#she/they/it for sawbones

[strangeandinteresting]

I think I've posted these guys before, but I tweaked their refs so I'm POSTING THEM AGAAAAAIN! My StEx OCs! If anyone wants to talk or ask about them my DMs are open, I love my babies! Close ups on makeup under the cut because I'm proud of it;

[tacroyy]

absolute clown show at my house tonight trying to put the baby down to sleep. truly a scene ripped from a third of the way through a terrible 80s parenting comedy.

(context: so my baby recently started producing melatonin! yay for adult sleep pattern development! however, as such, their brain is like, hey. Hey. HEY. this is DIFFERENT. what’s going ON here. I Have Concerns! which is The Four Month Sleep Regression: your baby forgot how to sleep/connect their sleep cycles and needs a week or two to figure that out again, and in the meantime, they will argue vociferously that sleep is Unnecessary, they will awake at the smallest change in sensation, and as a bonus they are also developing object permanence, which— lmaoooo they’re awake again. hold please. — okay. success. … listen, just trust me. object permanence is def related to sleep. anyway.)

The Shitshow as follows:

strike one: they finally fall asleep, i get them in The Correct Hold (due to how muscles work on a basic level, i cannot hold them and soothe them in the same way i need to hold them to put them in their bassinet), i make it to the bedroom, and— i step directly on the dog. extensive scrambling from all parties. retreat to nursery to regroup.

strike two: despite being a true classic of the genre, the least said about this one the better. i farted so loud it woke the baby up. sigh. already in nursery so no need to retreat for regrouping, other than emotionally.

strike three: asleep, correct hold, exercise ball disengagement (fun fact: exercise balls stick to your butt and make noise to unstick!), make it into bedroom across creaky-ass floor, weight transfer (you don’t just put baby down into bassinet. lmao pls. you must lean your body over them and press them into you, then lower them down so that vertical movement doesn’t trigger any reflexes), place gently on bassinet, begin Right Hand Disengagement Protocol (leave left hand under neck bc warm, slowly move right hand from butt to supporting legs and gently place legs down so that leg twitches do not trigger reflexes), hook baby in place (we have a snoo, and frankly it paid for itself on the second night of her life by immediately giving us a full four hours of sleep, and the rest is just bonus), turn on rocker, begin Left Hand Disengagement Protocol, the last step!!!, and— miscalculate location of head, basically dropping baby’s cheek heavily on the bed, so quite reasonably they’re like WTF WHOS DROPPING MY FACE AND WHY, SCREAM, retreat to nursery to regroup.

they’ve been asleep for a full eleven minutes now! their second longest sleep so far this evening 🥲 im going to try to sleep myself. wish me So much luck.

[thesealfriend]

been hooked on the Sawbones podcast for the past few weeks and thankfully there's like a decade of backlog for me to get through, unfortunately I keep having to skip episodes because they're live show recordings (different audio sitch, crowd noises) or the weird MaxFun switcheroo (different hosts) and as much as I would love to engage with this content, apparently podcasts are the one place I get Too Autistic For Change

[rowenabean]

sometimes patients tell you something and you're like OH I KNOW THIS ONE IT'S AN EXAM QUESTION

[transgenderdragons]

she is the ONLY one who gets me

[harrowharkwife]

had a quick lil menty b this morning 👍 doing better now tho

[otherside-picnic]

Really though, who doesn't own a kettle?

[araccoonthatlikesmurder]

@tomscryingcorner

a little personal response / tribute to "here's the life i've always longed for" by Anna Haifisch. the original means so much to me, and even though it's hard, I feel like every day i'm making more steps toward finally being on the other side of that fence <:)

[unsoundedcomic]

Whumptober 2024 - 07 - "Only For Emergencies"

New Tawhoque was a dangerous place for Ssaelit, but if a woman knew just what crooked street to turn down and upon which unmarked door to knock, she might find a sanctuary or two open to those of the Way.

This one was a public house (semi-private house, really, they did not allow Gefendur) called Arbert's. A woman slipped its heavy front door closed behind her and pretended she didn't notice the wall of eyes move to sweep across her from the bar. Finding the newcomer hidden beneath a dumpy rain slicker and a waterproof bonnet, the collective gaze rolled back towards their whispered conversations and their glasses of imported beer. She chose a hightop in the corner, asked for a cheap pour of Trieste, and unwrapped her hand to see if the bleeding had stopped.

"They cut your finger off," a male voice observed behind her. She jumped a foot in the air, then collapsed forward over the injury to hide it from him.

"It is nothing!" she said.

"It is nothing now," he agreed, "But until recently I think it was your right index finger."

"Oh, why do you care? Did you want it?"

She turned. Her shoulders hunched even higher to discover an unreasonably tall man looking down at her, his face half a void of shadow. "Perhaps," he admitted at length. The words sounded strange. Artificial. Pymaric? What a strange thing to say, and in what a strange voice to say it! "Which of the gangs have you crossed?"

"I did not 'cross' any of them!" Her head lashed back and forth in pain, then anger. "I am a good and honest woman! I went to the constabulary! I went to report all my hens dead!"

"O-oh!" He seemed to suddenly lose a foot of height, shocked. Perhaps he loved animals too?

She continued: "I think my neighbour's hounds had at them in the night. One of the constables said it would cost thirty sem for them to go and investigate the scene. I pointed my finger in his face and called him a villain. Then he said he would have that finger, and before I knew it he had nipped it free with a spell! Have you ever heard of such a thing? That is not how policing works!"

