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the writer
hi, I'm saturnine. I'm in my 30s and I've been writing for most of my life. some things about me:
Anything pre-modern. Ancient/classical settings, Greek mythological settings, medieval (with or without the fantasy), WWI & WWII, the French Revolution, etc. Modern is fine too, but it needs a good plot
Smut Preferences:
familial trauma, mental health issues, touch-starved characters, loneliness, codependency, morally gray manipulation, breaking down barriers, "us against the world", espionage, poor characters, struggle for survival, drug/alcohol use as self-medication, gruff characters eventually warming up over time
Current Cravings:
The Hunger Games: it's already established that previous victors of the games are basically sold into prostitution in the capitol and forced to mentor others. Otherwise, the government would kill their families. We'd play two of them as they struggle to deal with their trauma and the weight of so many terrible secrets, all while a rebellion seems to be growing across the country
Attack on Titan: two surviving scouts manage to get to the edge of the island somehow and see the truth about their world. What will they do with that information?
Writing Sample:
hi, I'm saturnine. I'm in my 30s and I've been writing for most of my life. some things about me:
- prefer quality over quantity, always. a starter post might end up being 700-1000 words, but ordinary posts will probably hover around ~200-500. maybe even less if it's a scene with dialogue
- I try not to give my partner 10 things to respond to with every post, because I personally find it a bit tedious - going back to the first bullet point about post length
- speed: if the inspiration and timing is right, I can rapid fire posts with the best of them. otherwise, I try to find time to write a little every evening
- I'm in it for the long term. I love stories that go on for ages and allow characters to develop and grow over time
- always willing to pick up a previous story even if it's been months
- I'm generally more interested in plot over smut. Smut is fun to write, but I get bored of it easily if there isn't a good plot as well.
- not a fan of deciding on kinks before the story begins, before I figure out who the character is
- in m/m storylines, I write switches and I prefer my partner to as well. I don't see domination/submission as something set in stone. It's much more interesting when dynamics change.
- there's nothing better than a partner who will actively plot with me. it's difficult to maintain interest when I have to steer the story by myself
- broody rude dudes and grumps with secret hearts of gold (aka byronic heroes)
- on that note: hardened, sometimes violent dudes who have a soft spot for exactly one person. will go on a rampage if their one person is fucked with
- passionate, fanatical revolutionaries who believe the ends justify the means ("Enjolras was a charming young man who was capable of being terrible" - Les Miserables)
- depressed artists/scholars/etc
- men who wear confidence as a mask to hide everything they don't like about themselves
Anything pre-modern. Ancient/classical settings, Greek mythological settings, medieval (with or without the fantasy), WWI & WWII, the French Revolution, etc. Modern is fine too, but it needs a good plot
Smut Preferences:
- yes please:
- begging, edging/orgasm denial, dirty talk, hair pulling, thigh sex/frot, name calling/humiliation - then aftercare. overstimulation, public/surreptitious sex, anal, fingering, somnophilia, possessiveness, cunnilingus, marks/leaving bruises, ~~passion
- sure:
- foot stuff, cross-dressing, phone sex, toys, costume play/roleplay, whips/paddles, anything not in 'no'
- no:
- scat/watersports, guro, anything that goes against site rules, sounding, hentai logic
familial trauma, mental health issues, touch-starved characters, loneliness, codependency, morally gray manipulation, breaking down barriers, "us against the world", espionage, poor characters, struggle for survival, drug/alcohol use as self-medication, gruff characters eventually warming up over time
Current Cravings:
- Stranger in a Strange Land: inspired vaguely by Shogun, but it absolutely doesn't have to be Japan. A traveller/sailor from another land washed up on a foreign beach and becomes embroiled in their politics/regional struggle. This could go several ways: MC is part of a court faction, or a younger heir to the throne trying to dodge assassination attempts. Or MC is a rebel with a grudge against the current regime and wants to use the foreigner to some advantage
The wild west! A bounty hunter tracking his prey, perhaps. Or an unlikely duo teaming up for revenge against a crooked sheriff- WWII shenanigans - resistance partisans, or maybe two POWs who meet and connect while in a camp
The Hunger Games: it's already established that previous victors of the games are basically sold into prostitution in the capitol and forced to mentor others. Otherwise, the government would kill their families. We'd play two of them as they struggle to deal with their trauma and the weight of so many terrible secrets, all while a rebellion seems to be growing across the country
Attack on Titan: two surviving scouts manage to get to the edge of the island somehow and see the truth about their world. What will they do with that information?
