us against the world.

[saternal]

(๑✪ᆺ✪๑) ✶ 𓂃  *  SATERNAL,  a  selective,  dash‑only  writing  blog.  independent,  multi‑muse,  featuring  original  characters.  rules  (&.)  muses  found  on  #hypnoxia.  written  by  lark:  autistic,  twenty7,  pst.

sideblog   ✶   opens   ✶   wishlist   ✶   opposite

studying:  neurodivergence,  morally  gray  alignment,  (&.)  the  never‑ending  development  of  one’s  self.  ʀᴇᴀᴅ  ʀᴜʟᴇꜱ  ʙᴇꜰᴏʀᴇ  ᴀᴛᴛᴇᴍᴩᴛɪɴɢ  ᴛᴏ  ꜰᴏʟʟᴏᴡ  ᴏʀ  ɪɴᴛᴇʀᴀᴄᴛ.  do  not  follow  if:  under  21,  a  taboo/smut‑only  blog,  or  if  you  do  not  write  minority  characters.

[aftrbdy]

⋮  ⌗  ┆  avani  felt  giddy  like  a  kid.  being  with  devon  was  easy.  she  didn't  have  to  pretend  to  be  this  woman  that  she  wasn't…  he  liked  her  for  who  she  was  at  her  core,  and  honestly?  though  their  relationship  even  existing  was  a  mess,  she  considered  devon  the  most  romantic  man  she  had  ever  met.  ❛❛  i  love  that  about  you.  how  happy  you  are  to  take  care  of  me…  you  never  complain.  ❜❜  compared  to  her  husband,  devon  was  a  dream  come  true.  she  just  wished  she  could  rip  the  bandaid  off  and  divorce  her  husband..  she  already  had  the  papers  organized  for  the  moment  devon  even  suggested  anything  related  to  becoming  serious,  it  was  just  a  harsh  thought.  ❛❛  i  promise,  devon.  i'll  never  change  my  mind  about  you…  you  make  me  feel  more  than  my  damn  husband.  ❜❜

[saternal]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶ 𓂃 *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀everything considered, devon didn’t direct any judgment toward avani. he’d witnessed marriage complications himself, time and time again with his mother, who refused to settle down after his father’s passing. sometimes money wasn’t enough— effort mattered, and his mother preached that to her sons. whenever she went on a tangent about how poorly some men were raised, she’d say working and providing didn’t mean anything if you couldn’t place a smile on your woman’s face. devon carried that lesson with him.

he recalled a night they spent together two weeks ago, when the electricity in his apartment went out. instead of ending their time, he took avani to buy her favorite cheap candles. they sat across from each other with pizza on the right and monopoly cash on the left. nights like those made him realize that if she wanted to leave, she would have by now. but she didn’t. she stayed through everything. and he never asked for help— even when she insisted, only giving in when her lips pouted in that way he could never resist.

her words made his stomach curl, and he lifted a hand. moments like this, he didn’t care who saw. he just needed to feel her skin under his. “you make it easy. you haven’t given up on me— i’d be stupid to let you go.” he took her hand gently and lifted it to his lips. “i’ll do my best to make sure tonight is special. and i’ll keep my head clear just for you. nothing to worry about tonight.”

[popsprincess]

heart  pounded  like  something  uneasy,  something  missing  parts.  like  a  clock  that  ticks  backwards.  the  sentiment  should  have  wrapped  her  in  warmth,  should  have answered  her  question  like  it  was  dripping  in  syrup,  sweet  and  honeyed.  he'd  been  around  long  enough,  longer  than  she  can  remember  most  days.  she's  not  even  sure  that  he  wasn't  a  figment  of  her  imagination  entirely.  if  a  stranger  were  to  walk  by,  and  catch  her  in  the  window,  talking  to  herself.  eyes  glossed,  peering  up  from  where  she  had  been  staring  at  her  hands,  digits  still  pressed  against  her  lips  as  she  picked  at  the  skin  of  her  lesser.  the  thing  is-  she  wasn't  asking  him  for  her.  "my  dad  kept  talking  about  the  drought."  the  words  trailed  out  quietly.  "said  it  was..  the  worst  the  city  had  ever  seen."  lazily,  emotion  fluttered  and  then  died  behind  her  gaze.  "he  left..  matches  in  the  car."  her  family  were  terrible  people.  her  father  had  made  that  estate  on  the  blood  money  he'd  taken  from  others,  he'd  buried  her  mother  in  a  family  morgue,  with  a  golden  crest-  as  if  tabitha  hadn't  seen  his  hands  clutching the pillow he'd pushed and pushed, until she stopped breathing.  all  her  uncles,  all  her  cousins  had  simply..  forgotten  about  it.  washed  their  hands  of  it.  "because-"  she  began  to  answer  the  question.  "i  burnt  all of it. every last one of them."

