- Local time
- Today 8:40 PM
- Messages
- 4
- Age
- 32
- Pronouns
- She/Her
Hello! I'm Sat and I've been writing for about 14 years now, on and off. I started out on LiveJournal, then moved to DreamWidth. I'm a bit of a history nerd and love writing stories set in the past - but I certainly don't expect 100% accuracy from any of my partners with regard to details
Me as a writer:
What I look for in a writing partner:
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:
Me as a writer:
- I generally post anywhere from 200-600 words per reply
- I try not to have "stacks" of dialogue or actions that take place before my partner can respond
- Fairly active, posts several times a week
- Open to chatting and plotting OOC on discord or pm
- Above all, I want all of my characters to read like real people
- Slow burn queen. The best smut happens when the characters get a chance to know each other
What I look for in a writing partner:
- Someone who is active-ish? A reply once a week is great, more is welcome of course
- In for a long-term story & willing to be communicative about hiatuses
- Willing to help advance the plot and add to worldbuilding
- Passionate about character development and depth
- I honestly don't care about length as long as I have enough to reply to.
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
- Paradise Lost: a demon is sent to earth with one mission: to corrupt the newly reincarnated archangel before she realizes her true power - then turn her against heaven itself.
- Rome: Gladiators and house slaves, or a gladiator and the lanista's wife. Childhood best friends who reunite after years, only one of them has been sold into slavery. A Roman soldier/Celtic warrior of either gender
- Classic "group of explorers discover and unleash something horrible" - either in space, or maybe even an ancient and dormant evil
- Themes: enemies to lovers, toxic relationships, class differences
The gown is beautiful, a vision in creamy silk set in the latest fashion. Her father has spent a fortune on it, and not just for the costly materials. He commissioned the celebrated designer, Jacques Doucet, to fit her for the dress. It will be the talk of the Parisian upper-classes for days. French-lace hems and embroidery set with tiny, delicate seed pearls. The corset laced tight, but no bustle. She hates the extra weight strapped around her waist.
Uncharitably, Lotte thinks that this is no different from a farmer tying a pretty ribbon around the neck of his most prized cow on market day. Yet her father looks so proud when she comes gliding out of her room that she forces herself to smile at him. She knows she shouldn't be so cynical, that many girls would be grateful to have a father who takes an interest in their future.
Feeling a stab of guilt, Lotte squeezes his hand before moving to greet his guests with the exquisite manners befitting the daughter of an ambassador. No one who looks at her could see the turmoil inside her. This is a skill she has practiced nearly every day of her adult life.
Charlotte's time at the nunnery had been a hard apprenticeship in the art of telling lies. Rather than repenting of her sin and committing herself to chastity and obedience, her stubborn nature led her down the opposite path. The sour old Mother Superior at the convent had taken an immediate dislike to her, muttering about the whims of foolish girls. One of her favorite exhortations was to advise her to avoid the vanity of the world. A refrain that she gladly ignored.
Over time, she learned it was easier to give people what they wanted. Lotte stopped arguing with the nuns and learned to keep her face perfectly serene. She bowed her head in prayer like the rest, but hid forbidden literature in her room to read at night. Texts that would give the mother superior apoplexies if she ever found them. The more salacious the text, the more satisfaction Lotte received from having it. Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal, Bronte's Jane Eyre (which her father dismissed as 'overly romantic garbage'), among others.
Perhaps she could slip away from the party to read her latest acquisition, Dickens' David Copperfield.
Or so she thought, until something else grabs her attention. The brief image of a face she once knew. A physical reminder of her past. Charlotte has sculpted herself into the young woman she was supposed to be, at least on the outside. The kind of woman a man of her class would like to marry.
Seeing Damian feels like taking a tumble from her carefully constructed pedestal.
Her first thought is that he looks well. He's grown into a handsome man, like she'd always said he would. Their eyes meet across the crowded hall, and he turns from her gaze and tries to melt into the crowd.
"Excuse me, my dear comte," Lotte said smoothly, placing a strategic hand on the man's arm. "I beg your pardon, but I am feeling faint," she winces dramatically, pressing a finger to her temple. "I will take a walk in the garden," she announces, waving off her companion's honeyed concern and offers to escort her.
