Sebastian Nothwell on Right Here Write Queer

A new episode of Right Here, Write Queer just dropped! You can listen in your favorite podcast app.

On today’s episode, cozy magical realism author Tess Carletta interviews me, Sebastian Nothwell. We chat about body autonomy, escaping into queernormative worlds, and the parallels between English country house life and the isolation aboard ship in the age of sail.

Our other episodes will introduce you to…

• Tess Carletta, cozy magical-realism author of Kit & Basie and its recently-released sequel, Patchwork.
• Sarah Wallace, author of the Regency fantasy novel Letters to Half Moon Street and co-author of Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms.
• Noah Hawthorne (also writing as Aelina Isaacs), author of the fantasy novel Phantom and Rook: When An Immortal Falls In Love With A Witch as well as The Rebel Foxes: The Sirione Chronicles: The Dome.
• Luna Daye, author of the epic high fantasy series The Thoraius Saga and the romantasy series The Fated Fae.
• Carolina Cruz, author of the gothic horror romance Blood in the Water and the fantasy series The Creed of Gethin.
• Sarah Whalen, author of the contemporary ace romance novel This Doesn’t Mean Anything.
• R.K. Ashwick, fantasy author of the Lutesong series and A Rival Most Vial: Potioneering for Love and Profit
• S.O. Callahan, author of the historical fantasy novel Fella Enchanted and co-author of Breeze Spells and Bridegrooms

Our intro episodes will be rapid-releasing every Monday-Wednesday-Friday, and our regular topic episodes will come out every week after that.

This project has been many months in the making and I’m so thrilled to finally be able to share it with you – thank you for listening!

Solar Fantasy – Aubrey & Lindsey Retold – Ch. 7 up on Patreon!

Scene 7 of Solar Fantasy – Aubrey & Lindsey Retold is up on my Patre♡n! Wherein Aubrey realizes precisely who he dallied with at the party. Please enjoy this sneak peek and join me for more.

“Apparently the prince met someone at the party and is absolutely besotted.”

Aubrey, who’d spent the last few moments trying and failing to remember which prince was called Lindsey, felt a growing unease at this. “Oh?”

“Yes. So besotted, in fact, that he failed to learn the man’s name. He’s turned to Graves for help with the matter. And Graves went down the whole guest list, searching for anyone who matches the description Prince Lindsey gave, or anyone who saw such a person at the party. Several people have claimed to, of course, but Graves has discredited their testimonies.”

Aubrey’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. “What description did the prince give?”

“That’s the funniest part. Small, dark, large eyes, sharp features. Sound familiar?” Halloway asked with a grin.

Aubrey didn’t think it very funny at all, but forced a smile.

“Finally,” Halloway continued, “Graves got so fed up with the whole business that he came to me in desperation and asked if I’d brought anyone particularly beautiful along to the party—one of my models, perhaps? And I told him no, not any of my models, but a gentleman I wish would model for me. And, upon reflection, he almost matches the description. But I cannot for the life of me imagine him taking such liberties—though I suppose the prospect of prince is a very compelling catch.”

Aubrey’s growing dread became an internal scream.

“Anyway,” Halloway said with a dismissive wave, “that’s what I told Graves. Couldn’t possibly be my man, sorry I can’t be of more help, et cetera. But isn’t it extraordinary? The mystery man is a match for you in every aspect save behaviour.”

“What does Prince Lindsey look like?” Aubrey asked.

Halloway’s mirth died on his face.

Did you want more Aubrey and Lindsey – but in a whole new world?

Joining me on Patre♡n will give you access to “drawer fic” – aka the 500k+ words worth of manuscripts that have been shelved until I figure out how to fix or finish them.

A new scene will go up every week. Missing (unwritten) scenes will be indicated by brackets describing what would probably happen if the scene were written. Example: [in this scene Aubrey and Lindsey ride a carousel]

Currently posting…
♡ the Aubrey & Lindsey solar fantasy project (mm) (90k)

See you on Patre♡n!

Sunday Snippet, 4.16.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance, Oak King Holly King – available now wherever fine books are found!

Butcher cleared his throat and held out his left hand. Dark lines wore through his weathered palm like tree-rings, and his long fingers bore more than a few calluses. It looked more like a sailor or farmer’s hand than the hand of a thespian or an aristocratic eccentric. “Tonight I join the Wild Hunt to slay the beast that has devoured the children of the Court of Moons. If you will venture out with me, I will show you that all I spake of rings true.”

This, then, was the trick. No shell hidden beneath a cup or ha’penny pulled from behind an ear. Just a fairy tale to lure Wren out of the city. To what end, he couldn’t fathom.