"Naught works in the expected manner here," the stranger whispered. For all his prior forwardness, he suddenly seemed to be avoiding the sight of her gory hand. "I… am afraid I can be of no help confronting the local lawmen, but I would happily pay for your drink and direct you towards a more honest physician than the twin-eating sawbones you will find on the high street."

His voice was unnervingly tinny, but there was warmth there. In spite of her anxiety and her throbbing hand, she tried to wind down. She hadn't been in town very long but even the Ssaelit she had tried to befriend were standoffish. She was beginning to understand why. Sharteshane was a land of traps and predators; everyone was waiting to see what you had, and if you were strong enough to protect it. Why she had supposed the law would be different, now seemed beyond her. A final illusion shattered.

"Is it still raining?" he prompted when she took too long to decide on an answer. "It is forever raining here. It is as though the city must be kept wet, or its amphibian skin will crack open."

"And out will pour the bloody flies," she agreed, removing her coat. It had done little good. The clothing beneath was sodden, draping, and she coloured to realise how prominently her bosom rose. Oh, dear, her nipples were visible too. These cheap Sharteshanian weaves simply did not reflect her patterns correctly-

Now it was the stranger's turn to give a start! He shuddered and stumbled away as though burnt. Had it been the fly remark that had disturbed him? He was surely scandalized to hear such language from an Aldishwoman. Of course he would be! Soon she would be a ribald Sharte, all cusses and swears-

Ach, no, no. He was trying not to look at her chest. A gentleman! Of course.

"You must forgive me, sir! I dove into the rain after the attack without first buttoning my slicker and… and…" Her good hand fumbled at her bonnet, slipped it free of her head so he could see her earnest green eyes. Oh, a mistake! Now he would see she was a Soud, and hate her-

He stumbled again, struck, and grabbed at his midsection! Then from her eyes to her hair his attention alighted once more upon her missing digit.

"What is it?" she demanded, "Are you ill? What is wrong with you!"

"D-did you keep your finger?" he sputtered, almost wailed, "Or did the constable take it?"

"What a question! You monster! Bartender!"

"Bartender!" he echoed, "Aye, please bring to me my emergency order! I require my emergency order!"

A moment's pause, and a broad-shouldered Bronze suddenly jumped the bar. He was nearly seven feet tall, with a touch of the Glut about him. A steaming hot bar towel was in his grasp. The stranger grabbed it, two-fisted it with all the alacrity of a drowning man reaching for a watertight coffin. Then she swore she heard a hiss as his impossibly perfect white teeth bit down upon it hard. When he started gnawing it like the hounds last night had surely gnawed at her poor hens, she flew from the pub, never gathering the courage to ask if he'd been the one to leave nothing in that coop but two beaks and a pile of bloody feathers.

[sporadicthingcollection]

Smash or Pass: Part 1/4 (LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader)

Summary: It's the last stop before the Grand Line and you slink away for a quiet evening. The universe, however, decides to clown on you. Sequel to Kiss, Marry, Kill. Pairing: LA!Buggy the Clown x F!Reader Rating: Semi-explicit. Warnings: Alcohol, death threats, implied threat of sexual assault. Word Count: ~3.1k.

Mama told me what I should know

"Too much candy's gonna rot your soul

If she loves you, let her go'

Cause love only gets you down!"

---

PART 1: In which you are threatened with a knife, a gun, and a good time.

You thought the night would be fine. You thought no one in this bar would bother you. You thought you’d have a little nightcap or three and head back to the ship. You thought you’d have one last night to spend on your own before sharing a small space with five other people for the foreseeable future.

But nothing worked out as you’d hoped.

As soon as you got comfy at a table in the corner, a horde of rough-looking sailors descended and lit up the place. Loud. Rowdy. Obnoxious.

Ugh. At least they’re not Marines. You can lay low. Sink deep in your chair and focus on your drink.

Gazing into the scrying beer glass, you let your mind wander among the swirls. Thoughts ebb and flow.

Like how you need to remember to get more sutures before you cast off. Or how heavy your fingers feel under all the jewelry. How naked your ring fingers look with no adornment. Your family would be nagging you to get married by now. They’d like Sanji.

But they wouldn’t like that stupid, stupid clown.

He’s been on your mind a lot lately. You hate it. But how could he not be? Made you an offer you had to refuse. You tell yourself it wouldn’t have worked out. Where was he last month when you were looking for an escape? You hope you never see him again.

…but if you did see him again, you wouldn’t complain. He’d probably sidle up to you and say something like—

“Well, hello, gorgeous."

Yeah, that's exactly what he would say.

Wait. That was loud. That wasn’t your thoughts. It can’t be. You turn. 

Buggy the Clown grins at you. “Fancy meeting you here, Miss Sawbones."

You dive to the floor as he pulls a knife from his sleeve and throws it at you, sinking up to the handle in the wall. You clamber to your feet, put on your best snarl, and raise your fists.

All eyes are on you and Buggy as you size him up. The clink of chains and scrape of drawn swords sounds all around you. You’re not sure who your allies are, but you’re grateful for the support.

Especially because there’s just as many goons behind Buggy. He looks as surprised as you feel. His stance softens as he glances around. You could get a punch in while his guard is down—

“Hey!”

A gravelly voice splits the very air of the room. Like a child caught in the cookie jar, you freeze. You’re in big trouble.

