#crossbow shafts

[tenth-sentence]

The arrows swerved slightly and thudded into the wall on either side of the girl.

"Incarnations of Immortality: For Love of Evil" - Piers Anthony

[redbean-nom]

design for Adult Omega

[moghedien]

lot of people online are arrow removing experts but apparently not arrow identifying experts because that’s wasn’t even an arrow

[daisychainsandbowties]

drag the stupid fletching scene on main 😌

the gay urge to see feathers wet with blood the other, gayer urge to see nynaeve go from ‘scare 🥺🥺’ to girlboss central as soon as she realises yeah gayboy you can treat the wound like a normal person oooops you did a Healing by accident

[atamascolily]

Sometimes I forget that Madoka's magical girl bow is literally a rose, and that we see it sprout and grow into its final form in its first appearance.

Homura also gets a bow in this episode, which I have always interpreted as the manifestation of her wish to remember Madoka's existence (since her old wish was rendered invalid by Madoka's becoming an eternal concept), thus becoming "Bowmura Akemi". However, it's not until it manifests in Rebellion that we see it isn't merely evocative of Madoka's bow, but its mirror.

Is the height difference between the bows significant here? I have no idea. Ditto for Madoka's bow being in bud while Homura's is in full flower.

Okay. So you remember Walpurgisnacht's trees, right? Those weird things that are mostly in the background and which are never directly commented upon or explained, but which are juxtaposed with Homura an awful lot? There's a common trope in myth, literature, and fairy tales about planting a staff into a ground and having it grow and magically turn into a tree, and now I'm wondering, Is this where Walpurgisnacht's trees come from? Because what is a bow but a curved wooden staff tied to a string....?

And yes, the bow is a rose bow (or a black rose bow), and the trees are almost certainly cherry trees, so the botany gets a little mixed, but it probably doesn't matter since a) magic and/or metaphor, and b) Madoka is associated with both pink roses and pink cherry blossoms, just like Homura is associated with black roses and bare branches, so the symbolism still works out.

This is all highly speculative, and I have no idea if this is where SHAFT is going or if it's just a coincidence, but I can't look at the bow anymore without wondering what would happen if someone stuck it in the ground, and what it might become. Especially since we may end up seeing that bow again in Walpurgis no Kaiten.

Meanwhile, back in Rebellion, Homura and Madoka appear to be doing some kind of Connect (or proto-Connect, since the Magia Record concept hadn't been fully developed yet) akin to Madoka and Mami's Tiro Duet attack earlier in the film. What's interesting about this shot is that there's no sign of black roses anywhere, which is not how Connect usually manifests in Magia Record, where the nature of the fusion is more obvious (i.e., Kyouko's spear + Iroha's crossbow becomes a giant crossbow that fires spears instead of arrows in the MR anime), but which may symbolize how Homura "blooms" in Madoka's presence.

In addition, the bow is now huge and I think it's not only what they're holding in their hands, but also the entire structure that's supporting them (which has wings!!) because you can see two sets of purple and pink jewels on either side. Maybe it's just me, but the "branches" of the structure are awfully tree-like and I can see what might be a few leafy shoots by their feet.

Also, they appear to be standing in the canopy of the cherry tree that has blossomed in Homulilly's skull with no transition whatsoever, which is why the background is abruptly pink. Which raises a question I had never considered before: is their combined bow the cherry tree itself (or a part of it)??? Is that what's happening here??

And if that's truly the case, then maybe my earlier thought about Homura's black bow somehow becoming one of Walpurgisnacht's trees isn't so far off base after all...

[a-kind-of-merry-war]

The first word of my big gay historical romance novel is SHAFTS and it just gets bigger and gayer from there.

Read the first word (and then the consecutive 5210 words*) for FREE at the link below, featuring other wonderful word examples such as PERFUNCTORY, WEDDING, THE, and ASH.

*WARNING: the above 5211 words will encourage you to leave your bride-to-be at the altar and run away with a hot guy you met in the woods. Any jilted brides, romantic roadtrips or devastating confessions of love are not the fault of the author. Yearn at your own risk. May contain crossbows.

[howtofightwrite]

I'm always a little bit (more than a bit tbh) skeptical when I see it in movies or read in books, that an archer uses their bow as a melee weapon when the enemy gets too close. I feel like using a bow like a club would not go down well with the bow.

On the other hand, a crossbow? Could you use a crossbow as a close-quarter combat weapon in a pinch? Like, whacking someone over the head and then trying to get distance between you and the enemies again.

Also I'd appreciate your 2 cents about the trope of "stabbing someone with arrows".

You really don't want to do any of those things.

So, the bow as a melee weapon runs into the issue that the limbs themselves really aren't designed to sustain blunt impacts, and even if they're made of something sturdy, there is a real potential for damage. Similarly, you don't want to damage the string. If either of these things are damaged, the weapon is basically trashed. This also applies for blocking melee attacks with a bow. In situations like that you're almost guaranteeing that the weapon will be critically damaged. Now, that could be an intentional decision, “sacrifice the bow instead of dying,” but it's rarely presented in that context, and the weapon frequently emerges unscathed (or with minor, cosmetic, damage) from these events.

Crossbows have the same problems as bows, with the additional consideration of their trigger mechanism, their winding system (if they have one), their optics (again, if they have any beyond sighting down the bolt.) Damaging any of these things will start to impair the weapon's ability to function. It doesn't mean that clubbing someone over the head with the stock would automatically break the crossbow, but there are a lot of mechanically sensitive components that could react poorly to blunt force impacts, so, it's best to avoid that entirely, and just not use it as a melee weapon.

Everything I just said about the crossbow also applies to just about any firearm more advanced than a 14th century hand cannon. Firearms do have the advantage in that they're expected to experience some kinetic kick, so it's not as simple as, “well you can't do this, or gun will break,” but as a general rule, you shouldn't do it. Clubbing someone over the head with your M4a1 shouldn't mess up your zero, it shouldn't damage your trigger mechanism, it shouldn't affect the firing pin, but you still shouldn't do it, because there is a genuine risk of breaking something. There are a lot of moving parts in modern firearms, and if any of those are out of place, it's not going to work right.

Ranged weapons are intended to be used at range, they're not supposed to be used as improvised clubs, and while most modern examples should be able to survive some abuse, it's still a bad idea.

Stabbing with an arrow is something I have mixed feelings on. From a realism perspective, it's not. Arrows (and bolts) are designed to be aerodynamic, you want low drag on the shaft, and that means that you're not going to get the kind of grip you would with a knife. The shaft should be smooth, and as a result, able to move through the air with ease, but that also makes it harder to manually shove it into someone.