[saternal]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶ 𓂃 *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀caius,  a  man  rarely  aghast,  found  his  lips  curling  in  wicked  delectation.  beneath  this  sinister  display  resides  that  ink  of  surprise.  who  was  he  to  her,  to  be  gifted  such  a  beautiful  confession—  a  comforting  presence?  no.  he’d  rather  describe  himself  as  an  uncanny  constant  in  her  life.  she  speaks  to  him  like  a  therapist  born  from  the  shadows.  and she’s  become quite dependent.  this  feeds  the  monster’s  itch  for  control.

his  initial  purpose  was  to  confiscate  her  ethereal  visage,  claiming  her  window‑sill  as  home  during  evening’s  end.  he  didn’t  anticipate  listening  to  her  never‑ending  musings.  his  mind  knew  something  malevolent  rested  beneath  those  dissociative  tears;  who  would  have  guessed  it  was  a  vengeful  soul  much  like  his  own.

“i  see  .  .  .”  he  begins,  and  for  the  first  time  he  slips  into  her  bedroom,  form  warped and disorted,  like  a  retro  video  game. she catches a brief glimpse of the mimic, but it's ultimately the poet who remains before her.  "the  world,  i  fear,  is  governed  by  merciless  souls.  one  must  either  cleanse  the  earth  of  the  hand  that  harms  .  .  .  or  release  the  harmed  from  their  suffering.  at  times,  death  is  the  gentlest  mercy  we  may  offer. and yet you remain, and you did what you had to do.”

[saternal]

whenever  i'm  writing  my  internet  search  looks  like:  "synonym for  ___"  just  so  i  look  smart.  truth  is  i  know  like  5  words.

[fruitr0ts]

[ 🗪 KASUMI → CAIUS : ] omggg old man [ 🗪 KASUMI → CAIUS : ] forget that! we need to teach you about emojis [ 🗪 KASUMI → CAIUS : ] hiii ❤️❤️❤️

[saternal]

[𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 ➤ 𝒄𝒂𝒊𝒖𝒔] I have no need for trivial displays of emotion. [𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 ➤ 𝒄𝒂𝒊𝒖𝒔] Must we be in seperate rooms right now? [𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 ➤ 𝒄𝒂𝒊𝒖𝒔] What is tiktok?

[saternal]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆:  devika mehta  /  30  /  street racer⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏  𝒕𝒐:  f

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶ 𓂃 *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀"so  what's  wrong  with  it?"  tobias  wasn't  in  today.  devi  opened  shop  around  10  p.m,  2  hours  behind  schedule  and  she  knew  she  would  hear  about  it  later.  the  previous  night  was  long.  living  in  a  shitty  apartment,  in  a  shitty  neighborhood  meant  shitty  sleep.  those  2  extra  hours  beat  sitting  around  waiting  for  nobody.  they  barely  had  traction  these  days,  and  it  made  sense  considering  their  shop  rested  on  the  outskirts  of  a  random  ass  highway.  when  the  woman  walked  in,  devi  was  sitting  feet  on  desk,  phone  in  hand  as  she  texted  mal  details  about  an  upcoming  race.  now  face  to  face  with  the  sunflower-colored  buggie,  devi's  hand  brushes  over  her  features—  still  exhausted,  when  was  she  not?  "alright,  start  her  up,  let  me  hear  it."

[popsprincess]

“do you think it’s possible that..” her mind drifted off to that place. it’s like her head was haunted, memories she can sometimes place. others fracturing into pieces. “people are just.. born broken?”

