#dirt urchin

[slugterra-twisted-ends]

Crystal Signs for Slugterra!

Aries - Flaringo (Flarus)

Taurus - Rammstone (Rammies)

Gemini - Polero (Polini)

Cancer - Fandango (Fangcer)

Leo - Blastipede (Bla)

Virgo - Flopper (Flogo)

Libra - Enigmo (Enbra)

Scorpio - Sand Angler (Anglio)

Sagittarius - Dirt Urchin (Urchittarius)

Capricorn - Thugglet (Capilet)

Aquarius - Tormato (Tormius)

Pisces - Aquabeek (Aquisces)

[masked-kitsune]

Slugterra ocs

We have Conner also known as Trickshot. He's around 15-16 years old and is known to cause a bit of trouble for Dr. Blakk, he has refused to join the Shane gang saying that he's fine on his own. Also manages to get himself out of whatever trouble he gets into. He talks to and names his slugs

Main Arsenal

Blaze- Flaringo

Shox- Tazerling

Dewy- Aquabeek

Thicket- Vinedrill

Weaver- Archanet

Casper- Frightgeist

Back up Arsenal

Spike- dirt urchin

Glimmer- phosphoro

Pulse- Xmitter

Rook- Rammstone

Digger- Sand angler

Diamond- Geoshard

Bomber- flatulorhinkus

Buzz- Thresher

Cliff- Rock hop

Otto- Armashelt

Shard- Slicksilver

[construction-cat]

How tf did they manage to pivot Bashir's character in season 2 from "sexy playboy charmer doctor man 😎" all the way to "a strang little creature who absolutely SLAYS in the infirmary" I love this show

[whump-queen]

Any of y’all know of any pathetic little street urchin meow meow whump fics?

I desperately need more of this trope in my life 🙏

[nature-nerd-sarah]

Today's recipe: Sea shell soup

[venusmage]

“The tadpole seizes behind your eyes. An old memory of yours, forgotten in the passage of time and skepticism of adulthood. Your vision is eclipsed by the image of a young boy. Drops of gold hang from his hair, his smile seeming to command the sun despite being shrouded in shadow. Wyll’s feelings meld with your own. You look down at yourself - scruffy and covered in dirt - but the boy holds nothing but excitement in his heart. He’s found today’s newest friend.”

Currently losing it at the idea of urchin!Tav meeting Wyll when they were kids…

[thegnomelord]

Devotion in Steel

How They Worship You After The Hunt: Dottore, Childe, Zhongli.

So this is based off This idea I had about a cyberpunk reader in a cult!Sagau genshin, so this is just me testing the waters. I spent wayyy too much time on this one lol but this brainrot is still going strong.

CW: Suggestive themes, cult/yandere characters, reader is GN, mentioned gore for Zhongli part. First time writing Yandere's so tell me how it goes lol.

Dottore: Silent Curiosity

He does not worship you openly; he doesn't sing hymns about your mercy or your cruelty, nor does he press his face into the ground whenever you pass, like certain archons wishing for redemption. His worship is quiet. To the unworthy, the way he touches you — with clinically cold hands, examining every gear, and bolt, and piston with the same calculating gaze reserved for one of his machines — may as well be the highest form of sacrilege. Who is he to act as if you are just another of his toys? Who is he to not even say a single word to you? Who is he to touch and pull on your mechanical components like some urchin child toying with an object they do not realize is precious? But they can't do anything, because You do not see it their way. You do not stop or punish him, you encourage him; it isn't rare to find you two alone, him on his knees with your arm held in his hands, silently watching the moving mechanisms beneath your plating as you explain the intricacies of your mechanical form to him in that synthetic voice of yours that makes his bones tremble. His touch is clinical, precise, but it is by no means cold; His worship is conveyed through his actions. With reverence he cleans the dirt and grime from the seams in your armor, happy to stay on his knees for hours, days even, so long as not a single speck of dirt is left to mar your perfect body. With piety he polishes every gear, with admiration he oils every piston, worshiping even the smallest piece in your body like it is a holy relic. To Dottore, being able to see technology millennia ahead of his own and learn of knowledge yet undiscovered would have been bliss. But to feel it beneath his fingers? To feel it in his bones as that artificial voice of yours reveals the world's secrets? Heaven.

