Any neurospicy queer with a love of character-driven stories (now with writing samples)

[The Visibly Queer One]

Okay, so I maaaaay have signed up for this account and then completely forgotten about it. >>; If I ghosted you in the planning stages of a story, please feel free to reach out again! It has been A Hell of A Year.

Hi, I'm queer (by name and by rights) and I want to write queer stories. What does that look like, I hear you ask? Well, it could look like anything. That's the beauty of queerness. Generally speaking, I play trans male characters, so it is likely that whatever we write will be MxSomething. I sometimes play other types of folks, most often to fill out a cast of NPCs; it all depends on the story idea. If you are unfamiliar with transness or the appropriate vocabulary, I would be more than happy to have a conversation about it before we start. It is critical to me that my partners do not use slurs to refer to my characters or trans people in general (i.e. cuntboy, tranny, faggot, futa, dickgirl, etc.). Please respect this boundary.

I have decided not to be overly specific with this thread, so I'm going to lay out my expectations in a partner and what you can expect from me, then put up a word bank to jump off from. I may also include a wish list of story hooks I'm desperate to play and haven't had the opportunity to, but we'll see.

What you can expect from me:

• friendly OOC chatter. Let's be buds! At the very least, I'll keep you up to date if something happens that will keep me away for a while.
• solid respect of boundaries.
• ~500 or more words per post on average, although I believe in dynamic lengths to keep scenes from dragging.
• characters with depth that goes beyond The Tragic Backstory™.
• reasonably good spelling and punctuation.
• active contribution to plotting and storytelling.
• a couple of replies a day, generally speaking. I do have a life, but this is my favorite hobby.
• understanding and compassion when it comes to real world events and life complications.
• a decent human being on the other end of the line.

What I need from you:

• solid respect of boundaries.
• characters with depth that goes beyond The Tragic Backstory™.
• reasonably good spelling and punctuation (but I'm not a dick about it).
• active contribution to plotting and storytelling.
• basic OOC communication. Please try to let me know if you need a break, if you'll be away for a while, if you're bored, etc. Even better if you want to be buds and hyperfixate together!
• ~300 words or more per post, taking the needs of the scene into consideration.
• 2-3 posts per week (or more, if you're up for it). I've found that if it's much less than that, I have a hard time staying connected to the story. It's nothing personal.
• understanding and compassion when it comes to real world events and life complications.

Spoiler: a note about nsfw content

I do prefer my stories to have smut. I think a lot of us do! But I am not here to write straight-up porn. Unless I am in a very particular mood, I need the character development and emotional connection to be there between the sexy bits, even if there are a lot of sexy bits to be had. No hard ratio or anything, just a general rule to go by.

I do not believe in strict bottom/top roles. While many of my characters enjoy being on the receiving end of penetration, not all of them do and some can take it or leave it. The ones who do prefer penetration aren't always the submissive party in the relationship. Sexuality is fluid. Let it flow.

Kinks and such can be discussed, but my hard limits include scat, vore, homo/transphobia as fetish, detransition, feminization, non/dub-con, face slapping, humiliation, degradation, abuse, and paraphilias, as well as anything that violates the site rules.

Bank of Words:
Enemies to lovers - medieval times - Shakespearean times - arranged marriage - ABO - art - nature - roller rinks - the Golden Age of Piracy - mafia - Edo period Japan - 19th century China - high/low/urban fantasy - historical fiction/fantasy - hurt/comfort - fluff - smut - angst - mermaids and sirens - cryptids - monster hunters - dragons - rivalries - Norsemen and the age of vikings - magic at a cost - standing in the ruins of a 'happy ending' - stranded - sex workers - the weariness of ancient beings - soldiers - gods and demons - classic mythology - hockey - wild west - those who hurt - those who heal - the places where terrorism and activism overlap - sweetness from unexpected sources - competency porn - art as foreplay - slow burn - emotional slow burn, physical quickfire - y e a r n i n g - tenderness as foreplay - ancient Egypt - royalty (European, non-European, and fantasy included) - reluctant allies - class differences - social differences - culture clashes - fisticuffs as foreplay - sharp wit as foreplay - just foreplay in general idk - ancient Greece - witches - crisis of faith/virtue/morality/identity - exploration - space - the sea - fake dating but oops, it's real - childhood best friends - ancient Persia - the lost prince/princess - blue collar - the price of peace - the cost of war - the end of time, the beginning of (?) - trapped - escaped - forgotten - remembered - hidden - age gaps (18+) - found family - things better left unsaid - underground magic - elemental magic - connected to divinity - opposites attract - kink - addiction - magical realism - secrets in the suburbs - shape shifting - something's gone wrong with reality - an inventor's regret