[saternal]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀such  inquiry  has  caius  pondering.  he  wanted  to  say  'yes'  without  hesitation,  and  he  had  his  own  reasons  why.  but  he  also  knew  what  she  needed  to  hear—  a  gentle,  sugary-coated  statement  that  would  undoubtedly  ease  the  tension  pulling  at  her  heartstrings.  "i  think  .  .  .  people  are  a  product  of  their  own  environment."  which  wasn't  wrong,  although  as  far  as  he  was  concerned—  caius  was  born  broken.  tabitha  on  the  other  hand,  wasn't.  life  was  just  cruel.  "you  blame  yourself  for  it.  why?  you  were  only  a  child."

[saternal]

ฅ(ﾐᗜᆽᗜﾐ)∫  ADMIN PSA.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀being  autistic  and  having  a  hobby  like  writing  can  be  difficult,  but  possible  and  fun  with  the  right  people.  i  am  a  deeply  creative  person.  my  brain  picks  up  on  emotional  nuance,  patterns,  and  symbolism  that  help  me  develop  immersive  worlds  and  characters’  psychology.  i  can  be  a  very  expressive  person  and  fixate  on  our  characters  and  threads,  creating  pinterest  boards  and  headcanons  to  show  my  interest.  and  while  this  is  one  side  of  the  coin,  there  is  another  side  that  i  want  to  make  apparent.

i  often  experience  burnout  and  may  take  breaks  from  writing  from  time  to  time  in  order  to  recover.  my  breaks  can  vary  from  a  few  days  to  a  few  months  depending  on  where  my  head  is.  burnout  for  me  affects  my  executive  functioning,  confidence,  writing  skills,  energy  levels,  and  so  much  more.  when  burnout  hits,  it's  not  that  i  lost  interest,  it's  my  nervous  system  using  the  last  of  its  energy  source,  and  it's  time  for  me  to  recharge.

what  do  i  do  when  burnout  happens,  am  i  available  to  talk?  when  burnout  happens  i  focus  on  resting  and  engaging  in  less  brain-demanding  hobbies  and  tasks.  i  may  not  be  writing,  but  i  update  pinterest  boards  and  playlists.  during  this  time  i  am  open  to  dms  and  plots,  i  just  may  be  a  little  slow.  burnout  affects  every  aspect  of  my  life.  when  i  experience  it  i  just  need  to  slow  down,  ease  up  on  my  own  responsibilities,  and  recover. even  when  i'm  slow,  i'm  still  invested.  i  care  about  my  friends  and  the  stories  we  create.  writing  is  one  of  my  favorite  ways  to  express  myself.

i  value  mutual  respect  and  emotional  balance.  if  you  need  a  writing  partner  who  is  fast-paced  and  always  around,  that  may  not  be  me.  i  write  best  with  partners  who  understand  creativity  isn't  linear.  i  thrive  with  writing  partners  who  communicate  openly,  don't  take  my  delays  personally,  and  understand  that  my  pace  isn't  a  direct  reflection  of  my  interest.  clarity  helps  me  stay  grounded;  partners  who  tell  me  to  “take  your  time”  really  help  me  feel  comfortable.

with  all  this  being  said,  what's  the  best  way  to  keep  me  engaged?  i  love  threads  that  are  scattered.  i  can  go  from  wanting  slow  burn  one  minute  to  wanting  them  to  kiss  another,  then  going  back  to  slow  burn.  i  love  hardcore  angst  into  fluff.  i  enjoy  collaborative  brainstorming  and  worldbuilding.  i  love  writing  horror  and  mystery  plots.  and  i  love  talking  headcanons  and  building  pinterest  boards  with  people  and  so  much  more!

[fruitr0ts]

the sound of mariyu's moan is almost like a song in hana's ears. makes heat rush through her body, makes her want to devour mariyu right then and there. but she's reminded of mariyu's confession — that she's never done this before. yet she melts into her roommate so easily that she doesn't want to pull away either. so, her voice is a soft whisper against the femme's lips. "so don't stop."