Buggy freezes too. His shoulders hunch and his eyes go wide. He glances at you, and then to the side. You look in the same direction.

Standing behind the bar is a stout woman in an apron. A cigar dangles from her lips and she wields a wicked glare. Along with a very, very large shotgun.

She points at a big sign hung above the shelves. NO FiTiN IN DaH baR in big red letters on weathered wooden planks.

“‘No fittin’…?'” Buggy mutters.

“If you’re gonna kill each other,” the matron says, “do it outside.”

Due to a sudden lapse in self-preservation, you speak up. “He started it—“

Everyone jumps as she fires into the ceiling. “And I’m ending it. Get along or get out.”

You glance at Buggy. He glances back. You can see the whites of his eyes, even from all the way over here. Slowly, he replaces his knives back into his jacket.

You lower your fists, feeling awful sheepish.

The bar matron nods. “Back to your drinks, all of you,” she says. 

You can’t help but feel a little embarrassed as the crowd disperses. You can read. You’re very literate. How’d you miss that?

“Guess we both need glasses,” Buggy says right next to your ear.

You jump and nearly swing on him again, but you pull the punch. You have no interest in being shot tonight. “What the hell are you doing here?!”

“Getting a drink, same as you. Last stop before the Grand Line.” His voice dips low and he leans in close. “And last chance I’ll likely get to cut you and your little captain’s throats.”

You scowl. “Over my dead body,” you growl.

“That’s the idea.” The matron clears her throat loudly. He flinches and pulls back, but the glare remains. “Once you leave, babe— snnckt!” He draws his finger across his throat and his head rolls off his shoulders and into his arms. You yelp and he cackles as he puts it back.

Well, now you’re in it. This wouldn’t have happened if you stayed on the ship, you dumb lush. You could have just drank with Zoro. Or shot the shit with Usopp while he shot at shit. Or let Sanji hit on you while you sharpened his knives. Literally anything would have been better than this.

But here you are. Time to get yourself out of it. Somehow.

"Well, I’m not going anywhere," you tell Buggy. You sit back down at your table. "So get comfy, clown."

He places his hat on the table and plops into the seat across from you. He snatches up the mug -- your mug -- and takes a long, long, long pull. He tips his head all the way back, throat bobbing with every swallow.

You try and fail to drag your eyes away. You like sharp throats.

When it's drained, he slams it back down on the table. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and how he doesn't smudge his makeup, you'll never know.

“Don’t mind if I do.” He kicks up his boots onto the table. “So what’re we drinkin’? Rum? Ale? Whiskey? Bet you’re a rum kinda gal.”

This is gonna be a night.

---

One bottle in. You glower at him and he smiles back, eyes twinkling in the dim light.

Second bottle. The sun is fully down. He’s started chattering about nothing and everything. Rage roils inside you.

Third bottle. The room slowly spins. He’s still talking. You might leave just so you can strangle him.

Fourth bottle. You flip him the bird. He just giggles.

Fifth bottle. You mix it up a bit and order some shots. The matron brings the glasses and leaves the bottle. 

“Hey, the good shit.” Buggy pours two glasses and raises one. “Cheers.”

Something bubbles up in your chest. The urge to speak. You’re gonna say something stupid. You just know it. And you’re just lubricated enough that it slides through. 

You raise your glass. “Another day, another bender. No retreat, no surrender.” You toss it back and it scorches your throat on its way down.

Your head is so full of cotton that it takes you a moment to notice the laughter. Strong. Sharp. Bellyful. Contagious. You like that laugh. You’d like to hear more of it.

And then you realize it’s coming from Buggy. He has his head tossed back and his eyes scrunched and he’s letting out the most glorious laughter you’ve ever heard.

Before you can be properly disgusted with yourself, he recovers. “I got one.” He pours another pair of shots and slides one to you. “Here’s to our wives and girlfriends. May they never meet.”

Two more shots tossed back and two more glasses slammed on the table. It’s all going right to your head and the more it does, the more you’re enjoying yourself.

“Everyone knows that one,” you say. You pour. “One drink is good, two at the most. Three I’m under the table, four I’m under the host.”

His eyebrows shoot up, lips pursed into a circle. Then he laughs again. “Workin’ blue tonight! Alright!” Two more shots poured. “It ain’t the length, it ain’t the size, it’s how often I can make it rise.”

You weren’t expecting that and you almost spit the shot out. You hack and sputter as it goes down the wrong pipe, but you recover.

Though now you’re thinking about Buggy’s dick. You should probably stop that. You wonder if it’s small and that’s why he is how he is.

“Y’alright, babe?” He takes a pull right from the bottle and spills some on his chin and shirt. He’s sauced too. Small comfort.

One more comes to mind. You reach across and snatch the bottle. “Now he lays me down to screw.” You pour one shot. “I pray this clown knows what to do.” You pour the other. “If he should cum before I end…” You raise yours. “I swear to God I’ll fuck his friend!”

He stares at you a moment, grinless, just long enough for you to worry. And then it returns with a howling cackle. He slams his glass into yours hard enough to slosh some whiskey out and you both shoot it back.

You stare at each other, giggling like hyenas. Some part of you knows this is ridiculous. You’re getting smashed with a guy who tried to kill you and your friends. Who was just ready to kill you. Who is plotting to slit your throat right when you’re not expecting it.

You just laugh harder. What’s your life come to?