Lotte strides out of the ballroom and into the cool night air. This is the perfect place to escape from social obligations - she had used it herself for just that purpose only last week. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest, rabbit-quick in tempo with her jumping pulse. This was a foolish idea, a potential scandal waiting to happen - yet she cannot seem to stop her feet from carrying her deeper into the garden.
She also cannot admit, even to herself, that she still thinks about their earlier escapades. There are nights when she remembers his fingers tying knots around her wrists, securing her to her bed. It should be a shameful memory, but her cheeks burn with every recollection.
"Damian," Lotte calls out into the darkness. She pauses, a sick sense of anxiety building in her stomach. "Dami…"
His nickname. It sounds strange to say it now.
Uncharitably, Lotte thinks that this is no different from a farmer tying a pretty ribbon around the neck of his most prized cow on market day. Yet her father looks so proud when she comes gliding out of her room that she forces herself to smile at him. She knows she shouldn't be so cynical, that many girls would be grateful to have a father who takes an interest in their future.
Feeling a stab of guilt, Lotte squeezes his hand before moving to greet his guests with the exquisite manners befitting the daughter of an ambassador. No one who looks at her could see the turmoil inside her. This is a skill she has practiced nearly every day of her adult life.
Charlotte's time at the nunnery had been a hard apprenticeship in the art of telling lies. Rather than repenting of her sin and committing herself to chastity and obedience, her stubborn nature led her down the opposite path. The sour old Mother Superior at the convent had taken an immediate dislike to her, muttering about the whims of foolish girls. One of her favorite exhortations was to advise her to avoid the vanity of the world. A refrain that she gladly ignored.
Over time, she learned it was easier to give people what they wanted. Lotte stopped arguing with the nuns and learned to keep her face perfectly serene. She bowed her head in prayer like the rest, but hid forbidden literature in her room to read at night. Texts that would give the mother superior apoplexies if she ever found them. The more salacious the text, the more satisfaction Lotte received from having it. Baudelaire's Les Fleurs du mal, Bronte's Jane Eyre (which her father dismissed as 'overly romantic garbage'), among others.
Perhaps she could slip away from the party to read her latest acquisition, Dickens' David Copperfield.
Or so she thought, until something else grabs her attention. The brief image of a face she once knew. A physical reminder of her past. Charlotte has sculpted herself into the young woman she was supposed to be, at least on the outside. The kind of woman a man of her class would like to marry.
Seeing Damian feels like taking a tumble from her carefully constructed pedestal.
Her first thought is that he looks well. He's grown into a handsome man, like she'd always said he would. Their eyes meet across the crowded hall, and he turns from her gaze and tries to melt into the crowd.
"Excuse me, my dear comte," Lotte said smoothly, placing a strategic hand on the man's arm. "I beg your pardon, but I am feeling faint," she winces dramatically, pressing a finger to her temple. "I will take a walk in the garden," she announces, waving off her companion's honeyed concern and offers to escort her.
Lotte strides out of the ballroom and into the cool night air. This is the perfect place to escape from social obligations - she had used it herself for just that purpose only last week. Her heart pounds loudly in her chest, rabbit-quick in tempo with her jumping pulse. This was a foolish idea, a potential scandal waiting to happen - yet she cannot seem to stop her feet from carrying her deeper into the garden.
She also cannot admit, even to herself, that she still thinks about their earlier escapades. There are nights when she remembers his fingers tying knots around her wrists, securing her to her bed. It should be a shameful memory, but her cheeks burn with every recollection.
"Damian," Lotte calls out into the darkness. She pauses, a sick sense of anxiety building in her stomach. "Dami…"
His nickname. It sounds strange to say it now.
Her husband tells her that she's ignorant and knows nothing about the world, and that makes her want to laugh. She's read Pliny and Livy and Cicero (what a bore), among others. She can read and write better than he can, but it's easier to pretend that she doesn't. He allows her to keep the ledgers, but she makes simple mistakes when he's looking over her shoulder so he can correct her. He likes that. Not too many though, or else he'd take that job away. Some days it's the only activity that makes her feel like her old self again.