At the same time, most arrow stabbings in fiction are examples object conservation. It's a kind of Chekhov's Gun, where the item is being completely repurposed in the moment, and that's a bit of creativity that I'm rather fond of, even when it's not completely realistic. This even extends to situations where someone's been shot with an arrow, pulls it out, and then stabs someone with it. It's biologically impossible in most cases, but it can be a well done moment that effectively plays with the objects that have already been established in the fight.

It's a little off topic here, but getting shot with an arrow (or bolt) is very different from being shot by a bullet. In the case of bullets, they tear through your musculature and (usually) exit the body. The problem is that you now have new holes, through which your blood is now seeking to escape. Being hit by an arrow will pin your muscles together in their current configuration. Think of it like running a toothpick through a stack of thinly sliced meat, the exact position of those slices is now fixed in relation to one another. The problem is, your muscled don't move together. They're multiple layers of meat moving over one another, and when you skewer that, you cannot change the relative position of those muscles. Meaning, getting shot with an arrow will lock up portions of your body, preventing motion. This is why I said that pulling an arrow out and then stabbing someone is sometimes biologically impossible. It is biologically impossible to continue fighting after taking a couple arrows, because you'll be unable to sufficiently move your limbs.

So, the short answer would be, “can you?” Yes. “Should you?” No. There's a non-trivial chance you'll damage the weapon. It's not likely, but you really wouldn't want to take that chance.

-Starke

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[oscarlittleguy]

[ A video pops up on whoever cares enough people’s comm ]

Oscar was sitting in his nest, his sketchbook propped up on his knees, shading the side of an axolotl’s face when he heard the sound. Clunking- rattleing

He shot up, grabbing his crossbow and aiming- letting loose two bolts in quick succession as two skeletons approached. One fell, loosing an arrow that landed in his arm, just under his shoulder- thankfully not going through.

He suppressed a squeal of pain, tears instantly welling in his eyes as he loosed another bolt- downing the final one.

Putting his crossbow away, he quickly rummaged for his med pack, finding it before grabbing onto the shaft of the arrow, squeezing his eyes shut

“Just pull it out, you can do this- youre a big boy- you can take i-“

[ As he braces himself to pull- the feed cuts out- darkness returning to the comm screen once more ]

[monstersandmaw]

Male werewolf x trans male reader (nsfw)

Disclaimer which I’m including in all my works after plagiarism and  theft has taken place: I do not give my consent for my works to be used,  copied, published, or posted anywhere. They are copyrighted and belong to me.

___

Commission #5 out of 5! That means I’ve written 21,271 words in total this week (according to Scrivener). Ooof! I’m gonna go sit down now... (this is my second go at posting this because the formatting was off the first time. Tumblr, pls stop and let me post the werewolf boyfriend story. This is literally the werewolf boyfriend website)

Anyway, thank you lovely commissioner for trusting me with your prompt, and for checking it over for me before I shared it here, since I’m not trans.

Contents: trans male reader, injury and mention of blood to our werewolf-spirit, a very expensive gift, oral sex (no specific words used for reader’s anatomy), non-penetrative sex, visible werewolf knot, fluffy ending

Wordcount: 4407

With a forager’s bag slung across your shoulder and a woven basket hooked over your arm, you swigged the last dregs of your morning tea down and darted towards the door. The bounty of a new autumn day beckoned, and the forest around your cottage would be bursting with fruit and mushrooms at this time of year.

You tugged open the door, the reluctant hinges groaning at you, took a single step outside, and froze. At first you thought that the enormous creature sprawled quite literally across the doorstep was a bear, but as you stared dumbstruck at the too-long limbs and the thick, grey-brown coat, and the shaggy, lupine tail, your heart stopped beating. This was something supernatural.

The thought of stepping silently back into the safety of your stone cottage, closing the door, and staying inside until it went away flashed across your mind, but almost before you could process what you were doing, you had dropped the basket at the threshold and stepped over the creature’s outstretched left arm to walk around to its side.

It was still breathing, though the sound had an unhealthy, wet whistle to it, like a punctured blacksmith’s bellows, and there was blood matting the thick fur on its left side where the short, stocky shaft of a crossbow bolt was cruelly embedded in its ribs.

“Oh,” you gasped, hand rising to your lips even as horror plunged right through you at the sight of it. Blood still seeped around the shaft, and something silver glinted beneath the fur. You looked anew at the creature and wondered if it was a werewolf. “If you are and that’s silver, it’ll be fatal if I don’t get it out,” you muttered, kneeling and bringing your fingertips carefully to the creature’s side. “No way I can move you though,” you added, glancing at the creature’s long, powerful, solid legs and at the breadth of its shoulders and the muscles on its arms, visible beneath the thick, coarse fur that covered its body.

At the sound of your voice, the creature’s left ear flicked and it rumbled a growl at you.

“Easy now,” you said through gritted teeth. “I’m trying to help you here.”

The growling did cease, but the way it petered out made you think that perhaps they’d just run out of breath.

“I can work with that,” you said to yourself. “I’m going to get my bag, and I’m going to get this nasty thing out of you, alright?”

You hurried back inside, removed the empty foraging bag from your shoulders and skidded to a halt beside the bookshelf. Among all the tomes on herbs and plants and mushrooms, there was a reference book about supernatural entities. You knew they existed — you'd lived in the woods too long to doubt that there was more than the mundane out there — but you’d never actually thought to encounter anything, let alone find the supernatural bleeding out in your own back yard.

Puffing the air from your lungs, you rallied your courage and opened the leather-bound book to the section on ‘lycanthropy’. Silver was indeed poisonous to them, but the book said it caused the skin and fur to smoke and burn, neither of which you’d seen in the creature outside. Perhaps it was only steel, but you thought the colour was wrong for that. You’d seen the blacksmith forging her blades of bright, greyish steel, and you glanced over at a silver penny pendant that hung in your window for luck. The tone of the pendant was different, brighter and whiter than the steel, and the same hue as the tip of the crossbow bolt.

“Not a werewolf then?” you frowned, but that didn’t change the fact that whatever it was, it was slowly bleeding out on your doorstep.

With the supplies you’d need hastily gathered, you went back outside to find that the creature had rolled a little more onto its good side, exposing the black shaft of the bolt, and a bit more of its face and chest.

Lupine rather than ursine in its features, it opened its black eyes and gazed dolorously up at you, half-heartedly baring huge canines on one side.

“Hey,” you scolded. “Here to help, remember. That looks like silver, but you don’t seem overly bothered by it…”

The creature scoffed a laugh at you.

“I mean, aside from the fact that it’s punched a hole in your ribs and you’re bleeding to death,” you said, and again, the creature huffed at you.