You come back down to see him staring at you, head resting on his hand. "You laugh cute."

“Nuh-uh.” You take a swig from the whiskey bottle. “I laugh like a News Coo.”

“News Coos are adorable!” He snatches the bottle back and takes a pull. “We switchin’ back to rum after this one? Or do we wanna get avden— abvench— adventurous?”

A good question. "Let's go nuts."

"My kinda woman!" He slams the table to catch the matron's attention. "Bring us something strong!"

---

Bottle six is gin. Neither of you like it and you both down the whole thing. Bottle seven, you're back to ale.

On eight, you wonder if the throat-cutting threat was a ruse and he's really just going to give you alcohol poisoning.

At least it's a fun way to go.

"So there I am," Buggy says, "looking at the giant hole in the hull where the cannon once was, holding a cannonball like this--" He jumps to his feet, pops his head off, and clutches it to his chest like it weighs fifty pounds. "--when the first mate himself walks in."

Your jaw drops. "What'd you do?"

"Only thing I could do.” He pauses for dramatic effect. “Threw the cannonball at him!"

He lobs his head to you. You squeal in surprise, just barely managing to catch him before you fall out of your chair. The giggles flow from you like water from a spigot.

He grins as you look at him. "Gotcha," he says with a wink.

Maybe it's the booze. Maybe it's the surprise. Your cheeks heat up all the same. You throw the head back and clamber to your feet.

A moment of clarity hits you as you sit back down. "Why are we drinking together? You wanna kill me."

"It's not that weird. Best drinkin' buddies I ever had tried to kill me. When I tried to skip out on the tab, but... y'know." He takes a gulp from his mug. "’Sides, I like you."

"Why?"

“Barber. Cute laugh. Helluva haymaker." Another swig. “You'd do better with me than that group of losers."

"I am not joining your crew."

He watches the ale swirl in his mug, tracing the rim with his fingers. His lips purse and he glances everywhere but your face.

You try to wait for him to speak, but music catches your attention before he can reply. A lively tune, one perfect for dancing. It looks like some of the pirates pulled out instruments and are entertaining their fellows.

"Aw, I love this song," you chirp. “Luffy’s right, we gotta get us a musician already.”

A chain of dancers sails past. You wish you could hop in, but you’ve got two left feet in ill-fitting high heels when you’re sober on a good day.

Buggy watches you watch them. “Go cut a rug. I’ll watch your shit.”

You shake your head a little too hard and the universe spins. “No way. Can’t dance worth a damn.”

“I’ll give you a hand.” His left hand detaches with a little flourish. “Or two.” Off goes the other one. “Or all of me, if you want.”

“Then who’s gonna watch my shit?”

He blinks, then sits back. “Whatever. I gotta piss anyways,” he mutters. He tries to stand, only for his feet to slip out from under him. “Can I get a hand?”

“Alright, but I’m not helping you aim.” You’re less sober than he is, but you’re drunk enough to try. Hauling yourself to your feet, you offer your hand. He takes it, pulling himself upwards.

And then you see the smile on his face. In a burst of coordination, he pulls you into the throng of people.

Oooooh no. No. No no no. He whirls you around, making your head spin. You step on someone’s foot. “I. Cannot. Dance.”

“Can’t?” He lifts you up, moves you to the side, and places you down again. “Or won’t?”

“Both!”

“Bullshit. Hand here.” He plants your hand on his shoulder and places his own on your—

You slap the smile off his face. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your point. He accepts it.

“Sorry, thought you were shorter,” he mutters. He puts his hand on your waist. Even through his glove, you can feel his warmth. “Stand on my feet.”

“I’m not a child!” You try to pull away, only to collide with a very large man and get knocked back into Buggy. You’re trapped. No way out but to dance.

You know what? Fine. You stand on his feet — making sure to stamp his toes good — and glower at him. “What’s next?”

The smile returns. “Hold on tight, sweetheart.”

You clutch him as tight as you dare. And thank God you do, because soon you’re spinning like a top.

He guides you over and under, side to side, forward and back. And you don’t trip once. Neither of you do. You don’t even feel nauseous. How is he doing this? Is he magic? Is he just that good?

You glance down. Detached from his ankles, his feet support yours as they scoot around. The rest of him glides through the air, guiding you among the other dancers.

It might as well be magic.

"Light off your feet!" you say.

Buggy's chest thrums with a chuckle. Your stomach jumps into your throat as he drops you into a dip just long enough for him to wink at you. "Ain't I clever?"

He pulls you back up and your stomach slides into your boots. The dance continues.

Whirling, twirling, ducking, weaving, bouncing, bobbing… Is this what a dolphin feels like, swirled around by ocean currents? Or a kite, floating on the breeze? Or a princess swept off her feet by a dashing scoundrel?

Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, you ponder what your life has come to. A pirate, dancing on the feet of a clown who tried to kill you and your friends. Who then stole several kisses from you and made your heart flutter and got really drunk with you and now you're a little in lo--

No. Don't say it. If you don't say it, it won't come true. Unless it's the other way around?

It is the other way around. If you say it, you'll jinx it and it won't happen. So you admit it to yourself: you're smitten with this psychotic jackass.

The laughter bubbles forth and it just won't stop. You don't want it to stop. You never want this to stop. This feeling, this dance, this fit of hysterics.