Spoiler: the wishlist

TBD

Spoiler: a note about historical accuracy

While I treasure all the ambiance I can fit into a story using realistic historical tidbits, I do not expect my partners to have more than a cursory understanding of the era we are portraying. I might, on occasion, get hung up on small details or offer you a nugget of historical information that could help set the scene, but that's just the autism talking. It's really not a big thing, I promise.

Similarly, when it comes to homo/transphobia 'of the time' or the improbability of a viable HRT alternative 1000 or more years ago, I'm apt to simply suspend disbelief. I'm here to escape reality, not play by its rules.

If you've read this far... hey, thanks ;w; I'm glad you stuck around and I hope to hear from you soon!

ONE LAST THING! This writer is entirely, 100% against the use of generative AI for any and all creative content. No AI faceclaims and definitely no AI writing. Thank you!

 

[The Visibly Queer One]

Spoiler: Dr. Arthur Fitley

"That's great, Mike, but I--"

Arthur paused to listen to the voice on the other end of the phone while hunched over the wastebasket (usually kept under his desk) just in case something else came up. His office was neat, as one would expect. Tall windows let in shafts of bright, morning sunshine, drenching the bland carpet (white) and furniture showroom couches (white) in pale gold. A simple coffee table with a fan of magazines featured in a small seating area near the door while Arthur's desk sat at the far end, under the windows that faced the building opposite. Framed photos of his work - happy people showing off their repaired cleft palates or their new noses, men with scars under their pectorals and tall, statuesque women with knowing looks in their eyes - hung on the walls (also white), along with the obligatory degrees, certifications, and several blurbs written about the good doctor in one magazine or other.

Amid all the order, Arthur looked a mess. One hand was buried in his blonde hair which, usually gelled and shiny, looked as though he had been taking his anxiety out on it. His clothes remained exquisitely tailored and styled but his tie and collar were askew, as if he'd been pulling on them. The only reason he didn't have dark moons under his sunken eyes was the concealer he'd dabbed on once he saw himself in the office lighting. A half dead-looking doctor would not inspire confidence.

"Mike, I just--" he began when the voice on the other end of the line stopped talking, but his own voice caught in his throat, his mouth open around a thought that his brain would not allow to materialize. Arthur sighed and spread his forefinger and thumb to rub and pinch at his brow. It felt tense enough to sharpen knives.

"Arthur," said the voice on the other end of the line. It had gone quiet and gentle, the way someone might talk to a frightened animal. "Are you alright?"

Arthur closed his mouth and swallowed, swallowed down the words, and the panic, and the need for human connection. And the bile.

"Yeah, I'm alright," he croaked. "I've just been thinking about Zach a lot. Wanted to check in."

Mike indulged him, as any parent would, talking about the last few days' events at daycare, the interest of the week, and how excited Zach had been to feed the birds at the park that day. Then, Mike said, "He said to ask you when baseball season is going to start again."

Arthur smiled, just a little. "You know when baseball season starts."

"Yeah, but he wants you to tell him," said Mike with something strange in his voice. "He misses you."

Arthur smiled wistfully just before a sharp and recently-familiar stab of dread shot up from under his chair and through his intestines. His face crumpled with emotion and he hid his screwed-shut eyes behind his hand, pushing his glasses up to his forehead in the process.

"Sorry, I think I need to go," he managed to make himself say before his silence could stretch on for too long. "Looks like something's gone wrong for a surgery tomorrow, I need to take care of it. But, uh - I'll be over soon. I promise."

