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sat's female request thread
porcelain, ivory, steel.
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โ
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about the writerโ โ โ
current cravings: dead doves galore. I want to get dark with it. Bring me your villains and rogues.
hi, I'm saturnine. I'm in my 30s and I've been writing for most of my life. some things about me:
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things I like to write
wordbank
trauma of all kinds, poor coping mechanisms, self-medication, moral ambiguity, pragmatism, low fantasy tropes, toxic relationships, hurt/comfort, power and class differentials, grimdark, magic requires sacrifice, hidden identities, warfare & espionage, divided loyalties, revolutionaries, oppression, discrimination, slavery, characters being stripped of autonomy, bonding through shared pain, finding love in horrible circumstances, social judgement
Smut Preferences:
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plot ideasโ โ
the conquerer (enemies to lovers; medieval + or - fantasy elements)
Your character is a conqueror, a stranger from abroad who spent his life in exile and dreamt of home and the throne his family promised him. Now after all those years, he's taken the country by force of arms and is coming in to his new capital to meet his bride for the first time. She's the last child of the old royal house, the ones he usurped. He's killed scores of her brothers and family members.
He needs to marry her, because she provides a link to the old regime. She is a familiar and popular face among the people, and he is a stranger in a suspicious land. Her public acceptance of him would legitimize his rule in the eyes of many.
The princess, having watched battles from a spyglass in a tower, considers flinging herself from said tower. Then she thinks about poisoning him if he's violent to her.
[ This is kind of loosely based on the story of Henry VII of England and his wife Elizabeth of York. I can see this developing into a romance, though there's plenty of opportunity for future conflict too. Factions of nobles still loyal to the old family trying to get her to betray her husband, pretenders to the throne claiming to be her baby brothers all grown up. Always open to your ideas of course ]
the sorcerer's apprentice (teacher/student, dark fantasy)
This is an orphaned story that I'd really like to write again - or at least I'd like to reuse my character.
inspiration: dragon age, shadow and bone, wheel of time, divinity: original sin 2, the witcher series, baldur's gate
setting:
plot:
my character:
your character:
applicable kinks:
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writing samplesโ โ
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about the writerโ โ โ
current cravings: dead doves galore. I want to get dark with it. Bring me your villains and rogues.
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. in fact, I am extremely ADHD and will sometimes just forget about threads. please don't ever feel bad about poking me for a reply, I will genuinely be grateful for the reminder
- 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.
- 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
- I prefer either real life face claims, written descriptions, or non-anime style art
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things I like to write
wordbank
trauma of all kinds, poor coping mechanisms, self-medication, moral ambiguity, pragmatism, low fantasy tropes, toxic relationships, hurt/comfort, power and class differentials, grimdark, magic requires sacrifice, hidden identities, warfare & espionage, divided loyalties, revolutionaries, oppression, discrimination, slavery, characters being stripped of autonomy, bonding through shared pain, finding love in horrible circumstances, social judgement
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
- sure:
- foot stuff, cross-dressing, phone sex, toys, costume play/roleplay, whips/paddles, anything not in 'no'
- no:
- scat/watersports, gore, infantilism kink
โ
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plot ideasโ โ
the conquerer (enemies to lovers; medieval + or - fantasy elements)
Your character is a conqueror, a stranger from abroad who spent his life in exile and dreamt of home and the throne his family promised him. Now after all those years, he's taken the country by force of arms and is coming in to his new capital to meet his bride for the first time. She's the last child of the old royal house, the ones he usurped. He's killed scores of her brothers and family members.
He needs to marry her, because she provides a link to the old regime. She is a familiar and popular face among the people, and he is a stranger in a suspicious land. Her public acceptance of him would legitimize his rule in the eyes of many.
The princess, having watched battles from a spyglass in a tower, considers flinging herself from said tower. Then she thinks about poisoning him if he's violent to her.
