythm, his voice strained with the effort of his own restraint.

"Yes," I gasp, arching up to meet him. "God, yes."

He releases my wrists, but only so he can grip my hips more effectively, angling me to drive deeper with each thrust. I immediately rake my nails down his back, feeling the muscles flex beneath my fingers as he moves.

"You're been driving me insane for two days," he admits, the words catching on his ragged breath. "The things I wanted to do to you after watching you in that facility—"

I cut him off with a kiss, not gentle or teasing but desperate and claiming. His tongue meets mine in a battle neither of us is trying to win anymore.

When his fingers find where we're joined, circling with devastating precision, I feel the first tremors of approaching release. He knows my body too well—knows exactly how to touch me to bring me to the edge and hold me there.

"Not yet," he murmurs against my mouth, slowing his movements when I'm right at the precipice.

"Fucking sadist," I gasp, bucking against him in frustration.

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "You prefer it that way."

He's not wrong. The delicious torture of being brought to the edge repeatedly, the burn of muscles pushed to their limit, the sweet ache of bruises forming where his fingers dig into my flesh—it's intoxicating in ways I'd never admit outside this room.

I retaliate by clenching around him deliberately, gratified when his rhythm falters momentarily.

"Two can play this game," I warn, reaching between us to touch myself since he's denied me. "And I fight dirty."

He captures my wrist, bringing it to his mouth to suck my fingers, the sight so unexpectedly erotic that I almost come undone right there.

"I'm counting on it," he says, releasing my fingers to trail his own back to where I need them most. "But this time, I win."

His circles match his thrusts perfectly, bringing me back to the edge so quickly that I barely have time to prepare. When he leans down to bite the juncture of my neck and shoulder—just hard enough to sting, exactly how I like it—I shatter around him, my body arching up against his as pleasure courses through me in violent waves.

He doesn't slow, doesn't give me time to recover, just continues his relentless pace through my orgasm and straight into building another. It's too much and not enough simultaneously—the oversensitivity bordering on pain, the pressure building again too quickly.

"Silas," I gasp, the use of his first name revealing more than I intend. "I can't—"

"You can," he insists, his eyes locked on mine with unnerving intensity. "And you will. For me."

That possessive edge in his voice drives me higher again, the second peak approaching faster than the first. My nails drag down his back hard enough to draw blood, but he doesn't even flinch.

"Come for me again," he demands, hitting me at just the right angle while circling his thumb where I'm most sensitive. "Now, Petra."

The command, coupled with the perfect pressure, sends me spiraling over the edge again. This time I do scream—his name tearing from my throat as my body convulses around him. My vision whites out at the edges, the pleasure so intense it borders on pain.

Only then does he finally let go, his own release following mine as his rhythm falters and breaks. He buries his face in my neck, a strangled groan escaping him as he pulses inside me.

For a moment, we stay locked together, sweat-slick and trembling in the aftermath. His weight should be crushing, but there's something grounding about having him pressed against me like this—solid and real and unquestionably present.

Eventually, he rolls to the side, but keeps one arm thrown possessively across my waist. I should make some cutting remark, some joke to diffuse the unnerving intimacy of the moment. But I find myself unexpectedly content in the silence, watching his chest rise and fall as his breathing gradually steadies.

"Do all your missions end this way?" I ask finally, turning my head to study his profile in the dim light. "Shooting bad guys, delegating debriefs, dragging fire mages to your bed?"

He snorts—not quite a laugh, but close enough. "Only the ones involving you."

"Lucky me," I drawl, though there's less sarcasm in it than I intended.

His hand traces idle patterns on my hip, the touch surprisingly gentle after the intensity of what we just did. "Twelve hours," he reminds me. "That was only the first."

I raise an eyebrow, genuinely impressed despite myself. "Confident for a man pushing forty."

"Thirty-eight is hardly 'pushing forty,'" he corrects automatically, and I hide my smile at how predictably he falls for the bait. "Besides, my recovery time is perfectly adequate."

"Prove it," I challenge, rolling onto my side to face him properly.

His eyes darken again, that predatory focus returning. "With pleasure."

Later—much later—we lie tangled in thoroughly destroyed sheets. My body feels gloriously used, muscles aching in the most satisfying ways, skin marked with evidence of his possession—just as his bears the unmistakable signs of mine.