Writing Sample:
He never forgot the day Amadeus took a whipping for him. Eventually, the scars on his back faded - though Orestes doubted they would ever truly disappear. The only thing that had irrevocably changed was him. That was the day he stopped acting like a child - even Titus noticed the change in him, and constantly tried to get under his skin.
Other things had changed as well, now that he was finally eighteen. He had grown out of his coltish awkwardness, acquiring the innate grace of his mother. Orestes was taller than her now, a fact that amused Niobe to no end. Her son was nearly reaching the end of his education. After this, he'd have to complete a stint in military service. That was essential for any ambitious young man who wanted to rise in the world.
Orestes sat at his desk, clay tablet resting in front of him, unmarked - in his usual seat beside Amadeus. Their instructor was the legendary Gaius Marius, the commander who had led the empire to victory in the wars against the Cimbri. Arrayed around him were the sons of the nobility, his half-brother among them.
As usual, Titus was surrounded by his friends and hangers-on. He never went anywhere without an entourage to announce his presence. They would whisper constantly throughout the lesson, so confident that this old man had nothing to teach them. Titus was the best swordsman out of all of them - or he would be, if not for Amadeus. He didn't need to learn strategy or mess about with maps. That was for lesser men.
Their instructor had sketched out a battlefield. A fortified city, almost impenetrable against a frontal assault without losing massive casualties. "Tell me how you would take this city," he said, nodding at Titus as he spoke without raising his hand. As usual. "Use our siege works to batter the door down. It's only wood. It'll break eventually."
Garius Marius was a commander known for caring about his soldiers. A rare quality in a commander - but it was how he had won their loyalty. "Yes, it would work. Eventually. Until then, your men will be exposed to every sort of missile for as long as it takes to bring it down."
Titus shrugged. "We always have more peasants to throw at them," he said, and laughed.
Orestes raised his hand. "I would destroy the dam on the right flank, near the river."
"And why would you do that?"
"The land around the city provides nearly all the food they need. If we flood it, they will starve," he said quietly, seemingly unmoved by the idea of inflicting mass starvation upon a populace. Gaius raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to go on. "And how would that help you take the city?"
"I would send word to the people inside. Promising food and merciful treatment if they will kill their masters and open the gates. I would have them fight each other, rather than waste our men."
"And waste half your supplies while you're at it," Titus snapped, irritated. "It'll take way too long to starve them out."
"Better we waste time instead of lives," Orestes replied, shrugging. He looked up to see the old man watching him thoughtfully.
"What is the purpose of war?" he asked, to no one in particular. Immediately, the young men began giving answers. "To kill your enemies," Titus called from his seat. "Conquest! To take your enemy's treasures and women for yourself," said another. "For new territories for the empire."
The old man's gaze turned to Orestes, who appeared as if he was puzzling over the question. "And you?"
"The purpose of war..." the prince paused, tapping his finger on the table. "The purpose of war is to break your enemy's spirit, so they can never defy you again. For that is the only road to peace."
Gaius Marius smiled.
Other things had changed as well, now that he was finally eighteen. He had grown out of his coltish awkwardness, acquiring the innate grace of his mother. Orestes was taller than her now, a fact that amused Niobe to no end. Her son was nearly reaching the end of his education. After this, he'd have to complete a stint in military service. That was essential for any ambitious young man who wanted to rise in the world.
Orestes sat at his desk, clay tablet resting in front of him, unmarked - in his usual seat beside Amadeus. Their instructor was the legendary Gaius Marius, the commander who had led the empire to victory in the wars against the Cimbri. Arrayed around him were the sons of the nobility, his half-brother among them.
As usual, Titus was surrounded by his friends and hangers-on. He never went anywhere without an entourage to announce his presence. They would whisper constantly throughout the lesson, so confident that this old man had nothing to teach them. Titus was the best swordsman out of all of them - or he would be, if not for Amadeus. He didn't need to learn strategy or mess about with maps. That was for lesser men.
Their instructor had sketched out a battlefield. A fortified city, almost impenetrable against a frontal assault without losing massive casualties. "Tell me how you would take this city," he said, nodding at Titus as he spoke without raising his hand. As usual. "Use our siege works to batter the door down. It's only wood. It'll break eventually."