Mike said something on the other end of the line. Arthur managed a wan smile.

"You too, Mike. Give Maude and Zach my love. Alright. Bye."

The heavy receiver clicked in its cradle and the office, high above street level, went very quiet. Arthur's face remained hidden behind one hand, the cuticles of which had angry, pink nicks and bites in the pale skin. Nothing much happened for a while except the distant sounds of traffic filtering up from the street and then, with a soft, broken sob, Arthur's shoulders began to shake.

Spoiler: Max and Adria

*Note - this is written in 3rd person, present tense, which was my partner's preference at the time. I usually do past tense but I enjoyed this immensely and would be open to the same with someone new.


Max figures it out first.

It's not a huge leap. He's heard the stories about Remington, about before. Before Adria wandered into his life and filled it with music. Before he found a love that would never, could never be replaced. Max has seen what happens to men when they lose that love - or what they perceived as love, although he knows it was a pale impersonation of what these two share.

He makes his way onto the grounds of the Morello Mansion with ease. He helped set the magic warding, after all, since Nicolo knows a talented mage when he encounters one and isn't above asking for expert opinions. Max goes with one hand in his pocket, the other on his guitar case, trudging silently through the grass wearing a crisp, black suit and a wan expression. The only sign of welcome he gets is a disturbance in the surface of the pool, a flip of fin and a dull splash. Max drags one of the patio chairs closer to the water with an ugly, leaden screech and folds himself into it. Once the guitar is in his hands, even the birds in the trees seem to go quiet and wait for his song.

The music is slow and easy, the same kind he played the morning when Boone was angry enough to blow a hole through the world. The melody rambles. One song bleeds into another, and then another, and then another. He doesn't watch the orange and white shape under the surface of the water, although he sees it out of the corner of his brown eyes, turning languid laps around the pool and occasionally stopping to curl around itself as though trying to sleep.

Finally, after three cigarettes and more than a dozen songs, a glowing lure breaks the surface.

Max pauses, cigarette perched on his full lower lip, and watches the lure bob. It looks like a jewel. He can't tell if it's glittering in the sunlight, or if it's Adria's magic, or if it's a hallucination brought on by said magic. One never knows with the son of a goddess.

Max's fingers flutter almost playfully over his guitar strings in a show of encouragement. The lure bobs, then the top of Adria's head appears, milky, glowing eyes, pale skin, and hair swirling on the surface of the water in icy, white tendrils.

"Are you coming up, or what?" Max calls, folding his arms along the edge of his guitar, and watches the head sink again. Adria takes another few turns around the bottom of the pool just to be contrary before emerging at the edge of the pool and folding his own arms against the tile in a mirror of Max's pose.

"Why are you here?" he asks.

Max scoffs, like, 'gee, thanks'. He waits a beat before speaking. "Guess," he says.

Adria droops in the water like a string has been cut, half-hiding his expression behind the pool wall. Neither of them says anything for a while.

"I didn't realize how much you cared about him," Max ventures after a while. "Boone, I mean."

Adria doesn't answer.

"But last night, I mean - I don't think I've ever seen you like that. Not even when that politician turned out to be married."

Adria's face turns thunderous. His tail slaps down against the surface of the pool.

"I told you--"

"I didn't say his name," Max cuts him off in his own defense, lifting both hands in a gesture of surrender. "But I take your point."

The siren subsides. He couches his chin on his overlapped forearms, his eyelids heavy, tail swishing listlessly in the water. Max smokes and watches him for a while, then begins to pluck out another lazy tune on his guitar. It's quiet for a time, and then,

"He reminds you of your brother."

It's not a shot in the dark, more like a shot in early-evening light. Adria remains still and silent for a breath before slowly shaking his head.

"He reminds me of myself."

Max stares. He shed his jacket and hat some time ago and looks almost boyish where he's hunched over his guitar, his brown skin warm with all the sunlight he's been getting recently and his dark hair styled back from his face. He looks especially boyish wearing that slack-jawed expression.

"What?" he asks, gobsmacked.