[ This is kind of loosely based on the story of Henry VII of England and his wife Elizabeth of York. I can see this developing into a romance, though there's plenty of opportunity for future conflict too. Factions of nobles still loyal to the old family trying to get her to betray her husband, pretenders to the throne claiming to be her baby brothers all grown up. Always open to your ideas of course ]
the sorcerer's apprentice (teacher/student, dark fantasy)
This is an orphaned story that I'd really like to write again - or at least I'd like to reuse my character.
inspiration: dragon age, shadow and bone, wheel of time, divinity: original sin 2, the witcher series, baldur's gate
setting:
plot:
my character:
your character:
applicable kinks:
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writing samplesโ โ
They were heading into the season of storms, as all the islandโs natives knew very well. Sailing was absolutely forbidden during this time, and the fisherwomen would pull out their lobster traps for the winter. Most of the tribe were content to move their work indoors and wait out the rains, but Sigrid had taken the risk of leaving the city during a break between maelstroms. Unfortunately, their goddess of the winds was as temperamental as always, and it wasnโt long before the skies darkened again. At least three of her sisters told her not to go, but she was seeking something very rare and very important to her. A medicinal herb that grew only near the rocky bluffs of the islandโs north bay. It was the only thing that actually worked to heal their Shamanโs painful ailment.
She eased through the sodden forest down toward the rocky outcrops north of home, wrapped in a sealskin cloak that kept some of the rain off her. Most of it was to protect the pack she carried on her back underneath it, though the hood was deep and kept her eyes mostly clear of water. Sigrid knelt to inspect the rocks, searching for a small purple flower growing among them and knowing that the rain might have flattened them to the stones. That was when sheโd seen movement out of the corner of her eye and looked toward the sea. There was a dark shape in the water of the bay below. It was unmistakably a human being floating among a few pieces of broken wood. But it didnโt float the way a dead body floats on the water, so maybe the person was alive.
She wouldnโt be for very long unless someone dragged her out. And if not, she deserved a proper funeral pyre and not the indignity of rotting at the bottom of the ocean. How was her soul supposed to find its way to the Vale like that?
Sigrid grit her teeth in stubborn irritation, then pulled a length of rope from her pack. She removed her clothing and boots, wrapping them in her cloak until she was naked and shivering under the chilly rain. Working quickly now before the chill set in, she attached her bow and blade to the growing pack of her belongings and used the rope to lower it down to the beach. She would need the contents soon if she wanted to save both of them from freezing to death.
She stood at the edge of the cliff, one sheโd jumped off dozens of times as a child during warm summers and stretched out her muscles, filling her lungs with air. Her skin prickled in air that felt saturated with shards of grit, but Sigrid forced herself to take her time before plunging arms-first into the dark and violent waters of the North Sea. There was a violent jolt through her body as it broke through the waterโs surface, and she allowed the currents to roll her upright so she could kick her way to the top. Trying to avoid hitting any debris as she emerged, gasping, from the waves and tried to blink the saltwater out of her eyes as quickly as possible. Luckily, her intended rescue victim was riding the current, so she didnโt have to swim against it to reach her.
Her frozen hands grasped the personโs clothes and started pulling her back to shore. Grasping her coatโs collar so her head was always above water. At least swimming kept her circulation strong, but her legs were feeling heavier with every kick. Sigrid had grown up swimming in these waters, but the icy water was quickly sapping her strength. Her lungs were burning tightly in her chest by the time her feet hit the sand, straining to pull them up those last few feet.
The strangerโs pulse was faint, but present. Sigrid opened her mouth and tilted her chin up so she could breathe into her lungs. Weakly at first, as she had hardly enough air for herself. Then more consistently, her bare knees digging into the sand as she sealed their lips together. The pulse was there, but if the Reaper had already come to steal her breaths, then her efforts would mean nothing.
She eased through the sodden forest down toward the rocky outcrops north of home, wrapped in a sealskin cloak that kept some of the rain off her. Most of it was to protect the pack she carried on her back underneath it, though the hood was deep and kept her eyes mostly clear of water. Sigrid knelt to inspect the rocks, searching for a small purple flower growing among them and knowing that the rain might have flattened them to the stones. That was when sheโd seen movement out of the corner of her eye and looked toward the sea. There was a dark shape in the water of the bay below. It was unmistakably a human being floating among a few pieces of broken wood. But it didnโt float the way a dead body floats on the water, so maybe the person was alive.
She wouldnโt be for very long unless someone dragged her out. And if not, she deserved a proper funeral pyre and not the indignity of rotting at the bottom of the ocean. How was her soul supposed to find its way to the Vale like that?
Sigrid grit her teeth in stubborn irritation, then pulled a length of rope from her pack. She removed her clothing and boots, wrapping them in her cloak until she was naked and shivering under the chilly rain. Working quickly now before the chill set in, she attached her bow and blade to the growing pack of her belongings and used the rope to lower it down to the beach. She would need the contents soon if she wanted to save both of them from freezing to death.