Garius Marius was a commander known for caring about his soldiers. A rare quality in a commander - but it was how he had won their loyalty. "Yes, it would work. Eventually. Until then, your men will be exposed to every sort of missile for as long as it takes to bring it down."
Titus shrugged. "We always have more peasants to throw at them," he said, and laughed.
Orestes raised his hand. "I would destroy the dam on the right flank, near the river."
"And why would you do that?"
"The land around the city provides nearly all the food they need. If we flood it, they will starve," he said quietly, seemingly unmoved by the idea of inflicting mass starvation upon a populace. Gaius raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to go on. "And how would that help you take the city?"
"I would send word to the people inside. Promising food and merciful treatment if they will kill their masters and open the gates. I would have them fight each other, rather than waste our men."
"And waste half your supplies while you're at it," Titus snapped, irritated. "It'll take way too long to starve them out."
"Better we waste time instead of lives," Orestes replied, shrugging. He looked up to see the old man watching him thoughtfully.
"What is the purpose of war?" he asked, to no one in particular. Immediately, the young men began giving answers. "To kill your enemies," Titus called from his seat. "Conquest! To take your enemy's treasures and women for yourself," said another. "For new territories for the empire."
The old man's gaze turned to Orestes, who appeared as if he was puzzling over the question. "And you?"
"The purpose of war..." the prince paused, tapping his finger on the table. "The purpose of war is to break your enemy's spirit, so they can never defy you again. For that is the only road to peace."
Gaius Marius smiled.
Lysander had never heard the name of Odysseus before this day, but by the end, he wanted to stab the man. He'd spent hours crammed into a wooden horse with 39 other men, not all of whom had full control of their bladders. Hours sweating in the confined space, unable to make a sound for fear of discovery.
Whoever the generals had gotten to create the damn thing, they had done a sloppy job of it. The joints were crooked - he would know, having spent hours looking up at them from the belly of the beast.
Once they were inside, the men waited for the voices of the celebrating Trojans to fade before descending from a rope ladder. They spilled from the horse like bloodthirsty spawn, a vicious afterbirth. This plan was cowardly and duplicitous, Lysander knew that - yet he couldn't help but be relieved.
No matter what he saw tonight, it was over. This wretched ordeal would end, and they would go home.
For his own part, he kicked down the doors of Trojan homes, but did not lift his sword to kill anyone. The other soldiers did that quickly enough. Lysander didn't want to kill these people, and at least this way he could pretend his hands were cleaner than the rest. A selfish delusion, the last gasp of a man who wanted to be good.
The cobbled pathways were filled with blood. He could feel his sandals sticking to it with every step. Parts of the city were burning, creating an acrid smoke that made his eyes water. The sound of screaming and crying children rang through his ears as he stepped up to the temple of Apollo.
Apollo's pristine marble walls were coated in viscera when he entered. He noticed that out of all the priests, there was only one left alive.
And he was beautiful. Lysander felt his heart skip when he laid eyes on him - bloodied and bruised, but still exquisite. He walked toward the two soldiers, trying to keep his stride casual. "I want this one," he said, his eyes drinking in the sight of the young man.
"Too bad," the soldier holding Kallias snorted. "I saw him first."
Lysander grit his teeth, fighting off the sudden urge to cut the man's throat. "I saved you from that spear in the last battle, Cineas. You owe me."
Cineas considered this for a moment, and decided he didn't want the boy any way. There would be other pretty youths in the city. Lysander could have this one. He shoved the priest roughly toward his comrade, who caught the boy before he fell. "Take him. I'll find another warm hole tonight," he said, and laughed raucously. Both soldiers had drunk their fair share of stolen festival wine and found the whole situation exceedingly funny. Lysander did not laugh, only tugged his new captive away from the other two.
Whoever the generals had gotten to create the damn thing, they had done a sloppy job of it. The joints were crooked - he would know, having spent hours looking up at them from the belly of the beast.
Once they were inside, the men waited for the voices of the celebrating Trojans to fade before descending from a rope ladder. They spilled from the horse like bloodthirsty spawn, a vicious afterbirth. This plan was cowardly and duplicitous, Lysander knew that - yet he couldn't help but be relieved.
No matter what he saw tonight, it was over. This wretched ordeal would end, and they would go home.