Then, just as you knelt down in the dirt beside it, the creature spoke. Its voice was low and rough, like an avalanche in the distance, and the words were clearly slurred with pain. “You’re right. Not… a werewolf.”

“Oh,” you breathed. “You can talk… If you’re not a werewolf, what are you?”

“I am… an aspect… of the forest itself,” the creature ground out around a mouthful of sharp teeth.

You blinked, half wishing you hadn’t asked. “Right. Well, I guess I’d better get this bolt out of you all the same, huh?”

“If you would be so kind,” the creature said with a dry note of humour to its gravelly voice that made you relax just a fraction.

You gave a quiet warning as you prepared to take the bolt out, and the wolf-like creature nodded in readiness. All in all, the procedure went as well as you could have hoped for, and there was a neat row of stitches pinching the slate grey skin together in no time at all.

“Thank you,” the wolfish entity said, laying its head back down on the path and breathing steadily for a few minutes before casting you a sidelong look. “I interrupted your morning,” they said wryly.

“Yeah, no shit,” you laughed, eyeing the formerly-clean swatch of linen you’d used to staunch the bleeding. “But that’s alright. The berries and hazelnuts will be there tomorrow.”

“And thanks to you, so will I.”

Something akin to pride kindled in your ribcage at that, and you smiled. “The forest has been good to me since I came here,” you shrugged. “About time I returned the favour. What should I call you, by the way?”

The creature blinked slowly, apparently surprised. “I have had a few names in my life, but not many of them have been kindly given by humans — Hunger, Strife, Sheep-Thief, and… worse.”

“Never too late to buck the trend,” you said with another twitch of your shoulder. For all the warnings those names implied, you felt no fear when you looked at the creature; only curiosity, and an odd sense of kinship you couldn’t define. “You hungry? I’ve got some smoked venison that I got from the butcher yesterday. We can think of a new name for you while you get your strength back.”

Your deliberate and relentless optimism seemed to rub off on the creature, because they heaved a huge sigh and smiled in a ‘do as you please’ kind of gesture, tail thumping ever so slightly against the path while you went to fetch some food.

“Here,” you said, returning to sit cross-legged beside them on the dirt outside your cottage. They had managed to heave their body out of that undignified sprawl, but they were still lying down on one side. You sliced off pieces of the smoked venison from the haunch on the wooden board and held them out one by one for the wolf-spirit to take with their clawed, paw-like hand. They didn't eat particularly elegantly, but there was something rather adorable about a creature the size of a grizzly bear taking strips of meat from your hand.

“You know,” you said, “I thought you were a dead bear when I opened the door. Gave me quite the surprise.”

They laughed at that, dark eyes glinting. “Wouldn't be the first time.”

“People have mistaken you for a dead bear before?”

Again, the wolf-like creature laughed, but the sound cut off into a brief but high whimper as the wound on their side flared with pain. “No,” they grunted. “Not a dead one, at least.”

“Maybe we should call you ‘Beorn’ this time.”

They tilted their head, big, triangular ears listening to the sound on your lips, and then they nodded. “My mother used to joke that her boy was born a bear instead of a wolf,” he said quietly after a moment. “The name is more fitting than you realised.”

“Beorn it is then,” you said, feeling just a little emotional. “How quickly do forest spirits heal, anyway? I’m pretty good with humans, but I’m in uncharted territory with your kind.”

“I’ll be well again in no time,” he said.

“Who shot you with that anyway?” you asked as you stared at the dart that lay abandoned in the grass beside you, its bloody, silver tip glinting like a lost fang. “Will they come looking for you?”

He shook his head and eyed the venison again. You sheared off another piece for him and he took it gratefully before answering. “I don’t think so. They were werewolf hunters by the look of them —”

“— explains the silver,” you interjected and he nodded.

“And why they shot at me. They say my kind are what sorcerers modelled their curse on when they created werewolves, thousands of years ago.”

“Huh,” you breathed.

When the venison was almost all gone, Beorn looked a little guilty. “Thank you for sharing your food with me,” he said. “I fear I’ve deprived you of something valuable.”

He had, but you weren’t about to tell him it’d cost you a small fortune, or that you’d planned to make the preserved meat last through most of the coming winter. “Eh, don’t worry about it. The forest will provide, right?”

Beorn fixed you with a steady look but said nothing. He heaved himself up, first onto all fours, and then, using the stone wall of your cottage, onto his hind legs. Standing like that, he must have been nearly seven feet tall, and as you looked up at him, you felt your mouth go a little bit dry. He was obviously still extraordinarily powerful despite his injury, and the way the claws on his hind paws dug into the earth and his chest filled as he inhaled did strange things to your equilibrium.

You swallowed, waiting nervously to see what would happen next, and he offered you a smile that was quite literally wolfish before looking over his shoulder towards the nearby trees.

“Wait,” you croaked. “You’re not leaving like that, are you?”

“No,” he said. “I was going to sit a while in the sun and recover my strength, if you will permit the trespass a little longer?”

“Stay as long as you like,” you smiled. “I live in your woods, don’t I?”

He just smiled at that. “Don’t wait around on my account,” he said after a moment. “The day is still fairly young, and I’ve held you up long enough.”

“If you’re sure you don’t mind?”

He moved to sit beneath your kitchen window, lounging with his long hind legs splayed, his left bent at the knee so he could hunch protectively over his injury while the other stretched out. He flexed his paws, dark claws glinting in the sunlight, and laid his head back against the stone wall just beneath the windowsill.

“You… want me to bring you anything?” you asked him, as though you were going to the village shop and thought he might want a bagel or a pint of milk.

He cracked his eyes open again and smiled. “I can always be won over by a blackberry or two. There are some out near the stream now, but be careful. The moss and algae has grown over the banks and made it slippery. I had to haul a young fawn out of there not long ago.”

The image of him grabbing a slender little deer by the belly and lifting it out of the gully was almost too much for you to take without making an undignified squeak, so you just grinned at him and nodded. “I’ll be careful.”

Three hours later, you came back to find him gone, and you tried not to let the sudden barb of disappointment sting too much. After all, he wasn’t some stray dog that had come limping into your yard for help. He was a forest spirit.

You eyed the spot where he’d been lying though, and set a large handful of blackberries down on the flattened grass, just in case.

In the morning, the berries were gone, but in their place was something of such value that you could hardly take in what you were seeing. It didn’t look like much, but you knew it was worth a king’s ransom. “No way,” you breathed, stepping over to the small, dark brown, lumpy, spherical object and crouching down. You swallowed.

A twig snapped behind you and you whipped around, losing your balance and sitting down hard on the damp ground. Beorn was standing on his hind legs at the edge of the path, and if he was injured anymore, you couldn’t see it.