She stood at the edge of the cliff, one sheโd jumped off dozens of times as a child during warm summers and stretched out her muscles, filling her lungs with air. Her skin prickled in air that felt saturated with shards of grit, but Sigrid forced herself to take her time before plunging arms-first into the dark and violent waters of the North Sea. There was a violent jolt through her body as it broke through the waterโs surface, and she allowed the currents to roll her upright so she could kick her way to the top. Trying to avoid hitting any debris as she emerged, gasping, from the waves and tried to blink the saltwater out of her eyes as quickly as possible. Luckily, her intended rescue victim was riding the current, so she didnโt have to swim against it to reach her.
Her frozen hands grasped the personโs clothes and started pulling her back to shore. Grasping her coatโs collar so her head was always above water. At least swimming kept her circulation strong, but her legs were feeling heavier with every kick. Sigrid had grown up swimming in these waters, but the icy water was quickly sapping her strength. Her lungs were burning tightly in her chest by the time her feet hit the sand, straining to pull them up those last few feet.
The strangerโs pulse was faint, but present. Sigrid opened her mouth and tilted her chin up so she could breathe into her lungs. Weakly at first, as she had hardly enough air for herself. Then more consistently, her bare knees digging into the sand as she sealed their lips together. The pulse was there, but if the Reaper had already come to steal her breaths, then her efforts would mean nothing.
When Lyra woke, all she could taste in her mouth was blood and dirt. It was too quiet - other than the faint ringing in her ears, she couldnโt hear another sound. Not the lazy chirping of cicadas by the river, nor the murmured voices of people passing by. Just silence that made her skin crawl with a sense of impending doom. And when she opened her eyes, her mind could not make sense of what it was seeing.
She sat in the middle of a ruin, covered in shards of wood and something wet that smelled like blood. Her head hurt more than it ever had in her life, more than the way she felt after her nightmares. The village was dark, lacking the usual soft glow of firelight peeking out of the wooden slats of peopleโs homes.
Lyra blinked, watching the world take shape in front of her. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, allowing her to see the piles of viscera that covered the floor. The ruins of small hovels and rickety walls collapsing in on themselves. Not a single building in the village was left standing.
โMโฆโ Her voice came out in a croak, weak and tremulous. โMa?โ
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted them. Her family, lying like broken dolls on the ground. There were ropes around their necks. When Lyra reached up, she realized there was one on her own as well. She retrieved fragments of memories through the insistent beat of pain through her temples. Steel-gauntleted hands holding her by the shoulders, pushing her up a flight of steps. The sound of jeering crowds, who had all come to watch the village witch being hanged. Watching her family kick and struggle as they were pushed from the platform.
Now the templars looked like crushed insects in their flattened armor. Their bodies were scattered around her, mingling with legs and arms clad in homespun cloth. Lyra screamed, an animal noise that she barely recognized.
You did this.
There was no other answer. She sat among the carnage, completely untouched save for the rope burn on her neck. Lyra crawled away from it, sobbing every time her fingers scraped against a body part in the dirt. She crawled to the river and pushed herself into the stream. The cold water shocked her mind into waking up, washing some of the blood off her skin. She retched then, though there was nothing in her stomach to bring up except stinging bile, and the river swept it away quickly enough. Then she lowered her head and drank desperately, trying to rid the taste from her mouth.
You did this. Your blight.
She felt strangely disconnected from her own thoughts, as if they were being spoken to her by someone else. Get up, that voice commanded. More will come.
More Templars. Her heart nearly skipped a beat from sheer terror at the prospect, giving her the strength to rise unsteadily to her feet in the pitch black. Lyraโs dress was covered in blood and beyond saving - one look at the stained fabric told her that, even by the thin slivers of moonlight. Sobbing quietly, she picked her way through the rubble until she found a chest of clothes that were dry and unstained and tried not to think about who it might have belonged to. Stripping off her soaked dress, she pulled clumsily at a manโs patched tunic and trousers, the drawstring of which she had to tie tightly around her waist so theyโd stay up. A moth-eaten cloak had a hood deep enough to hide her face, so she took that as well.
At the docks, Lyra found a small dinghy still intact and climbed in to sit on the rough wooden bench. She shivered against the cold, pulling the hood up over her wet hair, and pushed off with the paddle. Her bloody hands left stains on the shaft, paddling clumsily with the riverโs current. Sheโd forgotten just about everything her father had ever taught her about handling a boat, filled with the urgent desire to get away from her.