-
It was worse than Lysander could have imagined. Battle was its own unique hell, but at least his enemies were armed and fighting back. This was an indiscriminate slaughter, and he saw how it changed the surrounding men. They became beasts of the worst kind, breaking into homes and dragging out their occupants. Raping virgin priestesses on the temple floor. Sometimes killing them, and otherwise taking them as spoils.
For his own part, he kicked down the doors of Trojan homes, but did not lift his sword to kill anyone. The other soldiers did that quickly enough. Lysander didn't want to kill these people, and at least this way he could pretend his hands were cleaner than the rest. A selfish delusion, the last gasp of a man who wanted to be good.
The cobbled pathways were filled with blood. He could feel his sandals sticking to it with every step. Parts of the city were burning, creating an acrid smoke that made his eyes water. The sound of screaming and crying children rang through his ears as he stepped up to the temple of Apollo.
Apollo's pristine marble walls were coated in viscera when he entered. He noticed that out of all the priests, there was only one left alive.
And he was beautiful. Lysander felt his heart skip when he laid eyes on him - bloodied and bruised, but still exquisite. He walked toward the two soldiers, trying to keep his stride casual. "I want this one," he said, his eyes drinking in the sight of the young man.
"Too bad," the soldier holding Kallias snorted. "I saw him first."
Lysander grit his teeth, fighting off the sudden urge to cut the man's throat. "I saved you from that spear in the last battle, Cineas. You owe me."
Cineas considered this for a moment, and decided he didn't want the boy any way. There would be other pretty youths in the city. Lysander could have this one. He shoved the priest roughly toward his comrade, who caught the boy before he fell. "Take him. I'll find another warm hole tonight," he said, and laughed raucously. Both soldiers had drunk their fair share of stolen festival wine and found the whole situation exceedingly funny. Lysander did not laugh, only tugged his new captive away from the other two.
For some reason, heavy rain always reminded him of evenings spent on campaign. Perhaps it was the smell of dampness and earth and rot that seemed to permeate the air. Godric could almost hear the soldiers' complaints behind him because there was nothing a soldier loved more than complaining - about the rain, especially. Their pompous superior officers and the low quality of the rations were popular options, but nothing caused low morale faster than bad weather. He missed those days more than he could even express, back when he had been one of a company. When he'd had a purpose, and one he was proud to declare to the world. It hurt too much to think about, so he tried not to.
The rain was inconvenient, but Godric rode toward a warm meal and a bed. That motivated him enough to pull his hood over his unruly hair and spur his horse on through the storm. The horse was a chestnut stallion named Balius, the one remnant he had of his old life other than his sword. That made him especially dear, and Godric would give him an extra helping of oats when they stopped for the night for his hard work. Despite the cold wind, he was reasonably warm in a quilted wool gambeson, light chainmail, and a tight-woven cloak. He wore his sword in a plain black scabbard strapped to a leather belt on the left side to match his dominant hand and kept it meticulously sharpened. As a hedge knight, his sword was his livelihood - and he knew it better than he knew his own mother. He knew every mark and scratch on the metal and loved the perfectly balanced weight of it in his hand.
He was returning from his latest job - escorting a lord's daughter to her husband-to-be's estate for the wedding. Godric had been one of a few hired men-at-arms, and he suspected this was to show the lord's wealth rather than any genuine need for protection. Either way, it had been easy enough - a party of that size was usually sufficient to deter bandits, and they had avoided many of the more conflict-heavy regions of the kingdom. The only awkward part was when the lord's daughter tried to kiss him, then got upset when he backed away. He'd tried to comfort her but probably only made it worse, so he'd blurted out a flustered apology and took his leave.
When he approached a familiar village, he could see figures on the road ahead and slowed his approach to get a better look at what was happening. By the scant light of the moon, he could make out three men - no, four men. One of them was on the ground, with the other three crouching on top of him. When he saw it, he knew the look of an ambush and spurred Balius forward as soon as he realized what was happening.
He whistled loudly from his saddle, which got their attention quickly enough. They stood and stepped away from the crumpled figure on the floor, intending to challenge him - and drew their own swords. Godric ran one man down with his horse, watching him disappear underneath the mount's strong hooves. There was a sickening crunch of bone and a muffled scream as the man was pounded into the muck. The others backed off - or tried to. Unluckily for them, he had the advantage of reach and speed instead of numbers. He drew his sword with the smooth swish of well-forged steel.