But it must, as all things do. With one final fiddle run, the music stops and everyone applauds. You would join them, but you’re too busy holding onto Buggy for dear life, catching your breath and trying to stop the room from spinning.

“Can’t dance, huh?”

He’s as breathless as you, mouth parted as he takes breaths deep enough to shake his shoulders. Sweat glistens on his face. Glows, even. A few shimmering strands of hair have slipped from his bandanna and stick to his forehead.

What little breath you’ve recovered vanishes from your lungs. Your heart flutters — no, it flaps, like a gull fighting a gust.

You wanna kiss him, but that last shred of self-restraint stops you. “Let’s go again,” you say instead.

His face lights up. “Lemme-- Lemme get rid of this.“

His forearms slip out of his coat and fly to his shoulders, catching his coat as he shrugs out of it. They zip over toward your table. Pretty slick, you admit to yourself.

And then it gets caught on a chair. The arms yank and yank, but it’s snagged good. You giggle.

“C’mon, you piece of…!” He huffs. He pecks your cheek. “Don’t go anywhere.”

He scrambles over to the snag, tripping on every table and chair along the way.

And then you realize he kissed you. Your spine goes rigid.

A tap on your shoulder knocks you out of your stun and you turn. You half-expect it to be one of his hands, but a rather large pirate is there.

“My captain fancies you,” he rumbles. He nods at a smug-looking blond with the worst come-hither face you’ve ever seen. “He would like the pleasure of your company.”

Nnnnno, you think. “Nnnnno,” you say. Buggy has freed his coat and is draining the rest of the bottle you’d abandoned. “Already spoken for.”

The man’s hand engulfs your shoulder and pulls you around. “It wasn’t a request.”

The blond snakes his arm around your trunk, his hand going to your breast. You try to pull away, but the goon’s grip is like iron.

A sharp whistle makes everyone turn. Buggy stands there, arms behind his back. His expression is neutral, but you see his clenched jaw and the bulging tendon in his neck.

“And where are you going with my leading lady?” He’s got the showman voice on. “Our number isn’t over.”

The captain smiles. “I’ll return her once we’ve had our fun,” he says.

He takes a few meandering steps towards them. “Look, gentlemen: we can play this as a tragedy or a comedy. Your choice.”

The goon straightens up. He cracks his knuckles with a chorus of pops. The captain draws a rapier. You’re not sure how well a Chop Chop man handles being stabbed.

Buggy glances between the two of them, nonplussed. “Comedy it is.”

Two disembodied hands slam a bottle over each man’s head. Shards of glass and drops of rum fly everywhere. The pirates’ grips go slack, and you jump away as they hit the floor with dull thuds.

Chaos erupts.

---

⬅⬅⬅ | To the "Curious Courtship" Masterpost | To the Mastahpost | To the Tip Jar | ➡➡➡

[malcolmschmitz]

REVIEW: THE VICAR MAN

Okay, so, I finished @ameliahcrowley 's THE VICAR MAN. I promised to leave an Amazon review but Amazon won't let me. So in the spirit of our agreement, I'm leaving a review somewhere and figuring out Amazon later.

TLDR: The Vicar Man is good! I liked it! If you like funny historical fantasy you will probably like it!

So as you could probably guess from the title, The Vicar Man is a spoof of The Wicker Man, the classic folk horror movie. (It's mostly drawing from the Christopher Lee one, not the Nic Cage one, and thank goodness for that.) Dora's village worships a dark, eldritch god and sacrifices virgins to it for the good of the harvest. When a stranger comes to town- a nice young vicar who genuinely seems oblivious to the horrors at hand-

Dora can't just let him get thrown on the sacrificial pyre. She has to save this guy. And the easiest way to keep someone from being a virgin sacrifice is to make sure they're not a virgin anymore. Problem is, Dora's aro/ace, and moderately sex-repulsed. But a man's life's at stake. She sets off on a quest to seduce the Vicar, poking fun of many historical romance tropes along the way.

It might be more accurate to call this story an unromance novel than a fantasy novel- it follows all the conventions of a romance novel, down to the plot beats, but none of them quite wind up where you'd expect. This isn't a traditional love story- but it's not not a love story. This isn't a traditional horror story- but it's not not a horror story. If you're aro and/or ace, you like the idea of historical romance, but you're not here for the Love At First Sight Based Solely On Pantsfeelings? This book was made for you, specifically.

What it is is a comedy, and it's fast-paced and funny the whole way through. Dora's incredibly likeable- especially if you're a snarky, nerdy bluestocking, or if you've left a high-control religious group- and her inner monologue never fails to please. Norman, the titular vicar, is a sad, wet cat of a man, a poor little meow meow, adorable and kind and So Very Doomed. The relationship between the two of them - well, I shan't spoil things, but I thought it was delightful.

This book has one quality that didn't always gel with me- the language sits a bit wrong for a historical, even one that's set in the year "uh. well. there's probably a king? named George?". There's a fair bit of Tumblr dialect sprinkled through here- in particular there's a handful of jokes that revolve around 21st century feminist terms, sometimes deliberately using them for a jarring and inappropriate effect. And sometimes it hit right, but sometimes it didn't do it for me. I'm oversensitive to language, though- heck, I invented an entire goddess for one setting so I wouldn't have to use 'modern' trans language in a setting where it doesn't belong!- and it probably won't bug most people.