It's a very fine line to walk. She doesn't always do it perfectly. And for every misstep, she can be sure that Metellus is there to express his displeasure.
Aelia sighs, uselessly attempting to fan herself to keep away the oppressive heat. The games always give her a headache, even if they're sitting in the best private box in the arena. Courtesy of the fact that her husband is providing today's main entertainment.
"Why did they rebel?" she remembers asking a few months ago. Gaul had been considered pacified by most of the empire. Metellus frowned, mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "Because they're barbarians.They're closer to beasts than men."
"But we're the ones who invaded their home and killed their children..." why had she even bothered talking back? She doesn't even remember why it was so important.
Metellus doesn't hit her. In fact, he thinks it's beneath him to hit a wife. But he does have a look, one that makes her skin crawl. It sets off a tocsin in her head, telling her to run away - and the worst part is there's probably nowhere she can go. Until he divorces her for barreness. How long would that take, she wondered? Another year?
He sits at her side, playing the part of gracious host. He's a chameleon, her husband. Always wearing a different mask. He talks to the other guests in the box. She sits silently next to him, slowly suffocating from the heat and sipping watered down wine. Be a statue, she reminds herself. It's a daily refrain. Be marble.
She watches as they lead in the first victims of the day. Prisoners, runaway slaves, outlaws. At least they weren't executing children for their strange religion these days since Hadrian outlawed that.
This is the one part where Aelia looks away. Her husband doesn't like when she does, but she can't help it. It's different from the gladiator fights. At least they were armed. Here, they lined the prisoners up on the sand and drove a sword through their necks. The heat makes the scent of blood unbearable, nauseating.
The prisoners are just the beginning, though. A taste of blood for the crowd before the real show began.
It's a very fine line to walk. She doesn't always do it perfectly. And for every misstep, she can be sure that Metellus is there to express his displeasure.
Aelia sighs, uselessly attempting to fan herself to keep away the oppressive heat. The games always give her a headache, even if they're sitting in the best private box in the arena. Courtesy of the fact that her husband is providing today's main entertainment.
"Why did they rebel?" she remembers asking a few months ago. Gaul had been considered pacified by most of the empire. Metellus frowned, mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. "Because they're barbarians.They're closer to beasts than men."
"But we're the ones who invaded their home and killed their children..." why had she even bothered talking back? She doesn't even remember why it was so important.
Metellus doesn't hit her. In fact, he thinks it's beneath him to hit a wife. But he does have a look, one that makes her skin crawl. It sets off a tocsin in her head, telling her to run away - and the worst part is there's probably nowhere she can go. Until he divorces her for barreness. How long would that take, she wondered? Another year?
He sits at her side, playing the part of gracious host. He's a chameleon, her husband. Always wearing a different mask. He talks to the other guests in the box. She sits silently next to him, slowly suffocating from the heat and sipping watered down wine. Be a statue, she reminds herself. It's a daily refrain. Be marble.
She watches as they lead in the first victims of the day. Prisoners, runaway slaves, outlaws. At least they weren't executing children for their strange religion these days since Hadrian outlawed that.
This is the one part where Aelia looks away. Her husband doesn't like when she does, but she can't help it. It's different from the gladiator fights. At least they were armed. Here, they lined the prisoners up on the sand and drove a sword through their necks. The heat makes the scent of blood unbearable, nauseating.
The prisoners are just the beginning, though. A taste of blood for the crowd before the real show began.
The entire scene had the unreal quality of a cliche childhood nightmare, like being in front of the classroom with no clothes on. Much like those dreams, she was frozen in place and unable to move, literally rooted to the spot by a potent combination of shame and confusion.
Eden had not seen a single familiar face in years. Her father moved on a long time ago, settling down with a new wife and new kids in a pretty white-picket house somewhere in Colorado. She didn't know precisely where, and he hadn't told her those details on purpose. Her mother was probably still slowly drinking herself to death in her childhood home, but she didn't know for sure.
You're the cleaning lady?