They slashed at his legs as he rode past or tried to. Godric kicked out with one booted foot and caught one man in the head, circling back so he could stab at them from above. The kicked man staggered, momentarily stunned - and caught a sword's edge in the throat for his hesitation. Once again, he heard the sound of someone choking on their own blood - a sound he had heard so many times in the past. He knew it well.
To his surprise, the third man spoke to him in the local tongue. "Why do you get involved in a fight that is not yours?"
Godric hesitated, wondering if it was a trick question. "It was three on one. That's unfair."
It was part of the knight's oath he'd sworn all those years ago. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong. He might not be a knight anymore, but he still tried to uphold those vows. The man made a dash for his own horse, and Godric didn't follow because he was hardly a threat, and he'd already taken two lives tonight and would rather not add a third to his name. He watched the other horse gallop away frantically and sheathed his sword when they were out of sight.
He dismounted, his heavy boots squelching in the mud as he strode over to the person on the floor. He was hoping to find them alive, whoever they were. Godric drew closer and crouched beside the fallen man, trying to get a glimpse of his face to see if he was conscious.
"Are you alright? Can you move?"
The rain was inconvenient, but Godric rode toward a warm meal and a bed. That motivated him enough to pull his hood over his unruly hair and spur his horse on through the storm. The horse was a chestnut stallion named Balius, the one remnant he had of his old life other than his sword. That made him especially dear, and Godric would give him an extra helping of oats when they stopped for the night for his hard work. Despite the cold wind, he was reasonably warm in a quilted wool gambeson, light chainmail, and a tight-woven cloak. He wore his sword in a plain black scabbard strapped to a leather belt on the left side to match his dominant hand and kept it meticulously sharpened. As a hedge knight, his sword was his livelihood - and he knew it better than he knew his own mother. He knew every mark and scratch on the metal and loved the perfectly balanced weight of it in his hand.
He was returning from his latest job - escorting a lord's daughter to her husband-to-be's estate for the wedding. Godric had been one of a few hired men-at-arms, and he suspected this was to show the lord's wealth rather than any genuine need for protection. Either way, it had been easy enough - a party of that size was usually sufficient to deter bandits, and they had avoided many of the more conflict-heavy regions of the kingdom. The only awkward part was when the lord's daughter tried to kiss him, then got upset when he backed away. He'd tried to comfort her but probably only made it worse, so he'd blurted out a flustered apology and took his leave.
When he approached a familiar village, he could see figures on the road ahead and slowed his approach to get a better look at what was happening. By the scant light of the moon, he could make out three men - no, four men. One of them was on the ground, with the other three crouching on top of him. When he saw it, he knew the look of an ambush and spurred Balius forward as soon as he realized what was happening.
He whistled loudly from his saddle, which got their attention quickly enough. They stood and stepped away from the crumpled figure on the floor, intending to challenge him - and drew their own swords. Godric ran one man down with his horse, watching him disappear underneath the mount's strong hooves. There was a sickening crunch of bone and a muffled scream as the man was pounded into the muck. The others backed off - or tried to. Unluckily for them, he had the advantage of reach and speed instead of numbers. He drew his sword with the smooth swish of well-forged steel.
They slashed at his legs as he rode past or tried to. Godric kicked out with one booted foot and caught one man in the head, circling back so he could stab at them from above. The kicked man staggered, momentarily stunned - and caught a sword's edge in the throat for his hesitation. Once again, he heard the sound of someone choking on their own blood - a sound he had heard so many times in the past. He knew it well.
To his surprise, the third man spoke to him in the local tongue. "Why do you get involved in a fight that is not yours?"
Godric hesitated, wondering if it was a trick question. "It was three on one. That's unfair."
It was part of the knight's oath he'd sworn all those years ago. Safeguard the helpless and do no wrong. He might not be a knight anymore, but he still tried to uphold those vows. The man made a dash for his own horse, and Godric didn't follow because he was hardly a threat, and he'd already taken two lives tonight and would rather not add a third to his name. He watched the other horse gallop away frantically and sheathed his sword when they were out of sight.
He dismounted, his heavy boots squelching in the mud as he strode over to the person on the floor. He was hoping to find them alive, whoever they were. Godric drew closer and crouched beside the fallen man, trying to get a glimpse of his face to see if he was conscious.
"Are you alright? Can you move?"
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