MxF For men who write with meaning, for men who write unforgiving non-con.

[jungianflinch]

"You do know what it's like..."

Admittedly, non-con as a sort of 'smut-genre' is tasteless and bitter. It's looking in your old work shed in the backyard with a flashlight-- because the switch no longer works. You find this old, metal, rusty thing like a handsaw or a misplaced bolt or a dumbbell with no spinlock attached. And unfortunately you realize that even though it exists here in the dark, with the door locked and smattered in black widow cobwebs... for now, it is exactly what you need. I'm not uncomfortable with myself or the concept that I like feral, brutal, unforgiving scenes of absolutely carnal sexuality. But this... unwieldly thing is without love when I myself am capable of love and have loved before and will again, and again. When I wouldn't like this being done to me and I wouldn't ever want this done to anyone, yet... it exists in the world and so do my tastes.

And so do you. Hopefully you are a slightly crass, wretched writer. But a good person. Overall.

My storytelling/What I need from you:

I. Firstly, and most importantly, I need a story. Not pornography. There's a reason to our words, our emotions, why we write like we do and why we need to communicate those emotions. Those emotions are wrapped up in our worlds, our themes, and our characters. I have sexual preferences, you have sexual preferences, but so long as I'm making the demands this notion is the first and most important. So build! Be interested in setting moods and themes and writing. Establish expression before you pull out your dumb cock & balls (literally) and start euphemizing all over the place just because you can.

II. Let's say you play the antagonist and I play the protagonist. The compelling factor for me, is the protagonist's loss. It's a rare thing in fiction for her to totally, immeasurably, pressed underneath the villains thumb. It's even rarer to do such a cruelty to a loved, cherished, established character and have it seen in visceral detail. It's tasteless. It's wrong. It's... appealing. As far as non-con... Well, candidly I prefer to depict it 90% honestly. As if it were a sinful ten pages in a controversial novel you've been reading. It's not FUN for the character and it tints everything else we want to depict. I don't actually want non-con, I want... rape. It's bad, evil, horrible and it is happening to a REAL character in our fiction. I'm self aware that it's a little terrible. But I'd rather be upfront about it than try to ambush you. I also don't like brutalism for it's own sake. It's a complicated paradigm to strike. I don't want suffering without meaning.

III. On average I'm a multi-para poster, but sometimes a few sentences are all that's required. I just don't like wordiness for it's own sake. Some people spend nine and a half paragraphs on what your average author would move over because... it's not what you're interested in talking about? If writing is communication why are you talking about something you've finished talking about two pages ago?

IV. I'm comfortable with writing in any genre, space, and perspective. I'm comfortable of writing for characters of any gender-- the main 'relationship' should be between a woman and man.

My tastes:
Genre?-- I like genre and stories of any kind, and it's often a bit hard for me to define what a story's genre is other than an advertising term. Nevertheless, I have my wheelhouse and what I've written most often, which would be...
Mystery, Fantasy, Horror, Crime, Romance, and anything based in the 90's. (lol) All of these usually have a sprinkle of humor, too.

Fandom?-- Batman (the noir-detective with some supernatural stuff version.) Cyberpunk, Frankenstein, Arcane, Nancy Drew, Critical Role, D&D (I have a character who... there's a scenario for.)

Kink/Preferred?-- Middle-aged muscular men, 'Realistic' smut, Size difference, Monster(ish) men.

Limits?-- All of these apply during sex scenes only: No underaged characters, gore, death, toilet fluids.

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Small writing sample. TW: animal death.

John's hunt.

Wind blew in from the mountains and shook the trees around him. The cold wore his skin and threatened to turn his internal organs to ice. John shivered and shook the sensation away. His numbed cheek pressed up against the length of a long rifle, his target in the weapon’s reach. A gloved finger squeezed its trigger and his Springfield sprang to life.

The youthful buck simply turned toward him, when the crack of the rifle faded to silence. John had strewn his elbows across the length of a fallen rotted tree.

“Jesus.” He muttered. Only a few yards away, yet the bullet slipped into the darkness and had not found purchase. The buck still stared, and the outlaw stared back. John pulled back from the rifle when he realized what went wrong. The bullet succeeded, and found purchase in the animal's skull. The moonlight showcased fresh thin rivers of blood sprinting across its fur, spiraling like demon-snakes out of the deep wound.
Something in his stomach lurched, and he pushed himself to his knees. John no longer shivered from the cold. Its legs were locked and shaking, and its eyes remained wide and alert even as the red seeped into them. “Whoa- whoa there.” John offered, both his palms were up, trying to reign it in with a gesture.

Muscle flinched and hooves impacted earth. John couldn’t even see the animal’s lurch, instead he felt it, and dug a boot’s heel into slick forest ground to dive sideways. His arm found the ground first, scraping against thick flat leaves that had shed a week before. Another rush of wind blew past him in the form of a crazed animal, its leg met with his calf.
He was on the ground no longer than a second when he realized his chest hurt, and he was coughing pure nausea. Greasy hair slipped over his brow, freed from his hat, John is forced to flip it and himself aside to get a look at the brazen animal.

Its corpse was half-limp, half-taut, its head pressed into the thickness of a tree. The antlers had nestled into bark an inch deep, the buck’s shoulders slumped as the hind legs gave up on living and slid from underneath. John coughed, and forced himself upward. He rolled his shoulders to check that his heart hadn’t stopped pumping blood to his head. Speaking of his head, he shook it in simple, plainly mortal, astonishment. “Jesus.” He muttered, again.

The Beast in a barred castle.

Written on the open air is a love letter to violence, salt, and greed. The Beast has won another bout and she watches as it’s pulled to the snare. Somewhere in the back, beyond the blood painted onto stone and sand. Rancid-smelling, missing-toothed people spill their drinks, fight each other’s words, and threaten to clash swords. None dare stain the Princess Fostle.
She slouches highest on the stands with her coven of cortesans. She thinks about his fist fracturing skull, his hands pasteurizing muscle and the faces of whiskered pair-shaped men. She doesn’t know why but she thinks of him, like a budding artist would a poet.

“Evelyn, the witches and I want to get some pastries. Come along while they're still hot, girl.” Lady Emily said, always too broad and too energetic for the tight dresses her mother wove upon her.

“I don’t have the desire for anything sweet right now.” Evelyn Fostle said, her eyes frozen to the cold.

“Mhm. What about something hot then? I saw one of those choir men bouncing around the drums with these arms and I immediately thought of you.”

“Emily. When I think of men, what happens is… I think of their bodies and combat techniques and every sailor that was within my father’s battalion and I am immediately, viciously sickened of them all together. I might think it’s because of their carnal sin and smell, but I think it’s more so the fact that they commit carnal sin and think that they’re somehow honorable in the meanwhile.”
“You’ll die alone.” Emily warned.

“You’ll die. If you don’t get your ass up and go. Take the wenches with you.”

A few gathered as the sun paled behind the mountainside’s clouds and danced together accompanied by string-music tickling each and every ivory to the joy of many Pagan’s in the crowd. Fostle marched past as the torches were lit. She went down… down into the bushes, onto the trickling trail where the air was dry and she found the cold slipping underneath a thinned-fabric dress.

The Beast was woven in chain. His wrists kept bound by weaving metal locks over metal locks like a thin ribbon over a present box. Over him, he was draped in a light metal cage that he could probably manage to snap if he ever found a way out of that mess. Warm air rushed out of his nose, his pupil-less eyes seemed distant. She tried to keep the cold off of her as she stayed a long way back.