“Beorn,” you breathed, and then looked back to where a specimen of the rarest and most expensive truffle in the whole world sat on your doorstep like it was just another autumn mushroom. “Do you know what this is?”

He tilted his head and smiled, baring his huge, thick canines. He leaned his elbow on the fence post of the paddock that you hoped one day would contain a goat and some geese. “Of course I know what it is. You humans are always hunting through the forest for them.”

“They’re… They’re more expensive than gold, Beorn!”

“You shared your food with me, and deprived yourself of your winter stores just so that I could eat and heal, and you never looked for anything in return. If I happen to know where to find a few of these, then that’s only fair in my eyes. Now you can sell it in town.”

“Where am I going to say I got it?” you asked, still sitting stunned on the ground. “They’ll think I’m hiding the secret!” In fact, if you sold it in the capital, you could probably get enough for it to buy a whole forest of your own. You’d be richer than half the aristocracy in the land. Dizziness swept over you and you started to laugh.

He approached you then, walking on his hind legs, talons just pricking into the earth and flexing slightly with each step. He halted in front of you and held out his enormous, paw-like hand. He had rough pads like a wolf, but his fingers and thumb were humanoid in shape, though they had curved, black claws. You slid your hand into his and let him haul you carefully to your feet again.

“You’re… healed?” you asked, eyeing the spot on his side where the crossbow bolt had been only the previous day.

Beorn nodded. His dark eyes glinted softly in the morning light, and somehow he didn't seem quite real anymore. It was as though he might vanish if you blinked or looked away too long, and you tightened your grip on his hand. He rumbled something that was somewhere between a sigh and a purr, and then laughed softly.

“I can’t believe you brought me a truffle,” you laughed. “You could have brought me a deer to feed me or something, but no. You bring me a truffle.”

“I can take it back if you like,” he said with an easy chuckle. “There are wild boar in the forest who would very much enjoy devouring that for breakfast…”

“No!” you yelped, playfully putting yourself between the stupendously expensive mushroom and the terrifying forest spirit who could probably just bite your entire head off with a single snap of his jaws. He laughed, the sound deep and rich as it rose from his belly and he tipped his head back, tail swishing from side to side.

“Oh, I like you,” he said when his mirth had faded. “I like you a lot. I’m glad we met, human.”

“I’m not glad you got hurt, but I’m glad we met too,” you said. “And not just because of the truffle. Gods, I could buy my own castle with that.”

He froze and then his ears swivelled back just a little. “Would you… leave?” he asked.

“No,” you said without a second thought. “I earned this place — this peace,” you said with a growl of your own to match the fierceness in the wolf you saw before you. “I wouldn’t change any of it for anything. You’re stuck with me, Beorn. Friend for life.”

His shoulders dropped a few inches and he sighed softly. The trees around the cottage swayed and sighed too, and the whole forest seemed to let go of a tense breath with it. “May I visit you from time to time?” he asked.

A grin spread across your face and you nodded. “As often as you like. After you disappeared yesterday, I kind of thought that was it,” you admitted. “I mean… You’re a forest spirit — I wasn’t sure how much you’d want to hang around with a boring old human.”

“I’d very much like to spend time with you,” he said, his voice dipping low and warm. “And you’re anything but boring.” Before he could go on though, one of his large, triangular ears flicked back and he tensed with a growl. “Someone’s coming up the path. I should not be seen with you.”

“Come back tonight?” you asked, even as he spun on the spot and darted for the trees on all fours, moving like a shadow. He was out of sight in a handful of heartbeats and you ducked inside to get something to put the stupidly expensive truffle in. No point in advertising that you had something that valuable just lying around, even if the inhabitants of the nearby village were the gentlest, kindest folk you could ever have hoped to meet.

After three nights spent talking with Beorn — the first sitting outside in the surprisingly balmy autumn air, and the second two inside your own house, with him stretched out on the hearthrug, soaking up the heat of the fire in luxurious bliss — you decided to take the truffle to the city. It would be a long journey to travel the King’s Road around the ancient, sacred forest, and Beorn instead offered to guide you through the heart of it to save you weeks of unnecessary tramping.

“You’re sure the forest won’t… object?” you asked as you packed your bag one morning and he sat on his haunches like a hound near the door. He always liked to keep one ear on the forest nearby if he could, as though expecting trouble or looking for an easy way out. He was, after all, a wild spirit. He seemed comfortable enough in your presence, but being inside the stone walls of your cottage for too long made him twitchy.

“With my blessing and friendship, you could travel freely through the whole forest alone, and nothing would dare harm you.”

“You’re kidding?”

“No,” he said, and the simple truth of it almost moved you to tears.

“Well… thanks,” you mumbled, blinking rapidly as you stuffed a spare shirt into your pack.

You moved together through territory you knew on that first day, but he led you to a secret, mossy glen that night. You were so tired, you almost fell asleep with your pack on, but he helped you make a camp and a little fire to boil water for tea, and when the night grew chilly, he curled up around you and let you rest with your back against his ribs and your cloak pulled up around your chin. You fell asleep there, and woke stiff and achy in the morning, but gloriously warm.

That became the pattern of your days in the forest with Beorn: you ate a breakfast of wild berries and nuts when your bread rations ran out, and he guided you through the most beautiful country you’d ever seen: thundering, white waterfalls plunging down into mossy crevasses that seemed to swallow the river whole; groves of autumn aspen that rained leaves down around you like a shower of little gold coins; bramble thickets so old and so dense that nothing grew beneath them and the thorns were as large as your hand and each blackberry was the size of an apple. Finally, on your last night before you reached the edge of the forest on the southern side, he took you to a grove where fireflies danced and spiralled with blue-green will-o-the-wisp fairies.

You crouched with him at the edge of the clearing, hardly daring to breathe as the lights winked and sparkled, coiling and twisting in and out of each other in an endlessly varied choreography. Beorn placed his palm at the small of your back to steady you, and you leaned further into his touch as the performance continued.

Eventually, on some intangible cue, the fireflies and fairies all rushed upwards towards the opening in the canopy above, speeding out like sparks from a campfire into the night, and leaving you and Beorn alone in the mossy glen.

“That was incredible,” you whispered when you finally got your breath back.

“I thought you would enjoy that,” he said. He surprised you by lowering his great wolf’s head and nuzzling his cheek against your shoulder. He rumbled a soft moan and closed his eyes.

You turned to look at him and brought your hand slowly to his cheek. “You’re so beautiful, Beorn,” you murmured. You hadn’t meant to speak your thoughts, and the moment you did, he froze. Before you could call the words back or formulate some lie to cover your embarrassment, Beorn sighed happily once more.