"We should do this more often," I muse, tracing a particularly vivid bite mark on his shoulder. "The twelve-hour break from world-saving. The delegation. The mind-blowing sex."

"Agreed," he says simply, fingers combing through my tangled hair with unexpected tenderness.

I prop myself up on one elbow to look at him properly. "Really? Just like that? No cost-benefit analysis of how fucking me impacts operational efficiency?"

The corner of his mouth twitches. "I've already conducted that analysis."

"Of course you have." I roll my eyes, but can't quite suppress my amusement. "And the results?"

"Overwhelmingly positive," he states seriously, though there's a warmth in his eyes that makes my chest do something complicated. "Despite the potential for distraction during missions, the benefits to morale, tactical synergy, and overall stress reduction outweigh the risks."

I laugh, unable to help myself. "Only you would quantify great sex in terms of tactical advantages."

"You expected something else?" He raises an eyebrow, his hand still moving through my hair in that distractingly pleasant way.

"No," I admit. "That's what makes you... you."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a slight relaxation of his perpetually tense jaw. It's barely noticeable, but I've spent years studying this man, first as an enemy, then as an uneasy ally, and now as... whatever we are to each other.

"What are we doing, Vale?" I ask suddenly, the question escaping before I can properly filter it.

He studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. "Currently? Recovering between rounds four and five, I believe."

"You know what I mean." I frown, resisting the urge to pull away. "This. Us. The whole..." I gesture vaguely between us, "...whatever this is."

"Do we need to define it?" he asks, genuine curiosity in his voice rather than deflection.

It's a fair question. Labels have never been my thing—I've spent most of my life defying them, escaping them, burning them to ash whenever someone tried to box me in.

"No," I decide finally. "I guess we don't."

He nods, apparently satisfied with this conclusion. "Then perhaps we simply continue as we are, without unnecessary categorization."

"Continue making each other bleed and scream and occasionally saving the world together?" I summarize dryly.

That almost-smile appears again, the one that always feels like a personal victory when I manage to coax it out. "Precisely."

I settle back against him, oddly comforted by this non-definition of what we are. "How much time do we have left?"

He checks the sleek watch still somehow on his wrist despite everything we've done. "Seven hours, twenty-three minutes."

"Enough time for food before round five," I decide, suddenly aware of the hollow ache of hunger beneath the pleasant soreness. "Please tell me you have something edible in this fortress of solitude."

"I maintain adequate supplies," he confirms, sitting up with that fluid grace that shouldn't be possible after what we've been doing for hours. "Preference?"

I stretch languorously, enjoying the way his eyes track the movement. "Surprise me. Just make it substantial. You've depleted my energy reserves."

He rises, not bothering with clothes as he moves toward the adjoining lounge and kitchenette. I allow myself the luxury of watching him—the lean muscle of his back and ass, the constellation of scars both old and fresh, the confident way he moves through space as if he owns it.

Which, technically, he does. But still.

"You know," I call after him, "most people would be completely wrecked after everything we just did."

He glances back over his shoulder, expression as close to smug as Silas Vale ever gets. "I'm not most people."

"No," I agree quietly once he's out of earshot. "You're definitely not."

And that, perhaps, is why we work—two abnormal, dangerous, borderline psychotic people who somehow fit together in all the broken places. Who understand each other's darkness because we've been swimming in it for years. Who can look at the violence and blood and ruthlessness and see not a deterrent but an attraction.

Twelve hours of peace in a lifetime of war. It won't last—it can't. Tomorrow we'll be back to hunting Marceil's lieutenants, unraveling the conspiracy within our organization, preparing for whatever new threat emerges from the power vacuum.

But for now, for these precious remaining hours, the world can fucking wait.

The Verdict

I'll clearly have to remove some repetitive phrasing and heat up some of the words (I can't stand when "entrance" is used instead of just calling a pussy a pussy), but overall, this is excellent. For some, this would be publish-ready. I asked Claude to make Petra's language grittier in a revision, and it did, but she came off like a seventeen year old girl playing at being a baddie, so I'd rather just make my own changes line-by-line.

This just goes to show that new models are adapting to the needs of the users and I think a lot of LLM programmers are realizing how popular the dark/spicy market is and how much demand there is for models that will produce the words in a prompt-style format. You just have to be specific with what you want from it or it'll give you flowers and Hallmark cards. Trust me on this.

If you have any questions or comments, please feel free to leave them here.