Let’s get something out of the way real quick:
Yes, there’s sex in my books.
Yes, sometimes it’s hot.
Yes, sometimes it’s emotionally catastrophic.
And yes, occasionally someone shapeshifts during — because why not?
But calling it just smut?
Oh, dearie. You’re missing the whole beautifully deranged point.
I don’t write stories where two hot people just meet, grind, and say “I love you” over pillow talk while still covered in the blood of their enemies (okay, maybe that happens once). What I write are full-blown psychological explorations of what happens when emotionally damaged (queer) people are forced into intimacy by supernatural circumstances, trauma bonding, or the fact that they’re being hunted by someone even worse than each other.
It’s not just about the bang.
It’s about the build-up to the bang.
The soul-shattering tension, the internal screaming, the „I shouldn’t want you but I do and now I’m spiraling“ moments.
It’s the quiet hand brushing against a bullet wound.
The look that says “if I lose you, I lose myself.”
The desperate, last-ditch confession made in a crumbling alleyway while demons circle overhead.
And then yes — sometimes there’s sex. But not because it’s titillating.
Because it’s catharsis.
Because it’s character development.
Because it’s the only way these poor emotionally constipated monsters can say I need you.
Why the “smut” label misses the mark
There’s a long, twisted tradition of reducing queer romance — especially when written by women or femme authors — to “just porn.” It’s lazy. It’s dismissive. And honestly? It’s sexist, homophobic, and deeply boring.
When people say “smut,” they usually mean gratuitous, mindless, plotless sex. But in my stories? The sex comes with emotional fallout, unprocessed grief, shapeshifter politics, and warlock trauma that dates back centuries. These aren’t hookups. These are character arcs with a body count.
My characters don’t just fuck. They suffer.
And that’s the point.
I want readers to ache when the werewolf can’t say he loves the man he’s dreamed about for a decade. I want you to scream when the assassin realizes he’s fallen for his target but still has to pull the trigger. I want your soul to leave your body when the raven shapeshifter says, “I’d rather die than let your magic consume you.”
And then, maybe… they’ll kiss.
That’s what I write.
So no — I don’t write smut.
I write devastating, complicated, soul-splitting stories that happen to include some very sexy moments, because guess what?
Traumatized gays deserve orgasms too. Especially when they are just such… fun!