From the scene of her crime.
Lyra had no destination in mind, no family to take her in - not that anyone would now. Theyโd hate her just as much as the villagers had hated her tonight, even though sheโd known them for years. Mages were abominations, fit only to be killed before their rot spread.
She could not tell how long sheโd been on the river, but the sun was rising by the time it tapered off into a brook and finally ran aground in a muddy embankment. Lyra looked around for any signs of civilization, but saw only an untouched forest around her. Her hands were chilled stiff by the cold, teeth chattering as she huddled in her cloak. Exhaustion overtook her then, and she fell asleep in the bottom of her dinghy, though it could not be called restful. And while she slept, her mind manifested dancing lights above her head.
They were red as blood.
She sat in the middle of a ruin, covered in shards of wood and something wet that smelled like blood. Her head hurt more than it ever had in her life, more than the way she felt after her nightmares. The village was dark, lacking the usual soft glow of firelight peeking out of the wooden slats of peopleโs homes.
Lyra blinked, watching the world take shape in front of her. Her eyes adjusted to the dark, allowing her to see the piles of viscera that covered the floor. The ruins of small hovels and rickety walls collapsing in on themselves. Not a single building in the village was left standing.
โMโฆโ Her voice came out in a croak, weak and tremulous. โMa?โ
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted them. Her family, lying like broken dolls on the ground. There were ropes around their necks. When Lyra reached up, she realized there was one on her own as well. She retrieved fragments of memories through the insistent beat of pain through her temples. Steel-gauntleted hands holding her by the shoulders, pushing her up a flight of steps. The sound of jeering crowds, who had all come to watch the village witch being hanged. Watching her family kick and struggle as they were pushed from the platform.
Now the templars looked like crushed insects in their flattened armor. Their bodies were scattered around her, mingling with legs and arms clad in homespun cloth. Lyra screamed, an animal noise that she barely recognized.
You did this.
There was no other answer. She sat among the carnage, completely untouched save for the rope burn on her neck. Lyra crawled away from it, sobbing every time her fingers scraped against a body part in the dirt. She crawled to the river and pushed herself into the stream. The cold water shocked her mind into waking up, washing some of the blood off her skin. She retched then, though there was nothing in her stomach to bring up except stinging bile, and the river swept it away quickly enough. Then she lowered her head and drank desperately, trying to rid the taste from her mouth.
You did this. Your blight.
She felt strangely disconnected from her own thoughts, as if they were being spoken to her by someone else. Get up, that voice commanded. More will come.
More Templars. Her heart nearly skipped a beat from sheer terror at the prospect, giving her the strength to rise unsteadily to her feet in the pitch black. Lyraโs dress was covered in blood and beyond saving - one look at the stained fabric told her that, even by the thin slivers of moonlight. Sobbing quietly, she picked her way through the rubble until she found a chest of clothes that were dry and unstained and tried not to think about who it might have belonged to. Stripping off her soaked dress, she pulled clumsily at a manโs patched tunic and trousers, the drawstring of which she had to tie tightly around her waist so theyโd stay up. A moth-eaten cloak had a hood deep enough to hide her face, so she took that as well.
At the docks, Lyra found a small dinghy still intact and climbed in to sit on the rough wooden bench. She shivered against the cold, pulling the hood up over her wet hair, and pushed off with the paddle. Her bloody hands left stains on the shaft, paddling clumsily with the riverโs current. Sheโd forgotten just about everything her father had ever taught her about handling a boat, filled with the urgent desire to get away from her.
From the scene of her crime.
Lyra had no destination in mind, no family to take her in - not that anyone would now. Theyโd hate her just as much as the villagers had hated her tonight, even though sheโd known them for years. Mages were abominations, fit only to be killed before their rot spread.
She could not tell how long sheโd been on the river, but the sun was rising by the time it tapered off into a brook and finally ran aground in a muddy embankment. Lyra looked around for any signs of civilization, but saw only an untouched forest around her. Her hands were chilled stiff by the cold, teeth chattering as she huddled in her cloak. Exhaustion overtook her then, and she fell asleep in the bottom of her dinghy, though it could not be called restful. And while she slept, her mind manifested dancing lights above her head.
They were red as blood.
โ
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