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sat's male request thread
fix your hearts or die
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โ
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about the writerโ โ โ
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
Smut Preferences:
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plot ideasโ โ
If I have fully fleshed out plots, chances are I'll write a separate post for those. Here's the latest one.
And here are some ideas that I'd love to expand with someone else's input.
FOR THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE
historical or alt history
LA COSA NOSTRA
modern or 1950s onward
A KNIGHT WHO REMEMBERED HIS VOWS
medieval fantasy
FREEDOM IS A PURE IDEA
fandom: star wars - andor
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writing samplesโ โ
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about the writerโ โ โ
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.
- 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 top/bottom as something set in stone. It's much more interesting when dynamics change.
- in m/f storylines I'll write a range of character types from traditionally masculine dominant men to total goofballs failing upward
- 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
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
If I have fully fleshed out plots, chances are I'll write a separate post for those. Here's the latest one.
And here are some ideas that I'd love to expand with someone else's input.
FOR THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO DIE
historical or alt history
The teeming masses demand blood, and it's his job to provide it for them. He is a slave, inhabiting a dual world of degradation and sudden celebrity. But he wasn't always the gladiator known as the Babarian, falling into bed with blood under his fingernails. Once he'd had a wife and a child, and he'd sing ballads about the Old Gods in the evenings just to see her smile. That man is gone, and in his place is the barbarian. The empire stole him from his cold mountains and bright forests, dragging him from a land of mist into the beating sun of the arena sands. With every fight he survives, his celebrity only grows among the wealthy. They want him at their parties, but would just as happily watch him bleed out at their feet.
I could see him being paired with another slave in the same household, a fellow gladiator, or a wealthy Roman (possibly the lanista's wife?)
I could see him being paired with another slave in the same household, a fellow gladiator, or a wealthy Roman (possibly the lanista's wife?)
LA COSA NOSTRA
modern or 1950s onward
I re-watched the Godfather and forgot just how much I love a good mob story. I have an existing character who is an enforcer for a prominent crime family and I'd love a chance to wheel him out again.
A KNIGHT WHO REMEMBERED HIS VOWS
medieval fantasy
I already loved the Knight of the Seven Kingdoms novellas, and the show is inspiring all kinds of writing itches for me. I'd love to write a good-hearted and naive hedge knight who wants to become a real knight like something out of a song. Then discovers the whole world laughs at his aspirations, and oaths are just pretty words that everyone ignores.
FREEDOM IS A PURE IDEA
fandom: star wars - andor
Leon Youngblood is a character from another orphaned story about a rebel in the Star Wars universe about a rebel doing cool rebel stuff. Leon was made in a lab, from test tube to incubator. He was his "father's" apology to the universe for the harm he'd done as an imperial science officer. But he doesn't know that. He got told he was just another war orphan.
Please let me write him pew pewing again, I miss that so much
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writing samplesโ โ
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.
If the meting out of brutal violence could be considered an art, then Damian would be its virtuoso. He had certainly studied the subject in great detail - he knew exactly how much pressure a bone could take before it snapped. How to beat someone in a manner that left no marks. Ways to get people to talk.
How to slip a pair of pliers smoothly under a man's nail and pull.
It was the third nail. There were two others already on the floor, still stuck with bits of flesh. Damian could tell his victim was close to breaking by the way his breaths quickened and stuttered, growing shallow and panicked. He tapped the man on the forehead, almost playfully. "You remember the question, Lorenzo?" he asked, to which the sweat-soaked man nodded enthusiastically. Anything to stay the approach of those pliers. It was insultingly easy. Damian didn't know how it felt to get one's fingernails ripped out, but he was fairly certain he would have lasted longer than this pitiful display. They'd have to go through his toes, too.
"T-The guns are in the Vista warehouse," the man gasped, cringing away from him as much as he could with the restraints around his neck and legs. Damian pulled out a map of the area and shoved it at his captive, along with a pen. "Mark the address."
Instead, this idiot decided to take a stab at him with the pen. It was the most pathetic attempt on his life that Damian had ever seen, with Lorenzo's sweaty palms almost losing grip of the plastic before he'd completed the feebly motion of an attempted stab. Sidestepping the would-be shiv, Damian slammed the pliers onto the man's left hand hard enough to hear his bones crunch against the metal. Then he did it again, watching the skin of his victim's knuckles turn a vivid purple. The hand took on a strangely deformed shape as he continued to break every single bone in a screaming Lorenzo's non-dominant hand.
He'd need the other one to mark the map, after all.
Growing frustrated with hearing Lorenzo's whimpering, he wrapped his hand around the man's windpipe and gave a hard squeeze to shut him up. "Let's try that again. Mark the map."
After that, the man needed no further convincing. He marked the address in an untidy scrawl, tears streaming down his face. He was a soft man with a pudgy gut and uncalloused hands, someone who ran the books for one of his family's many rivals. Not someone who was used to rough treatment. He might as well have saved his tears, because Damian turned his full attention to the young man standing beside him. "Check out his info. Then get rid of him."
He'd get Nico to pull the trigger. The kid needed an opportunity to prove to the family that he wasn't soft, and he needed experience killing. Dark eyes followed the movement of Nico's adam's apple as he nodded his silent assent. No complaints or questions this time.
