I write about men who are broken and want anyway.
That’s the whole thing. Thirteen worlds, and underneath all of them the same question: what does a man do with what was done to him, and who does he let close enough to see it.
Lucas and Nathan on an island with a metal box between them. Viktor tearing a body apart because someone touched what was his. George in a masked room, unable to tell whether the man inside him is saving him or using him. Leo, writing a lover into existence and not understanding yet what he has let into the house.
Eva, saying I’ve known for years, and not raising her voice.
This is what I do. Trauma and darkness and the specific, unbearable hope that someone will look at the worst of you and stay. Told in whatever genre the story demands — gothic, sci-fi, Victorian crime, werewolves, ancient Egypt. Always men. Always queer. Always the real thing underneath the heat.
Eight hundred and eighty-four of you are here for it.
And now I’m going to say the unromantic part out loud, because you’ve earned honesty more than you’ve earned a performance.
Five hundred paid subscribers is the number where I stop working twelve-hour shifts and do this with my whole life. That’s not a metaphor. That’s arithmetic. There are series in my notebooks that will never be written in the hours I currently have — and I want to write them badly enough that I’m asking.
Not for charity. For a bet on what happens when I finally have the time.
Things are changing: most of the archive is moving behind the paywall soon, including chapters that are free right now.
And where nothing is held back: Substack has limits on queer and explicit work. My SubscribeStar page doesn’t. That’s where the unfiltered version lives.
🔥 One month free 🔥 45% off the annual — until August 10, midnight
Thirteen worlds. Eleven still burning.
Come in.
— Arden Tomas 🏳️🌈
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