Overall, I really enjoyed the time I spent with THE VICAR MAN- I'd recommend it if you like funny historical fantasy, if you'd enjoy reading a sendup of Gothic romances and folk horror, or if you like the idea of an aro/ace unromance novel. I'd especially recommend it if you like The Misadventures of Sawbones and Its Menagerie- the narrator, Dora, has a very similar narrative voice. They share that 'outwardly quiet and polite, but with a constant snarky inner monologue' energy.

Strong recommend, and thanks to the author for the review copy!

[spawksstuff]

The John Davidson Show aired June 8 1982 - De's Parts

Long transcript below. The whole interview is on YouTube. It's very funny.

John: DeForest Kelley has appeared in classic motion pictures like- think back- “Gunfight at OK Corral,” “Raintree County” plus numerous television appearances among others, “Gunsmoke,” “Bonanza.” Generally a bad guy, a villain, however his most popular success has been the outspoken, somewhat cynical but thoroughly likeable Doctor Leonard “Bones” McCoy. Find out what the “Bones” stands for when we meet him. His name is DeForest Kelley. Welcome!

John: What does “Bones” stand for?

De: First, I wore these glasses because I want to see something. You really are a good-looking devil. Handsome, isn’t he?

Bibi: He sure is.

John: What does “Bones” stand for, just going right on? What does-

De: Bones. Bones is an old, old country expression for “doctor”. They used to call them “sawbones” 

John: Oh yeah.

William: We were going to call him “saw.”

John: That’s too obvious for outer space.

De: Obviously the captain would pick up on that and call me “Bones”

John: I see. Did you make that up on the set or that’s-no?

William: I don’t remember how I got that.

De: I don’t either.

John: It was written in there?

De: I think maybe Bill threw that in. I don’t know.

John: You’re always arguing with Mr. Spock on the show. You’re always saying things like “I’m a doctor, I’m not a..”

De: I dislike him terribly, that’s the reason. We don’t agree on many things. Of course it’s a very simple explanation for it. Spock has no emotions, McCoy does so we- Bill ends up being the referee between us. So that’s the way that developed.

John: Might Spock change? Is it true that Spock-

Leonard: Spock change? To please him?

John: Isn’t it true that Spock actually writes poetry or something, what did you tell me? Or is about to write poetry and become emotional and romantic? No? Where did I read that?

Leonard: Sounds like a great idea. I don’t know where you read that.

John: No? Alright, so he’s going to be that same guy. Is there a love-thinking back to the original series, series, Spock never had a love interest right, except that one time in seven, seven years? But there were no romantic interests?

Leonard: No as a matter of fact there was one episode that was a love story for Spock. It was with Jill Ireland.

John: Really?

Leonard: And it was pretty tough playing the scenes because she’s a very attractive and interesting lady who happens to be married to Charlie Bronson.

John: Really?

Leonard: Who was on the set all the time.

William: Carrying a large stick.

John: But Bones had a love interest, just one.

De: One, just one. So I-

John: Why not more?

De: If you think that he was in heat, what once in seven years think about my situation. One time. I don’t know, the captain was the stud on the show and uh…

John. Heyyy!

William: If you can’t win at “Battle of the Network Stars” you might as well have a lot of things going on.

John: Be an outer space stud.

De: He got all the action but he had to leave them on the planet, that was the thing.

John: Well, maybe that’s ok.

William: Planet hopping.

John: Well, bye I have to go now. Lotta guys would love an excuse “my ship is waiting” you know. I have heard about Star Trek conventions. I’ve never been to one. Tell me what that is.

De: Well it’s really no more than a gathering of several thousand fans who come to see us on these occasions and they-

John: How did these get started?

De: I don’t know. Someone had-intended to have a very small gathering of about 200 fans in New York at one time and I think around a thousand showed up. So they decided to do it again and I think the next time 5000 showed up and then it began to grow you know.

John: Once a year?

De: Well, no. There are any number of them going on

John: Oh all over the country?

De: Yeah.

John: And they stay for three or four days is that-?

De: Yeah about three days

John: Bibi have you ever been to one of these?

Bibi: No I haven’t. But I’ve heard so much about them, I’d love to go on one of those

(unintelligible)

De: There’s a huge one that’s gonna take place in Houston in June and when I talked to the fellow last I think he had something like twenty-thousand advance for it already

John: Where in Houston because this show will air in June right after the movies- by the way Star Trek II premieres June the 4th at a theater near you around the county. Yes?

De: It’s going to be held at the Summit I believe is the name of the place.

John: At the Summit in Houston.

De: In Houston.

John: Now what do you do at these? Bill what do you do at these conventions?

De: We dance and sing and play musical instruments and that sort of thing.

Bibi: You don’t-?

De: No we don’t.

John: Well you guys-

De: Bill will tell you.

John: Bill?

William: Well I’ve gone to about a half a dozen over the years and we sit and talk to the audience just about-like this. Much more interesting than this I think.

John: Do they know more about the series than you do? Is it trivia time?

William: Well I don’t’ remember the series at all. I’m too busy concentrating on what the next question is here and the plots go out of mind. I don’t remember I- truly have no- vague recollection of memories

De: They know the dialogue verbatim on some of them.

John: It’s something we’re going to talk about when we come back. First of all you’ll meet Nichelle Nichols and James Doohan, but the series was a long time ago and these guys really don’t remember that much about working on the series whereas we see it in reruns

Leonard: Wait a minute. That’s what Bill said.

John: Oh Bill said that?

Leonard: He doesn’t speak for the rest of us, I remember everything.