Yet even as his rational mind supposed that such an adventure could only end in mugging or murder, his Romantic soul stretched its withered wings and soared at the notion of leaving the suffocating fog of Staple Inn behind to venture out into the wilderness beneath the full moon.

Furthermore, if he did end up murdered, it meant he’d never have to copy out another account-book again. And if he must end in murder, Wren supposed he’d rather have a strapping specimen like Butcher slide the knife into his heart.

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Sunday Snippet, 4.9.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance collection, Tales from Blackthorn Briar, a sequel to Oak King Holly King featuring hurt/comfort and many happily-ever-afters – available wherever fine books are found!

“I’m sorry,” said Wren as their lips parted.

Shrike furrowed his brow. “What for?”

“It’s my fault you lost your chance at the white hart.”

Shrike continued staring at him for another moment or two. Then his hand came up to brush Wren’s hair off his brow and trail down his cheek in a tender caress.

“I did almost lose my heart,” Shrike murmured. “But he is found again, and reawakened, and now all is well.”

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Sunday Snippet, 4.2.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance, Oak King Holly King – available now wherever fine books are found!

“Larkin had fled across the countryside,” Shrike went on. “More concerned with the knights gaining on him than the path ahead, he fell through a fairy ring. He stumbled through the forest—he knew not for how long—until he heard a child wailing and followed the sound until he stumbled upon me. I remember I had fallen out down from the tree. The other fledglings had pushed me out of the nest.”

“The other fledglings?” Wren interrupted.

“Aye,” said Shrike, confused by Wren’s confusion.

Wren hesitated, not wishing to offend, before he ventured what felt like the obvious question. “Were you born a bird?”

Much to Wren’s relief, Shrike didn’t appear offended. Merely befuddled. “No.”

“But you were born in a nest,” said Wren. When Shrike confirmed this with a nod, Wren added, “From an egg?”

“Aye,” Shrike said as if no one had ever questioned it before.

Wren supposed such circumstances were common in the fae realms. That conclusion didn’t prevent his mind from reeling. “Do all fae come from eggs?”

“Some do. Others grow in flower buds, or on the under-sides of leaves, or beneath toadstools, or in hollow logs—or sometimes in bonfires or particularly sooty chimneys. And,” Shrike added with a sceptical twist of his mouth, “some are born from other fae in the same manner kits come from vixens, or a fawn comes from a doe.”

“Or as human babes come from human mothers,” said Wren.

Shrike’s eyes widened with dawning horror.

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Sunday Snippet, 3.26.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance, Oak King Holly King – available now wherever fine books are found!

In the moonlight, and without his hood, Wren could see Butcher’s ears quite clearly. Now there was no mistaking them for waxwork. He could see, as well, the black woollen tunic Butcher wore and how it clung to his muscular frame, tied off with a belted leather gyrdel at the waist and hanging down not much farther than that. Nothing covered Butcher’s thighs save medieval hose, likewise black, and his black cavalier boots came up to his knees; a motley assortment of costuming eras in a monochromatic assembly.

Wren shut his mouth but kept on staring in wide-eyed wonder at his new surroundings. He’d never seen so many stars in his life. Had seen none, in fact, since he’d moved to London. The silence was new to him as well. Moreso than the muffled angles of Staple Inn, the forest had no wagons rattling endlessly over cobblestones, no people shouting, no bells ringing, none of the millions of incidental human sounds that tumbled all on top of each other every minute in the city. Just the rustling of pine needles in the wind.

Then he heard it.

An eerie sound, a howl that began low and swooped upward to end in a triumphant blast that echoed throughout the forest as if from miles off. A hunting horn.

Butcher took hold of the stag’s antlers and dug his knees into its flanks. The stag leapt off once more, darting to and fro between the trees at harrowing speed, along no path Wren could perceive. He clung to Butcher’s waist, his chest flush with Butcher’s spine, the closest embrace he’d known in more years than he cared to count.

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Sunday Snippet, 3.19.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance, Oak King Holly King – available now wherever fine books are found!

The terrible impact rang out across the field like a thunderbolt cleaving a tree in twain.

Wren’s hands flew to his mouth. The crowd leapt and cheered, surging in a bloodthirsty tide. The young man amidst the milkmaids let out a particularly gruesome guffaw. Wren didn’t dare breathe. It seemed the world had ceased turning the instant the blow fell.

The sword had struck Shrike in the side. The Holly King’s blade came away crimson. And the horrible noise, the crunch of metal against boiled leather and bone—

But Shrike rolled.

At first it seemed as though the force of the blow had thrown him aside, but as Wren watched him tumble, he realized Shrike had purposefully dodged. Not entirely, not quite fast enough for that, but dodged all the same, and when his feet came under him again he staggered upright.

And Wren’s hopes rose with him.