As far as Damian was concerned, it was a man's God-given right to have a beer at the end of a hard day's work. He sat at the bar even though the small padded stools struggled to hold his 6'5 frame. It was the best spot to watch the current UFC match on the mounted television. That, and it gave him a vantage point on the bar's entrance, just in case trouble walked in. He'd noticed the young woman entering almost immediately because in a sea of regular faces, hers was new. Then she smiled and confirmed his suspicions - she was an outsider for sure.
Everyone in Rosedale knew who Damian was, and their smiles reflected that. Some were nervous quirks of the lips, betraying their fear of him - either from direct experience or reputation. Or it was the overly forced smiles of the girls who hung around the clubs at the outskirts of town, knowing the benefits that came with association with the family's resident princeling. All of these smiles meant they wanted something from him, that there was some wheedling request for drugs or money at the other end of those veneered teeth and filled lips.
The look she gave him was different enough to give him pause, because it was a smile completely without artifice. Damian lifted his beer in a salute to her attention, then nodded the waitress over - she dropped everything to attend to him first. "Ruby, get her whatever she wants. Put it on my tab. And send over a bottle of Dom. 2013, or whatever you have," he told her, slipping a bill into her front apron pocket. Ruby nodded eagerly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before she went back to do as he'd asked. He watched her pull out the bottle of bubbly, popping the cork with an expert twist of her hand. "This is from him," she murmured, nodding down the bar at Damian as she poured the golden liquid into a glass and slid it across the bar toward Bri. The opened bottle, she set in front of her - a sign he'd bought the bottle, not just a glass. "He told me to put it on his tab."
How to slip a pair of pliers smoothly under a man's nail and pull.
It was the third nail. There were two others already on the floor, still stuck with bits of flesh. Damian could tell his victim was close to breaking by the way his breaths quickened and stuttered, growing shallow and panicked. He tapped the man on the forehead, almost playfully. "You remember the question, Lorenzo?" he asked, to which the sweat-soaked man nodded enthusiastically. Anything to stay the approach of those pliers. It was insultingly easy. Damian didn't know how it felt to get one's fingernails ripped out, but he was fairly certain he would have lasted longer than this pitiful display. They'd have to go through his toes, too.
"T-The guns are in the Vista warehouse," the man gasped, cringing away from him as much as he could with the restraints around his neck and legs. Damian pulled out a map of the area and shoved it at his captive, along with a pen. "Mark the address."
Instead, this idiot decided to take a stab at him with the pen. It was the most pathetic attempt on his life that Damian had ever seen, with Lorenzo's sweaty palms almost losing grip of the plastic before he'd completed the feebly motion of an attempted stab. Sidestepping the would-be shiv, Damian slammed the pliers onto the man's left hand hard enough to hear his bones crunch against the metal. Then he did it again, watching the skin of his victim's knuckles turn a vivid purple. The hand took on a strangely deformed shape as he continued to break every single bone in a screaming Lorenzo's non-dominant hand.
He'd need the other one to mark the map, after all.
Growing frustrated with hearing Lorenzo's whimpering, he wrapped his hand around the man's windpipe and gave a hard squeeze to shut him up. "Let's try that again. Mark the map."
After that, the man needed no further convincing. He marked the address in an untidy scrawl, tears streaming down his face. He was a soft man with a pudgy gut and uncalloused hands, someone who ran the books for one of his family's many rivals. Not someone who was used to rough treatment. He might as well have saved his tears, because Damian turned his full attention to the young man standing beside him. "Check out his info. Then get rid of him."
He'd get Nico to pull the trigger. The kid needed an opportunity to prove to the family that he wasn't soft, and he needed experience killing. Dark eyes followed the movement of Nico's adam's apple as he nodded his silent assent. No complaints or questions this time.
As far as Damian was concerned, it was a man's God-given right to have a beer at the end of a hard day's work. He sat at the bar even though the small padded stools struggled to hold his 6'5 frame. It was the best spot to watch the current UFC match on the mounted television. That, and it gave him a vantage point on the bar's entrance, just in case trouble walked in. He'd noticed the young woman entering almost immediately because in a sea of regular faces, hers was new. Then she smiled and confirmed his suspicions - she was an outsider for sure.
Everyone in Rosedale knew who Damian was, and their smiles reflected that. Some were nervous quirks of the lips, betraying their fear of him - either from direct experience or reputation. Or it was the overly forced smiles of the girls who hung around the clubs at the outskirts of town, knowing the benefits that came with association with the family's resident princeling. All of these smiles meant they wanted something from him, that there was some wheedling request for drugs or money at the other end of those veneered teeth and filled lips.
The look she gave him was different enough to give him pause, because it was a smile completely without artifice. Damian lifted his beer in a salute to her attention, then nodded the waitress over - she dropped everything to attend to him first. "Ruby, get her whatever she wants. Put it on my tab. And send over a bottle of Dom. 2013, or whatever you have," he told her, slipping a bill into her front apron pocket. Ruby nodded eagerly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear before she went back to do as he'd asked. He watched her pull out the bottle of bubbly, popping the cork with an expert twist of her hand. "This is from him," she murmured, nodding down the bar at Damian as she poured the golden liquid into a glass and slid it across the bar toward Bri. The opened bottle, she set in front of her - a sign he'd bought the bottle, not just a glass. "He told me to put it on his tab."
โ
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