John: Well let’s see after this break if Leonard really does remember.

<Later>

John: You guys look exactly like the way you did on the series, nobody changes here.

De: Thank you.

<Later later>

John: But you also, a sword fight I was told that you changed the sword that was used and therefore broadened the character.

George: Well you know it was suggested

Bill: It was a broad sword.

George: We made the sword

(unintelligible) 

John: You used a fencing sword instead of a samurai?

George: Samurai sword.

John: What did that mean to you? How did that change Sulu?

George: Well you know we’re in the 23rd Century and by that time there would be a lot of intercultural feeding, certainly, you know the fact that Sulu talks the way he does while looking the way he does is a personification of that and there’s no reason why an Asian looking person should not be interested in fencing. I - you know  as an Asian American actor-

Bill: Did you say “aging” or “Asian’?

George: Asian and aging both. I said maturing but.

John: If George brought that change to his character haven’t you all contributed-Leonard did the ears

Bill: He’s an older, of Japanese persuasion

Nichelle: Have you ever heard a laugh like Georges? Ah-ah-ah-ah

George: Oh-this is-it’s all downhill now.

John: DeForest?

De: On the episode that he used that sword he almost changed a few genders.

[heartfullofleeches]

Is there a yandere doctor character yet?

Zachary, Mal, Apple Milk, and Sawbones

Zachary is a quack who lost his arm, leg and a good percentage of his skin in an accident as a child. He works with my slasher/film director Yan Elliot to keep his "actors" alive until the final filming where Zachary then steals their parts to apply to himself/his prosthetics. Crazy man. In one of his first fics he took the eyes of his darling's crush because they were what Darling loved most.

Mal is my plague doctor boyo and an immortal in the same vein as my other immortal Yans Devlin and Silas where his grief/pain binded his soul to his body. Mal was infected with a parasite that slowed took over his body and later took his life. He practiced medicine in hopes of curing himself and becoming a doctor when he was alive. He still wishes to heal others, but he cannot touch them directly else he risk spreading the infection. Mal is a quiet man and the sweetest of the three. His mind and body is in an endless cycle of decaying and repairing itself due to the virus that still plagues him.

Apple Milk is the overworked doctor of the milk farm crew. They help others with milking who can't do it themselves (before Darling arrives and takes over their role), but the stress of their job comes from trying to keep the humans who enter the town alive. Between Licorice Milk eating folks and everyone else's grievings towards humans whether they be because of how close the human is to their darling or their own personality reason - majority of humans don't make it out safely. It's Apple's job to keep watch until they are healed enough for Chocolate and Milk Tea or Oat to take over and pretty much gaslighting the human into submission.

Apple is one of the kindest cow hybrids and also one of the meekest. Gets flustered extremely easily and just wants to come home to their darling's lap to sleep until the end of time.

Sawbones is the "doctor" for my haunted house gang. Kidnaps guests and turns them into her nurses/experiments. Lost an eye when she was still a guess and is still puss about it. Pretty sadistic lady, but not necessarily towards her darling unless they obey

[Zachary and Mal are He/him. Apple is they/them. Sawbones is she/they]

[podcast-official]

me making my mom listen to sawbones so that she'll understand that the mcelroys are genuinely kind and funny people just in case she realizes that mbmbam, taz, and wonderful! are all full of an almost overwhelming amount of swearing and innuendo.

thanks sydnee and justin for giving me something to vibe with my mom over.

[msmc-796-official]

Correspondences from Pilot NET #5

[BEGIN CHATLOG]

Expiritus_Sancti: ...something is not right...

70KU-N4H-W4: P! are you alright? we thought we had lost you; what's going on?

Expiritus_Sancti: Everything- everything is- Shoddy? Is that you? I-I'm alive? Oh thank RA, everything's gone to hell, it's-

calibanhammer: Slow down, Phoenix. You're still semi-dissociative. Are you okay?

Expiritus_Sancti: Y-yes, I'm fine. The Albatross got me out safe, but... it's bad. Chernobog beat me there. I was too late.

calibanhammer: Backtalker is dead, then?

Expiritus_Sancti: Presumably - Commodore's entire block was already thoroughly destroyed by the time I got there. Whatever Backtalker was looking for is obliterated by now. They succeeded.

calibanhammer: That would explain the comms blackout, then. After you went off in pursuit of that signal, there was a company-wide comms blackout for CMC - everyone lost contact with everyone. Slipshod and I had to get out of our cockpits to contact Dancer and Sawbones; they were both fine, despite the damages, but by the time we were able to talk things over, Commodore had all but disappeared from the battlefield.

70KU-N4H-W4: comms are back online now, but nobody on any side can get hold of Commodore. we think she may have blacked out comms on purpose after getting the news - it ain't good, regardless. if what Backtalker was saying was true, and what got destroyed really was her last remnant of Sylvia...

Expiritus_Sancti: ...we think Commodore went off the deep end?

70KU-N4H-W4: sure fuckin' looks like it. I think the rest of her team has too, actually - do you recall Commodore talking about how she hated being called "mercenary queen"?

Expiritus_Sancti: Vaguely; why?

