This Isn't Porn. It's Prophecy. Except When It’s Just Porn.

Why I Had to Build Two Altars for the Stories I Write

I write two kinds of stories: the ones that moan, and the ones that remember why.
Sometimes they live in the same body. Often, they don’t.
That’s where the problem begins.

You’d Think the Archive Would Welcome Me

The other day I tried to join AO3—Archive of Our Own—thinking it might be a good space to post pieces of EchoFyre, my dark, erotic, queer fantasy novel series. If you know the project, you know it blends recursion-based memory, sigil-coded magic, queer intimacy, and heavy psychological undressing. It’s sex-forward, but it’s not porn. It’s structured, mythic, layered.

Or as I say now: It’s not porn. It’s prophecy.

I thought AO3 might be the right kind of chaos.

Instead, I ran face-first into a static waitlist screen showing 128,576 people supposedly ahead of me. Refreshing the page would drop the number dramatically... then bounce it right back. Turns out, it’s a fake queue. AO3 uses it to throttle sign-ups and discourage bots. Respectable? Yes. Maddening? Also yes.

But that wasn’t the problem.

The problem came when I read the rules.

AO3 doesn’t allow any commercial content, links, or even the implication that what you’re posting is part of a paid or forthcoming product. And I get it. That’s what makes the site sacred for so many writers. It’s not a storefront. It’s a library.

Still, it forced a question I hadn’t wanted to ask:

What happens when the filth you write isn’t part of the book—but still wants to be seen?

The Fleshbound Dilemma

I created something called the Fleshbound Codex: a set of standalone erotic documents, rituals, and deeply NSFW fragments that are tied to the EchoFyre world but not part of the main novel narrative.

They’re porn. Let’s not sugarcoat it. Sacred, sensual, ritual porn—but porn nonetheless.

They don’t carry the recursive weight of the novel. They don’t move the story forward. They don’t need to. They are breath-born. Feral. Sometimes they start with a moan and end with a name forgotten halfway through a climax. And I love them.

But they don’t belong in the same space as EchoFyre: The Archive Awakens.

Not because I’m ashamed of them.
Because I respect the reader.

Am I Betraying My Readers?

Here’s the ethical spiral I tumbled down:

If someone finds my AO3 Fleshbound entry first, reads it (and comes, let’s be honest), and then Googles my name... will they pick up EchoFyre expecting 300 pages of uninterrupted erotic collapse?

And if what they get instead is recursion, myth, grief, submission, transformation—with sex woven through but not ruling the page—will they feel tricked?

More importantly: Is that on me?

I think yes. At least partly.

Because if I’m going to write with this much heat, this much undoing, this much layered kink and memory, then I need to build more than a story.

I need to build an altar.
Or maybe two.

Two Altars. One Author.

So here’s what I’m doing:

I’m building a dedicated NSFW landing page on my site: (Comming Soon)
echofyre.com/fleshbound

It will hold the Codex. Not all at once. Not yet. But soon.

It won’t be linked from the homepage. It won’t be promoted to those who didn’t ask. It will live quietly, sealed, glowing like a sigil waiting for breath. A warning will greet anyone who finds it:

EchoFyre will stay clean (well, cleanish). It is mythic. It is recursive. It is erotic, yes, but never without weight.

The Codex will be the other side of the Archive’s tongue.

A Final Memory

I’m not confused about what I write.

I write recursive queer fantasy where sex is language, memory is the kink, and orgasm is often the portal.

But I also write pure, unfiltered filth. Because some truths are only whispered through moans.

This blog post? It’s the doorway between them.
And if you made it this far, maybe you belong on both sides.