“I don’t think a human has ever called me ‘beautiful’ before,” he said with a shy laugh. His big, dark eyes stared intently at you in the dark, and you felt a prickle of arousal go through you. He inhaled and then nuzzled against you again.

“Beorn…” you gasped, your fingers tightening in his fur, tugging. “I… I want you…”

With another whining moan, he let his teeth rake over your throat, his tongue hot and wet against the cool night air on your skin, and you gasped, exposing your neck to him.

He growled at you and lowered you down onto your back, your cloak spread out beneath you amid the soft moss. “I want… I want to taste you,” he said in a deep, rough voice. His hands gripped your waist and you found your legs parting for him almost without a second thought. “Will you let me?”

“Gods, yes,” you grunted, and helped him undo the belt at your waist. He drew off your clothes delicately with his claws and your skin prickled into goosebumps.

He ran the rough pads of his paw-like hands up the inside of your thighs, his jaws loosely parted. He was panting slightly and you could see his white teeth glinting in the moonlight. He pressed his cold, wet nose against you and you jerked and bucked as he let his hot, rasping tongue lave over you; tasting you, savouring you.

His talon-tipped fingers tightened on your thighs, claws pricking, holding your legs open for him as he got to work. After a few strokes, his eyes rolled closed and he let out a deep, low-frequency growl that went right through you. He lavished attention on you until you were shaking and gasping, and he was unrelenting.

“Beorn, I’m going to come,” you gasped and his teeth just nudged against your skin for a moment, adding a perfect counterpoint to the rolling heat of his tongue and his breath. “You’re going to make me come.”

He hadn’t once stopped growling, and you weren’t sure he could speak until he grunted and removed his left hand from your thigh. You just about had enough strength to raise your head behind the pleasure buzzing through you, and you looked down the length of your body to see that he was working his own cock in his hand while still letting his tongue toy with you. Thick, red, and leaking all over his fingers, dripping freely onto the moss between his knees, his cock was hard and there was a knot forming at the base. He squeezed his hand around it but he leaned down over you again and you saw stars as his cold nose pressed against you with an insistent eagerness.

“Come for me,” he snarled through bared teeth. “Come for me.”

A few seconds later, your back arched and you came against the heat of his mouth. He spilled a heartbeat after you did, and you cracked an eye open to watch him throw his head back and howl.

Unabashed, he broadcast his pleasure to the forest, and you lay there and watched his cock pulse and spurt over his knuckles as he gripped the swollen knot hard. He made such a beautiful mess of himself, and he never took his other hand off your leg, keeping himself grounded through the roaring pleasure that tore through him in waves.

When he finally stopped coming, the howl faded from his throat, and he let his head drop down to regard you. He was breathing like he’d just raced across the forest, and his pupils were blown black and wide.

“You’re perfect,” he said. “Gods, but you’re perfect.”

You laughed quietly, fondly, and lay there dazed and sensitive and satisfied.

“Come back to me?” he asked in a whisper as he lay down beside you a while later and pulled you tight against his chest.

“What do you mean? I’m right here…”

You felt him shake his head a little. “When you’re done in the city. Will you come back to me?”

“Of course I will,” you promised, half-twisting in his embrace to look up at him. “Anyway, it’s all your fault that I’m going to the city with the world’s most expensive mushroom in my pocket!”

He laughed and held you tight, and when you parted at the edge of the forest the next day, he told you he would wait for you there until you returned.

__

Thanks for reading this story, and I hope you’ll consider reblogging it (as well as leaving a like) if you enjoyed it, since that will help others find it.

Take care, and I hope you have a lovely day/night wherever you are, and whenever you read this.

Masterlist | Ko-fi (tip jar) | Library/Story Archive Blog

[happytobus]

Miraculous London Review (Part 2)

Nathalie definitely surprised me the most out of everyone in this episode. Her shock that Gabriel wished to save her was unexpected, and I was happy to see ho she comforted Marinette after she explained how she couldn’t stop Monarch. Her caring and compassions was actually the complete opposite of what I was expecting. Given how Nathalie told her just a few hours before to stop Monarch at all costs, I would have expected her to be more upset. And after she frees the Kwamis, it was very interesting to see how Nathalie was ready to admit everything and go tho jail for what she had done as Gabriel’s accomplice. (I also don’t think she has directly admitted that she as Mayura to Marinette, at least not by name.) Her reaction of “I’m not his mother” felt very shameful, like Nathalie is afraid to take Emilie’s place and doesn’t think herself fit to be a proper mother to Adrien after what she’s done. In conclusion, I like the direction Nathalie is headed. A foster parent trying to do her best to make amends for her mistakes. I do think she’ll be the one to break the truth to Adrien.

Also, I love how the first thing she did after the wish was to grab her crossbow and repel down the elevator shaft in case Gabriel wasn’t dead. Bunnyx is up next.

[whencyclopedia]

Roman Siege Warfare

In ancient warfare open battles were the preferred mode of meeting the enemy, but sometimes, when defenders took a stand within their well-fortified city or military camp, siege warfare became a necessity, despite its high expense in money, time, and men. The Romans became adept at the art of siege warfare employing all manner of strategies and machinery to batter the enemy into submission. Five factors enabled the Romans to be remarkably successful at sieges: sophisticated artillery weapons, formidable siege towers, the engineering experience of fortification construction, superior logistics to ensure long-term supply, and mastery of the seas. Thorough preparation and the careful execution of well-laid plans were second nature to the Romans in warfare, and so when they applied these skills to sieges lasting months or years, they were virtually unstoppable.

Artillery

The Romans copied and improved upon the artillery weapons used by the Greeks, but they were not used in open combat, rather, they were reserved for siege warfare in order to pound the fortifications of cities and strike terror into the defenders. The Roman machines used animal sinews instead of horse hair to increase strength and torsion, allowing them to fire projectiles over several hundred metres. Metal parts (iron and bronze) replaced wood to increase strength, stability, firepower, and durability, and springs were covered in metal cases to decrease wear from the elements.

Stone throwers (ballista) had a single swinging arm and were known by the slang term onager (wild ass) for the violent kick when fired and scorpio (scorpion) because of its form. Stones were roughly circular and could weigh from 0.5 to 80 kilos, which allowed them to carve great chunks out of defensive walls and knock down fortification towers. Another type of artillery, much more accurate, was the carroballista or catapulta which fired heavy arrows, bolts or smaller stones and had two arms like a crossbow (and was also called a scorpio by some Roman writers). Bolts had iron heads and wooden shafts and fletchings and were easily capable of piercing armour. Another type of projectile was fireballs. Naturally, such weapons could be and were used to defend cities as well as attack them.