[saternal]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀mariyu  couldn't  get  enough  of  hana's  lips.  each  graze  of  her  tongue  felt  like  an  unspoken  confession.  nervousness  bubbles  within  her  stomach,  clenching  in  her  chest—  all  rationale  down  the  drain  until  hana  speaks,  then  mariyu  paused  the  kiss.  she  pulls  back  and  her  eyes  open,  lips  part  to  speak  but  nothing  escapes  her  throat,  just  hesitant  air  and  the  etch  of  uncertainty  on  her  face.  "i  can't  .  .  ."  shaking  her  head  she  sits  before  hana.  "i'm  not  .  .  .  like  this.  i  can't  just  kiss  you  like  that  and  pretend  like  it  doesn't  mean  something."

[saternal]

𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒅:  @lcstinthewoods⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒌𝒔 𝟒  𝒕𝒉𝒆  𝒓𝒆𝒑𝒍𝒚 ( ᵔ ᗜ ᵔ ).

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀the crackling of snapping branches and swishing leaves sends an eerie chill through the dense foliage on the outskirts of the french countryside in haute-loire. small, desolate structures of cobblestone and hay have decayed over two centuries, leaving behind scattered stones, hills of dirt, sticks, and moss. these materials once formed buildings that belonged to a small village wiped out by cholera, plague, and famine in the 1800s. modern locals living beyond the woods whisper about "le fantome de caius la veyne," the infamous late poet whose restless soul is said to haunt the area. elders kept their children away, claiming he disfigured dozens who dared trespass on his grounds.

reality remains far more nuanced than what a ghost story could tell.

distorted humanistic features unaturally analyze her every movement. its eyes are unsettling by how wide they manage to be, lids remain open with no blinking urge. its nose is nearly non-existent, lips cut and curved in ways so uncanny, so sinister.

such beautifully desperate words earn a disturbing smile represented by rotted yellow teeth. it’s slender figure circles this woman, camouflaged by the darkness surrounding them. it’s movements are unnatural, inhuman; sharp turns and tilts, erratic shaking and zombified steps.

“many have wandered these grounds, hoping to glimpse the phantom of caius la veyne’s unresting soul . . . and you . . . how many do you think return to tell what they’ve seen?” from the ground up, the demonic shadow— the mimic’s— form begins to disassemble. soon, caius la veyne stands in its place before her. "care to take a guess? or will you continue to weep for your life?"

[wcmanizer]

give me a hate ship where they cannot fucking stand each other and they’re just nasty to each other 70% of the time and the other 30% of the time they’re having sex in the bathroom

[thankunexts]

ARIANA GRANDE 83rd Annual Golden Globe Awards | January 11, 2026

[saternal]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆:  caius la venye  /  30 /  mimic⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏  𝒕𝒐:  f

𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏:  abandoned  as  a  child  for  his  impairments,  frederic  bernard  perished  in  an  institutional  fire.  left  as  a  wandering  soul,  he  takes  the  form  of  france’s  exceptional  poet,  the  late  caius  la  venye. | [pinterest]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀branches  surrounding  them  sway  erratically,  scattering  multi-gradient  leaves  across  the  clearing  which  haven’t  been  traversed  by  a  living  man  in  nearly  a  decade.  charred  tree  trucks  jutted  from  the  ground  like  blackened  teeth.  beside  one  of  them  is  caius’  foot,  stagnant  as  a  coin  super  glued  to  glass.  his  black  boots  appear  new,  mirroring  the  suit  covering  those  sturdy  shoulders.  “this  woman  must  be  impending  death.”  the  fraudulent  poet  ponders  without  uttering  a  word.  his  sealed  lips  still  hold  that  chilling  grin  that  rewarded  him  with  threats  by  his  last  visitors.  they  never  lived  to  tell  the  tale  of  the  peculiar  man  residing  in  the  dense  foliage.

mimic?  no.  they  had  other  name’s  for  him  once:  the  devil’s  tithe,  a  sabbath  child,  crooked  lamb,  a  sin’s  echo—  never  a  mimic.  not  until  now.

as  quickly  as  her  lashes  flicker,  temporarily  darkening  the  world—  he  repositions.  standing  behind  her  now,  caius  reaches  around  and  tightens  his  palm  around  her  slender  throat.  “tu  parles  si  joliment.”  his  sharp  thumb  nail  grazes  over  her  pulse  point.  “will  your  throat  sing  as  your  blood  splatters  across  the  burial  of  your  equally  ambitious  brothers?”  asking  rhetorically,  clearly  displeased  by  her  uninvited presence.  this  name,  this  body,  this  face.  IT  WAS  HIS. caius  le  venye  lives  on.  internally  improved.

he  leans  in,  threatening,   “speak  carefully  now,  sweetheart,  if  you  behave,  i  might  just  spare  you.”