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Sunday Snippet, 1.22.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian cross-class romance, Mr Warren’s Profession, featuring hurt/comfort and a happily-ever-after – available now wherever fine books are found!

Aubrey felt a slight pressure on his thigh. He glanced down to find Lindsey’s hand upon it.

He buried his initial reaction of wild, inappropriate glee deep down where Lindsey would never see it. Yet while he could hide his joy from the outside world, he couldn’t escape it within the confines of his own mind. His imagination presented a whirlwind of vignettes—Lindsey’s fingers brushing the arm of his jacket as they walked to the theatre; once inside, Aubrey taking advantage of the darkness to rest his hand in Lindsey’s lap; he and Lindsey sharing a cab home after the show, Lindsey undoing the buttons of his waistcoat, Lindsey’s mouth on his throat, Lindsey straddling him, Lindsey—

At present, Lindsey’s hand remained on his thigh. Aubrey reined in his fantasies, lest Lindsey encounter more than he’d expected there.

Or perhaps precisely what he’d expected.

Aubrey swallowed hard. Regardless of his tempting offer, Lindsey remained Aubrey’s superior. If Lindsey tired of his companionship, Aubrey would be tossed back in the gutter. The alternate possibility, that Aubrey’s own interest would wane, and Lindsey would demand continued affection as a condition of his employment, didn’t sound any more appealing. And if by some miracle a third path appeared, as the stupider parts of Aubrey’s brain hoped, wherein he and Lindsey remained inseparable in mutual bliss until the end of their days, Aubrey couldn’t conceive of a world in which he became anything more than Lindsey’s pet clerk, a filthy little secret. No. He’d moved on from that role long ago. He had no intention of returning to it now.

Then again, considering all he’d accepted from Lindsey, it looked as if he’d returned to it already.

Realising this uncomfortable truth left Aubrey with only one respectable option. He took a deep breath, gathering courage along with air, and spoke.

“Mr Althorp, I am not entirely comfortable with the position of your hand.”

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Sunday Snippet, 1.15.23

Please enjoy this Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian whaling romance, HOLD FAST – available now wherever fine books are found.

Turner took Evelyn’s wrists in his hands. Evelyn, startled, looked down at the point of contact, but made no move to resist. Truth told, he had no wish to pull away from his grip. Turner had a firm hand, sure and supportive. A touch such as Evelyn hadn’t felt in many years. He watched passively as Turner rearranged his limbs.

“Your left hand will settle onto the lady’s waist,” said Turner, placing Evelyn’s hand in accordance with his words.

Evelyn’s breath caught in his throat as his palm met Turner’s jacket. Instinct encouraged him to squeeze, to feel the flesh beneath the cloth, to pull Turner close. He ignored it.

“And your right hand,” said Turner, going on as if no untoward thoughts raced through Evelyn’s mind, “takes the lady’s left,” and here he shifted his grip, his hand palm-to-palm with Evelyn’s in a gentle hold—such soft hands, “and holds it aloft. Not down by her waist, nor up over her head, but in line with her shoulders. Allow for a slight bend of the elbow. Do not pull her arm straight out. Just hold it, thusly. You will look the lady in the eye.”

With difficulty, Evelyn tore his eyes away from the sight of Turner’s hand in his own and met Turner’s gaze.

“You will not watch your feet,” Turner continued. “Nor will you allow your glance to settle upon anything between her feet and her eyes.”

Turner’s gaze was steady as the tides—and Evelyn was just as powerless to resist its pull.

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Sunday Snippet, 1.8.23

Sunday Snippet from my gay Victorian fae romance, Oak King Holly King – available now wherever fine books are found!

“Nell reminded me,” Shrike added as Wren gazed at the mask. “I need something to disguise my oddities from mortal eyes.”

“They’re not oddities,” Wren said without even considering the matter, the words spilling forth from his heart rather than his head.

If Shrike minded, it showed neither in his face nor his speech. “I need your help to finish it.”

“How?” Wren blurted. He’d felt desperate to alleviate Shrike’s agonies since they’d begun and equally hopeless he might ever do so in his own mortal failings.

Shrike reached out his forefinger and tapped the centre of the mask’s brow, where a smooth field devoid of veins spanned between the two antler valleys. “It requires a cunning sigil.”

Wren’s unease increased. Even after all the hours they’d spent in each other’s company, hours in which Wren thought it woefully apparent his own mortal skill couldn’t hold a candle to Shrike’s fae mastery, Shrike thought him some manner of wizard. “What ought it to look like?”

“I know not,” said Shrike. “I’ve no gift for glamour. I’m ill-accustomed to seeming anything other than what I am.”

Wren had spent more than three decades disguising his truest self from society’s judgment. Shrike could not have chosen a more experienced practitioner in the art of deceit.

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