Ridiculously, she wanted to run away. If there had been an exit available to her, she might have done so - but unfortunately, he was standing between her and the only way out. Eden could feel the blush creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks pink with the evidence of her humiliation. Of course he'd be at a university like this. She'd always known he would make something of himself. The incredulity in his voice hurt that much more because she hadn't done the same.
He'd replaced the high school letterman jacket with one from the university. In short, he looked like the sort of clean-cut, high-achieving young man one could take home to see the parents without worrying about their approval.
"I-"
She struggled to string the words together, torn between staring at his face and trying not to look at him. He seemed to realize how insensitive his comments were because he retracted them quickly. You look great.
God, that was almost worse. "Don't," she began, sounding slightly irritated now. He had to be lying because she was running off 4 hours of sleep and had seen the dark circles in the mirror before she left for work. It was the kind of lie people reached for when they had nothing else to say.
Eden picked up her cleaning rag and the bottle of solution, trying to edge around the table without getting close to him. The room was too small for it to be an effective gambit, however - and he was still standing in front of the door.
"Just pretend you don't know me," she said bitingly, trying to sound angrier than she felt. "You were always really good at that."
The worst part was that he hadn't even done her the courtesy of breaking up with her to her face. He'd sent her a text that she had initially interpreted as some prank until she went to school the Monday afterward and saw him kissing the head cheerleader. Back then, she'd been a scrawny girl with a flat chest and too many nagging teenage insecurities.
She tried to sidle her way past him, shoving herself into the small space between him and the door. Which, of course, meant that she was practically pressed up against him for a split second. Eden made the mistake of looking up at his face, hating herself for the small squeeze of pain in her chest when she met his eye.
Eden had thought that they would get married one day, but she doubted he ever felt the same. In the years since their break up, her husband had put a cynical spin on everything she told him. You know he didn't love you, right? If someone loves you, they'll stick around. She touched her wedding ring with her thumb, rubbing the plain silver band almost nervously.
Eden had not seen a single familiar face in years. Her father moved on a long time ago, settling down with a new wife and new kids in a pretty white-picket house somewhere in Colorado. She didn't know precisely where, and he hadn't told her those details on purpose. Her mother was probably still slowly drinking herself to death in her childhood home, but she didn't know for sure.
You're the cleaning lady?
Ridiculously, she wanted to run away. If there had been an exit available to her, she might have done so - but unfortunately, he was standing between her and the only way out. Eden could feel the blush creeping up her neck, staining her cheeks pink with the evidence of her humiliation. Of course he'd be at a university like this. She'd always known he would make something of himself. The incredulity in his voice hurt that much more because she hadn't done the same.
He'd replaced the high school letterman jacket with one from the university. In short, he looked like the sort of clean-cut, high-achieving young man one could take home to see the parents without worrying about their approval.
"I-"
She struggled to string the words together, torn between staring at his face and trying not to look at him. He seemed to realize how insensitive his comments were because he retracted them quickly. You look great.
God, that was almost worse. "Don't," she began, sounding slightly irritated now. He had to be lying because she was running off 4 hours of sleep and had seen the dark circles in the mirror before she left for work. It was the kind of lie people reached for when they had nothing else to say.
Eden picked up her cleaning rag and the bottle of solution, trying to edge around the table without getting close to him. The room was too small for it to be an effective gambit, however - and he was still standing in front of the door.
"Just pretend you don't know me," she said bitingly, trying to sound angrier than she felt. "You were always really good at that."
The worst part was that he hadn't even done her the courtesy of breaking up with her to her face. He'd sent her a text that she had initially interpreted as some prank until she went to school the Monday afterward and saw him kissing the head cheerleader. Back then, she'd been a scrawny girl with a flat chest and too many nagging teenage insecurities.
She tried to sidle her way past him, shoving herself into the small space between him and the door. Which, of course, meant that she was practically pressed up against him for a split second. Eden made the mistake of looking up at his face, hating herself for the small squeeze of pain in her chest when she met his eye.
Eden had thought that they would get married one day, but she doubted he ever felt the same. In the years since their break up, her husband had put a cynical spin on everything she told him. You know he didn't love you, right? If someone loves you, they'll stick around. She touched her wedding ring with her thumb, rubbing the plain silver band almost nervously.