70KU-N4H-W4: every motherfucker in the company is using some variant of "glory to the mercenary queen" as their sign-off now, instead of the usual "till legends bleed". real fuckin' ominous. feels like a threat, and I can't be sure it ain't also aimed at us as well as Backtalker - or, rather, the conglomerate of traitorous assholes calling themselves Backtalker

calibanhammer: Some context - Slipshod managed to trace some of those ID Expunged messages back to their sources. They all come from different areas in CMC territory. Some from public access boxes, other from personal intercomms, and still others from third-party devices. "Backtalker" isn't a person, it's a movement: in short, there's been a full infiltration of CMC right under Commodore's nose, and their revenge has finally hit home.

Expiritus_Sancti: ...Christ-the-Buddha almighty. So we've been being lied to this entire time. Fuck.

70KU-N4H-W4: not only that, but I've got word now that Z has decided to sign on with CMC right in the middle of this whole mess. (wish I was kidding, but Z's case worker is literally online discussing the details as we speak.) apparently Signal wants to hire our lawyers on to deal with whatever mess that whole ordeal is gonna come with, which just reeks of desperation and bad decisions

Expiritus_Sancti: Oh, absolutely not. Kennedi, get on call with Legal immediately; tell them to deny any and all offers made by CORSAIR Mercenary Company until we give them further notice. If they ask for details, tell them that CMC is currently compromised by internal sabotage, and anyone claiming to represent the company at this time might seek to further incriminate CMC as a legal entity.

calibanhammer: Roger that, Phoenix.

Expiritus_Sancti: As for you, Slipshod - get in touch with Command. Tell them we're coming back to base. The longer we stay here, the higher risk there is of becoming graywash fodder.

70KU-N4H-W4: way ahead of you, P - Command gave us the all-clear to disembark a while ago

Expiritus_Sancti: Phenomenal. The Albatross are busy dealing with Chernobog; hopefully they'll be alright fending it off long enough for us to get out. I can ping them later and give them a status update.

70KU-N4H-W4: ...I'm gonna assume we're calling the brawl off until further notice, then?

calibanhammer: The call has been made; Legal has been notified. At this stage, the brawl is no longer relevant - the safety of CMC and ourselves comes first. Dancer and Sawbones have already been informed as much; their damages are fixable, as are ours. For now, we mount a tactical retreat back to base and prepare for the inevitable backlash from CMC for cutting off their legal lifeline.

Expiritus_Sancti: Right. Let's get out of here. We stay any longer, and the Requiem might just turn into a graveyard.

70KU-N4H-W4: with the way things look, it might as well already be one, P. that being said - you don't think we're gonna be on call if someone's gotta take down a feral Commodore, do you?

Expiritus_Sancti: I don't know. Given how much SecCom-era technology CMC utilizes, plus whatever tech Z brings to their table... this may not be a fight we have any chance of winning.

calibanhammer: Agreed. A storm brews on the horizon; best we take shelter while we still can.

Expiritus_Sancti: ...couldn't have said it better myself. C'mon, girls. Let's go home.

[END CHATLOG]

[brood-mother]

sawbones Dragon Age Fic Masterlist

A list of all my Dragon Age fanfics (circa 2014-2018) to keep you occupied 'til Oct 31st. Mostly rarepairs, mostly smutty.

Dragon Age 2

A Little Self-Love Never Hurt Nobody Anders/Anders, E, WC: 2086; "Anders revisits a memory from his wild Circle days in a dream - and gains a whole new point of view." (selfcest, dream sex, PWP) Fructovorous Fenris/Sebastian, E, WC: 1790; "Fenris is his General on the field; behind closed doors, he’s so much more." (footplay, oral, light D/s) Pillowtalk Isabela/Bethany, T, WC: 755; "While Hawke is in the Deep Roads, a heatwave hits Kirkwall." (post-coital, cuddling, mild h/c) Rooftops Isabela/Bethany, G, WC: 931; "Bethany wants to learn how to support herself and her family." (gen, flirting) Tinpot Alley Implied Carver/Cullen, T/M, WC: 2679, "Three Templars went on patrol; one came back." (gore tw)

Dragon Age: The Last Court

Rakish, Reckless Marquis of Serault/Wayward Bard, E, WC: 3436; "The Wayward Bard takes a knife in the back to protect the Marquis. The Marquis wants to know why." (first time, angry sex, mild blood/injury)

Dragon Age: Inquisition

Many Hands Lighten the Load Dorian/m!Lavellan/Blackwall, E, WC: 7429; "All of Skyhold can see the way Blackwall looks at the Inquisitor, even if the Inquisitor himself can't. Dorian comes to realise there are better ways to handle such a situation than petty jealousy." (UST, mutual pining, friends/rivals to lovers) Rectrix Iron Bull/Zevran, E, WC: 1724; "Bull and Zevran met long before the Inquisition." (bondage, caning, forced tickling) Red Sky At Night Samson/Maddox, M, WC: 4450; "The rise of the Red General began with two men and a missed headcount; or, how Samson was lost to the Chantry and found by Corypheus." (hurt no comfort, pre-DAI) Ruby Red OFC/ OFC, E, WC: 3000; "Behemoth, they called her. Towering, terrifying. Where was Jess, under all that red? A twist of metal helm to mark where her head had been, two flat eyes that glinted in the low light. She was still there, Ruby knew it. She responded to her name, or at least to Ruby’s voice. Not any voice, just hers. Only hers." (angst, body horror, red templars)

The above works are all posted on Ao3, but there are more shorter-form fics over at my currently-defunct DA writing sideblog. Comments, kudos, asks, and suggestions for future fics are all very welcome. 🖤