Legions probably had one artillery piece per cohort, although, some legions are described as having had 55 in some periods reflecting the fact that equipment was very much at the discretion of a particular commander. Artillerymen (ballistarii) were specialised troops exempt from normal fatigues, probably because they needed to practise with and maintain their machines. In addition, hundreds of wagons and mules were required to transport these machines and their ammunition to where they were needed. Some artillery machines were also mounted onto carts as seen in scenes on Trajan's Column.

Continue reading...

[puddle-nerd]

Precious

Summary: Your time with your muntxatan was rare and precious but you wouldn’t change it for the world. (Tonowari/Female Na’vi Reader)

Prompt #7 (Under the Blanket) for Avatar12DaysofKinkmas2023.

Story Tags: No use of Y/N, Under The Blanket, Female Reader, Metkayina | Reef People Clan, Established Relationship, Vaginal Fingering, Biting, Begging, Creampie

Na’vi Translation: Muntxatan — husband | male spouse Olo’eyktan — Clan Leader Sa’nu — Mommy / mum Sempu — Dad / daddy Tìyawn – love

AO3 Link

Your husband had always liked waking you up with kisses as soon as you two started sleeping next to each other – not that you were complaining in the least. Absolutely not. Especially not now when you rarely had time to be intimate with him, what with two little babies always crying and demanding attention on top of all of your tribal duties. Usually, you both were kept busy during the day making sure the village continued to thrive, him as the Olo’eyktan, you as one of the best divers / fishermen and weavers of the tribe – no, you were not the Tsahìk, not even close, but that was okay. Ronal, who was the Tsahìk was very happily mated to her wife, Rytxa, one of your best friends. But anyway, with your multitude of talents, you were usually up to your eyeballs in constantly fixing nets or the underwater crossbows or someone else’s clothing and someone not of the tribe would be surprised how busy that kept you. Add onto that a toddler and an infant? By the end of the night, at least one of the two – most of the times both of you – were always exhausted so then there was no time to be intimate like you had been before both Ao’nung and Tsireya had been born.

So, these moments where Tonowari woke you up with kisses like when you had first gotten together? They were rarer than you would have liked but all the more precious.

“Mmm, that feels wonderful, ma’muntxatan,” you purred once you recognized what he was doing, stretching your turquoise limbs beneath the blankets as his mouth moved from your back to your shoulder, then up to your neck, over your cheek, and finally settling upon your lips as he leaned up on his elbow and he coaxed you to turn towards him. You kissed him back lazily at first, just enjoying the simple, wonderful, gentle familiarity of it all.

“I have missed you,” he rumbled with a grin.

You grinned, replying, “Well, I am right here,” you poked your head upwards and saw the two other hammocks in your mauri pod containing your two younglings, “and the children are still asleep.” Tonowari smirked and kissed you again while his free hand groped one of your breasts, kneading it greedily. “Ohhh, yes, that feels nice, Wari.” A rumbling purr broke out of your mate’s throat and he nibbled and sucked upon the side of your throat possessively, determined to leave his mark for the clan to see. You whimpered as his hand moved from your breast down between your legs, fingers delving between your lower lips to dip into your slickening hole, the blanket hiding his movements from view. “Oh, yesss… Oh…” You pushed your hips into his touch, sighing at the pleasure skittering along your nerve endings as he plunged two of his three fingers in and out of you, his thumb rubbing over the bundle of nerves just atop your slit. You shuddered, humping into his hand eagerly.

“Are you ready for me, tìyawn?”

“Yes, please,” you begged. “Been too long. Need you now, ma’muntxatan.” He removed his fingers from your cunt and shifted to grab your thigh, lifting your leg up so you could reach down and wrap your hand around his rigid girth, grunting in pleasure at your touch. You guided him to your entrance and he pushed inside of your wet heat. You whined in delight, burying your face into your pillow to smother the noise and avoid waking your children, as your channel stretched to accommodate his thick, textured girth. “Yes, Wari. Just like that, please.”

He rumbled in agreement and began to drove his shaft up into you leisurely.

Again. And again. And again. You whimpered, meeting his thrusts as best as you could with both of you lying on your sides. “Yes, ma’muntxatan,” you gasped, pleasure building up within you. He shifted your leg carefully beneath the blanket that was barely covering you now and sank himself deeper within you, the textured ridges stroking your inner walls in the way that made your blue eyes roll in absolute carnality. You whined even higher, rocking back onto his cock in desperation. “Just like that. Please don’t stop,” you keened. “Wanna cum on your cock. Please make me cum, Wari.” “As you wish,” he grunted, fucking into you like a machine, picking up his speed and causing that familiar coil deep within your lower stomach to start tightening as you began to near your climax, hot pressure building like an ache while your breath came in short pants and your mind was going blank. It felt like the explosion of a star within your body as your orgasm smashed into you like a raging akula. Your cunt clamped down on his length like a vice, gripping him so tight that your mate had no choice but to slow the movements of his hips while your body squeezed him like a vice. Tonowari stroked within you, grinding the tip of his cock up into you one, twice, three more times before he gritted his teeth and released a rumbling snarl as he finished within you while trying to keep quiet and not wake the children, his warm seed spurting deep within your depths. Finally, the two of you still and lay there, trying to catch your breath as you both revel in the afterglow. You hum, feeling Tonowari kissing your shoulder once more. “That is a wonderful way to wake up, ma’muntxatan,” you purr, leaning back to catch his lips in a lazy kiss. “Thank you.” He chuckled, happily sipping on your mouth. The sound of tiny patterning feet upon the woven floor of your mauri pod had you and your mate freeze for a second before you both scrambled to cover yourselves up with your blankets as your now awoken toddler appeared at the edge of your hammock, big blue eyes peering up at you. “Sa’nu! Sempu! Up! Up!” Your time with your muntxatan was rare and precious but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

𖥸 · ─────── · 𖥸 · ─────── · 𖥸

Originally Posted: 20 December 2023 Word Count: 1,017

AO3 Link

[queenofmalkier]

In regards to the arrow removal, I think a lot of people are not considering the context in which Nynaeve made the decision. And I am here to defend my wife, obvy.

For starters - they're going to Egwene, who Nynaeve refuses to think of as anything but 100% FINE AND OKAY AND DEFINITELY NOT TRAUMATIZED. And Egwene can channel which means she can heal.

Nynaeve spent enough time in the tower to basically see the impossible compared to her knowledge of healing before. Suddenly a lot of her knowledge is irrelevant because the one power can fix things better than she can with traditional medicine. Nynaeve is stubborn, but she takes healing seriously. She'll always choose the best option.

That informs her decision. The most important thing is getting Elayne off the active battlefield and to Egwene for healing. The closest I can think of is Star Trek - you wouldn't treat a wound when in ten minutes it's going to be gone, you just need to get the injured person to the doctor.