[saternal]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆:  maliah cruz  /  25  /  engkanto⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏  𝒕𝒐:  any

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀on  the  outskirts  of  town,  deep  within  the  overgrown  foliage,  “lawa  ng  diwab”  sits  peacefully  undisturbed.  the  engkanto  lives  beneath  its  semi  frozen  surface—  a  cold-dwelling  spirit  born  from  a  human  soul,  and  the  indescribable  entity  that  existed  here  for  a  millennia  before  her  arrival. 

maliah  cruz;  ex-figure  skater  and  national  title  holder.  deceased  to  those  who  once  loved  her,  ignorant  to  her  formidable  presence  guarding  the  lake  that  claimed  her  life  a  decade  ago.  it’s  been  closed  since.  only  unlikely  creatures  dare  scrape  this  area.  emerging  beyond  splitting  ice,  the  pale  creature  swims  towards  it’s  prey,  a  human. 

“hm . . .”  silky  long  hair  frames  feminine  features.  her  ear  to  ear  grin  grows  and  she  breaks  out  in  a  fit  of  erratic  chuckles.  “look at you.”  maliah’s  head  tilts.  “why  don’t  you  stay?”  she  sinks  back  and  the  splitting  ice  opens  into  an  inviting  circle,  she’s  residing  in  the  middle.

[saternal]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆:  lonnie harris  /  31  /  camp counselor⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏  𝒕𝒐:  m

𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕:  typical  camp  slasher.  your  muse  and  lonnie  are  counselors  at  camp  redwood.  3  summers  before  lonnie  and  his  best  friend  carter  arrived  at  redwood  quarry,  samantha  o'doherty  was  murdered  in  an  old  cabin  now  ripped  off  modern  day  maps.  samantha's killer is back. lonnie refuses to play any stupid games.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀lonnie's  adrenaline  was  high.  crimson  trickles  down  the  side  of  his  forehead  and  he  clenches  his  right  arm  still  slashed  from  earlier.  it  was  a  casual  night  at  first.  the  bondfire  went  well  and  the  campers  finally  went  home  after  a  long  summer.  counselors  stayed  another  2  weeks  after  their  depature,  for  clean  up  and  to  enjoy  the  end  of  the  warm  season.  lonnie  and  your  muse  traveled  to  an  old  watch  tower  for  refuge  away  from  the  masked  maniac  dropping  bodies  all  over  the  campsite.  “no,  we're  staying  our  happy  asses  right  here.  you  seriously  want  to  the  fuck  back  there?  who  knows  if  there's  anyone  left.  we  stay  here,  wait  for  the  rain  to  stop  so  the  power  gets  back  on  and  we  call  the  cops.  that's  what  we  do.”

[saternal]

𝒎𝒖𝒔𝒆:  carter mcneil  /  28  /  camp counselor⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒏  𝒕𝒐:  f

𝒑𝒍𝒐𝒕:  typical  camp  slasher.  your  muse  and  carter  are  counselors  at  camp  redwood.  3  summers  before  carter  and  her  best  friend  lonnie  arrived  at  redwood  quarry,  samantha  o'doherty  was  murdered  in  an  old  cabin  now  ripped  off  modern  day  maps.  carter  stolen  one  of  these  maps  from  ranger  yael's  office  and  approaches  your  muse  to  join  her  in  a  creepy  expedition. 

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀✶  𓂃  *⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀carter's  head  rests  on  the  window  seal  of  your  muses  cabin.  their  roommate  was  sound  asleep  so  carter  kept  their  voice  as  low  as  they  could,  though  concealing  their  excitement was a struggle.  “come  on  .  .  .  it's  just  an  old  group  of  cabins.  nothing  sketch.  you  act  like  we're  going  to  see  a  body—  i'm  not that  twisted.”   

[saternal]

/ i have decided to focus on horror/slasher/scifi roleplays for the time being. slice of life isn't giving me the drive i need to write! if anyone wants to plot<3 i'm here!