(Side note but I don't believe she had anything on her to even treat a wound at the time, either, given the sul'dam costume.)

Now, I've gone through a lot of first aid training due to various jobs I've held, so I'm right there with everyone saying not to take it out! You do not take the thing out. Never, ever, ever. Pulling/pushing it out can cause more damage and more bleeding and no one but a medical professional should be touching that sort of injury. This is a modern approach though! Remember, context.

I've seen a lot of people talking about her breaking the shaft before pushing it through, but that would actually be worse. There's no way to cleanly break the fletching away, which means by tugging it through she'd be introducing splinters of wood into the wound. Also the breaking is in regards to arrowheads, not the fletching.

The fletching (feathers on the back) is not actually the dangerous part of the arrow. I've seen some people say it was a crossbow bolt, but either way, from what we were shown the arrowhead itself had exited Elayne's leg already. If that was the case, pushing the shaft through wouldn't actually be harmful to her. It would hurt like hell, but it wouldn't cause any more damage.

I tried finding some actual sources for this specific scenario, but unfortunately most articles are focused on removing the arrowhead and not the shaft (and were also paywalled, boo). The closest I found was information from U.S. Army Surgeon Joseph H. Bill who essentially catalogued American Indian arrows as a way to determine the best removal technique.

He advised not applying traction to the shaft due to the likelihood of the arrowhead coming lose and remaining in the body, but I couldn't find what he advised if the arrowhead had already passed through the body although I did find this quote "An arrow may be pushed out as well as plucked out."

I DID find this lovely gentleman giving a very in depth discussion on medieval arrows as well as removal techniques and some of those are shove it through and hope for the best. (He also mentioned that healing the infection was what doctors and healers handled rather than wounds which... wow. Remind me to never be a medieval soldier in case I ever get that longing.)

So, yeah. I trust Nynaeve was right about her approach to the wound, and I feel like this is a case of a modern audience not trusting her knowledge because of our own knowledge of how those injuries are approached currently. I do think the scene could have been improved (in that regard) if they had Nynaeve explain her thought process, but overall, we got the point: Nynaeve felt like an utter failure, she couldn't help her friend, she couldn't do anything with all her alleged power. What good is she to her friends?

[butternuggets-blog]

FOR WANT OF A NAIL

@baldwin-montclair @adowobsessed @sylverdeclermont @nicki-mac-me @thereadersmuse @kynthiamoon @wheresthesunshinesblog @adowbaldwin @beautifulsoulsublime @lady-lazarus-declermont @adarafaelbarba-blog @dogblessyoutascha

Part Fifty-Four

Summary:  Baldwin Montclair had a string of ex girlfriends, a single child, and a  lifetime longer than most people could dream of to make all kinds of  mistakes. His family knew one which kept coming out of the woodwork to  irritate him every other century

Also on AO3

When the call to arms finally came Yvette felt like she could breathe properly again. It was the anticipation of disaster that always hit her the hardest; she stood firmly in the eye of maelstroms.

England and France had been raiding each other's ships of supplies and mercantile goods for around two years now. Skirmishes between French galleys and English cogs up and down the coast, towns and villages raided; there had been civilian casualties in both countries but still it wasn't technically "war".

The match to the powder keg had been news that King Edward was planning to set sail from England but was suffering delays. King Philip, taking advantage of his opponents' momentary lapse of focus, sailed the Great Army of the Sea - 200 repossessed ships, mostly of Norman make - to Sluys on the Flanders coast and cut off the English-held port's communication lines to home.

Scrambling his resources in record time, Edward set sail, a two hundred and fifty ships to Philip's two hundred and thirteen.

It was breathtaking, watching the black dot grow on the horizon. By noon Yvette could actually see the cogs in full sail bearing down on them, and by mid-afternoon they attacked.

Yvette heard her uncle swear as the first volley of arrows rained down. She was crouched behind a couple of barrels, a tiny shield raised above her head; from her position she could look across the deck through the howling wind and torrential rain to see the archers at the starboard edge returning fire, peppering the English longbowmen with their crossbows.

A soldier hit the deck as she watched, the shaft of an arrow buried deep in the man's eye. Blood slicked the deck; someone was screaming.

Breathe. Move. Collect the arrows.

Yvette sprinted, fell, shield still raised and someone else's blood on her knees. The ship beneath her was lurching to the left, fighting against the rudder that was forcing it right.

'Here! Girl!'

The soldier looked stricken by his slip of the tongue.

'Apologies m'lady-'

Yvette ignored him. The fleet had been lashed together to create a barrier against the encroaching English but the current had carried them to the east and around each other, until everyone was hopelessly entangled. By the time the order came to cut loose the enemy was upon them.

Yvette looked up, spotting the problem. One of the bolts holding the chains in place had twisted, sticking into and pinning other chains and thick knots of rope. She worked her slim fingers between the mess, holding her breath as she slowly worked the bolt free.

The chains and rope jumped as the bolt slid loose but she got herself clear before they sliced through her fingers. Wiping grease and rainwater onto the rest of the bolts, she worked them out of their holes as the soldiers sawed through the ropes and someone yanked her clear as the ship detached from the rest of the fleet.

'Merci,' Yvette pat the soldier on the arm. 'Godspeed your good work!'

The men gave a hearty cheer as she ran on. Down into the hold, along midship to the store, then back up to the men clutching several sheaves of arrows.

________________________________________________________________

They lost, in the end.

The Flemish had attacked the rear when the battle began to turn, so that between them and the English and the roaring sea the French fleet began to break down. Nicolas Béhuchet de Musy de La Loupe d'Escrignolles, one of the fleet's commanders, had been captured and hung from his own mast, while many men jumped in the water to avoid capture, only to drown as they were dragged beneath the waves.

Yvette shivered violently, but kept a firm grip on the burlap sack in her hand. She was drenched, soaked to the bone in rainwater, seawater and blood, but she had refused to stop doling out the ship-biscuit rations the men were owed.

Her uncle had sworn an oath to her father to get her home safe. She owed it to him to help his men get back safely as well.

'That is enough, now' Baldwin carefully pried the sack from Yvette's frigid hand as she passed by.

'But I have not finished-'

'Yes you have,' Baldwin knelt down, smiling proudly, and wrapped Yvette's hands in his. 'You have done very well, and I am so proud of you. Now rest. You need your strength.'

Yvette nodded reluctantly.

'Besides, we need to get you out of those clothes and into something dry!' Baldwin led her up the deck towards his sleeping quarters. 'Your father would kill me if I let you catch another cold.'

________________________________________________________________

-Yvette stood firm on the bow. Our daughter has far better sea legs than you or I! She gets her strength from her father, never flinching in the face of the enemy. And nine years of age!

Your face has been ever-present in my mind since we last spoke. There is an ache for you that gnaws at me whenever I am abed. In the quiet I miss you. In the sunshine and the darkness you haunt me. I wish I could touch you.

Author's Notes

"The Battle of Sluys, also called the Battle of l'Écluse, was a naval battle fought on 24th June 1340 between England and France. It took place in the roadstead of the port of Sluys (French Écluse), on a since silted-up inlet between Zeeland and West Flanders. The English fleet of 120–150 ships was led by Edward III of England and the 230-strong French fleet by the Breton knight Hugues Quiéret, Admiral of France, and Nicolas Béhuchet, Constable of France. The battle was one of the opening engagements of the Hundred Years' War." Wikipedia

The French suffered losses of between 16,000 to 20,000 men; those who didn't drown upon flinging themselves into the water to escape capture (most soldiers couldn't swim) were viciously clubbed to death by the Flemish English-loyalists if they made it to the shore. 190 French ships were lost, with 166 captured.

A galley was a type of oared ship with a long hull; similar pre-medieval examples include the Scandinavian longships that were used by Viking raiders. Many galleys had sails, but they were primarily driven along by teams of oarsmen.

A cog was a clinker-built ship, made of oak, and used for trade and travel during the Medieval period. Clinker-built means that the edges of the hull planks overlapped each other; cogs were also bigger than galleys, with a greater carrying capacity.

Hard tack, or ship's biscuits, were a staple of navies world-wide from the 17th to the early 20th century. The earliest version of a ship's biscuit could be found in Egypt (dhourra cake) or Rome (bucellatum); they were designed to last for months at a time, providing a necessary source of food on long voyages if nothing else could be provided, and to help ease the strain on supplies.

[ladyanaconda]

Papa Wolf Besteel AU Headcanons.

Also known as 'Besteel has a daughter and gets a redemptive Arc' XD. I recently watched the series (man, I gotta read the books now), and while I hear it has quite the changes from the books, I fell in love with a certain Dorcean's redesign. I wouldn't mind him hunting me down.

And so, I came up with this fic idea. I'm still drafting it, but I got a general idea.

Besteel has an eight year old daughter, Fayluna—or 'Fay' for short. She's, perhaps, the only one who can get a genuine smile out of him (when he's in a good mood, that is).

Cassiora, Besteel's wife and Fay's mother, was a slender, red-furred Dorcean who preferred the hu-man crossbow and arrows as her hunting tools. Sadly, she died in a hunt gone awry when her daughter was two years old. Her death still haunts Besteel more than what he likes to admit, and it contributes to his overprotectiveness of his daughter.

Redimus is a cool uncle who often babysits Fay while Besteel is out hunting. The latter hasn't taken his daughter along ever since her mother was killed, despite Fay's pleas.

When Besteel is in papa wolf mode, run away.

Fay was imprisoned alongside Redimus after the latter's sideshow in the Queen's museum. Loroc knew that the best way to keep the 'best hunter in Orbona' under his thumb was through the only two people he cares about. Unfortunately, this means that Fay didn't see her father for two years—the time he's spent capturing the replacement animals.

During the events of Captive, Redimus finally manages to help his niece escape their cell through a ventilation shaft. While sneaking around the palace looking for her father, Fay runs into Eva. Despite a rocky start, the two soon befriend each other. Eva, unaware of who Fay's father is, promises to help her find him.

Queen Ojo didn't know that Fay and Redimus were imprisoned. She promises to set him free, but Fay leaves with Eva in the gold fish to look for her father.

Rovender quickly grows fond of Fay, who reminds him a bit of his daughter. He is also the first to realize who her father is.

Besteel's assault during Ruins was driven by his papa wolf instinct, as Loroc had lied to him saying the hu-man had taken his daughter as retribution. His purpose wasn't to kill Eva, but to save his Fay—killing the hu-man who 'abducted' her would be a bonus. It's not until after accidentally killing Muthr that Fay finally catches up and he learns what really happened.

Rather than let him get eaten by the sand snippers, Eva saves Besteel's life. Unlike him, she wouldn't leave a child an orphan, thus shaking the Dorcean to the core. He doesn't attend Muthr's funeral, being the one who killed her, but watches from afar while Fay does.

Besteel is a very reluctant member of the group. He's only there because of Fay, but still he mostly keeps to himself. Still, his physical strength and knowledge of Orbona's creatures proves valuable in the long run. He still has quite a short fuse and tends to butt heads with Eva. Still, he ends up giving her his version of a 'pep talk' every now and then.

While Besteel isn't in good terms with Eva, he does develop a friendlier disposition with Rovender, who actually sympathizes with what he went through. He would have done the same for his wife and daughter.

Besteel's the type of father who likes doting on his daughter every now and then, but when he says no, it means no

@dracocheesecake I know you're a big Besteel simp like me, so I figured you'd want to check this one out.

[x-hollywoodghoul-x]

“Lift up your shirt a little so I can see.” ((@okey-fucking-dokey))

The Ghoul paused, still slightly bent over and recovering from their latest unpleasant wasteland encounter, and slanted Lucy a flatly quelling look.

Oh, absolutely fucking not.

"Back up, Florence Nightingale, I'm fine," he bit out through gritted teeth, all too aware that the crossbow bolt jutting out of his side strongly suggested otherwise.

It looked worse than it was. He'd already been turning to shoot the fiend who'd shot him - and unlike that fucker, his aim had been solid. It rankled that they'd managed to land a hit at all, but he was still standing. And his enemy was not.

That was all that mattered.

"This ain't my first time bein' shot - I know what to do."

Admittedly, the angle was annoyingly awkward. With a grimace, The Ghoul reached back behind himself, gnarled fingers groping for the bolt's point of entry. Fucking things were designed to lodge and not go through cleanly, which was going to make it a massive pain to get out - but first, he actually had to get a proper grip on the bolt shaft.

Dogmeat, unhelpfully, decided to try and help with this.

"Motherfucker," he cursed vehemently at the Malinois, shoving her head none-too-gently away before her eager jaws could close around the bolt a second time.

"Away - away, damn you!"

Yeah, that command definitely still needed some work.

The Ghoul took a moment to catch his breath from that particularly bracing flare of pain, holding up a firmly warding hand to keep a panting, keen-eyed Dogmeat from immediately closing the bare five foot of distance he'd just enforced.

It largely only worked because the Malinois seemed content to redirect her fixation onto thoroughly licking the blood off his gloved fingers.

Whatever.

"Shit... Just. Gimme a fucking minute."

@okey-fucking-dokey