Tartaglia: Eager Veneration

Once, Tartaglia had only known of you from the stories his parents had told him; of a loving creator, a place of safety and solace in this harsh world. Later, when he fell into the Abyss, Skirk told him new stories of you, passed down to her by the denizens of the Abyss — ones his parents wouldn't have dared to utter lest they tempt Celestia to punish them for heresy. So when you descended, full of harsh edges and your body geared for battle, he embraced you as you were. He would have loved you regardless of your appearance, but something about the mechanical version of you made sense to him; Children resemble their parents after all, why should you have appeared like the demure little thing the tapestries depicted you as when Teyvat could be harsh, and cruel, and cold? He remembered his parents teachings, tried to be respectful like the other acolytes, on their knees, with their heads pressed to the ground. He would have done so happily, would have kneeled before you until he was nothing but bones, would have slaughtered countries in your name... yet the abyss gnawed on his bones, needing your attention like a babe needed a parent. So when you showed him favor? When you offered him to touch the divine metal of your cybernetic body? He couldn't stop himself. Anxiety tempered his eagerness, he did not seek more than what you offered him, yet his hands still glided over your skin and metal with the same energy as the little gears beneath your outer shell. Trembling fingers traced old dents and scratches that ripperdocs had neglected to fix, words of absolute devotion leaving his lips as he put his head to your chest, listening to the tik tik tik of mechanical organs beneath your chassis. But your weapons enchanted him the most. It reminded him so much of the Foul Legacy hiding under his skin; the promise of danger and death lurking beneath the surface, ready to be used as soon as a threat appeared — a similarity between you two that no one else could claim. He could spend days simply kissing and lavishing the seams in the armor, feeling where fake skin transitioned into metal which hid your weaponry from the world. Though you never allowed him more than a look, he yearned to touch them, to kiss the sharp blades, to feel his bones bend under your mechanical strength, to feel the monowire burn through his skin... Please, won't you let him? He survived the Abyss, he promises that he's tough, he can handle the pain... just this once, let him worship you, all of you, please?

Zhongli: Desperate Absolution

Zhongli is afraid; to touch, to breathe, to even exist near you. How can he not be, when he is the reason for your missing parts? Your aching joints? When he was the one who harmed you, who tainted your holy body with his hate and prejudice? When he was so prideful as to forsake his creator because they did not fit his own imagination? When the truth was revealed, the real impostor laying dead and your mechanical frame speckled with drops of your golden blood, he understood he was in no place to anything but bow and pray your fury would be swift and merciful, though he did not deserve it. Yet even as he knelt before you, head bowed so low it was flush with the ground and eyes shut tight, not daring to even glance at your metallic feet, a part of him still yearned for a chance at redemption; to earn back the chance to worship you, to earn your forgiveness through devotion. He would do anything for it; Kiss and lick the dirt off your mechanical feet, be at your beck and call till the end of time... If you wished to regain your lost parts — he would scour the far reaches of Teyvat until he found all the metal pieces you had lost, and those that were permanently damaged? He would carve his bones into shape, until they fit... If you told him to forfeit his flesh like you had done — he would claw at his skin until not a single scrap of meat hangs off his bones. He would happily wander the earth as a skeleton, grafting pieces of old Khaenri'ahn technology to himself until he resembled you, just so you could inflict the same wounds he had done to you... Yet you did no such thing. Even as his thoughts gained a voice, escaping his mouth through muffled whimpers, all you did was watch him, your mechanical gaze racking over his shivering form as he tried to stop his hiccupping cries. Truly pathetic. Then your fingers found his chin, gripping him in a bruising as you raised his head to look at you. Your mechanical eyes reflected in the tears running down his cheeks, the metal joints in your fingers nipping at his skin. His eyes met your cold gaze, and he wondered what you will ask of him — His eyes? His tongue? His arms? The impostor would have demanded all that and more... He would give it in a heartbeat. But please, find it in your cold heart to forgive him.

[banes-favourite]

Can't stop thinking about the implications of spending your most important childhood years abused and belittled and treated like shit.

Enver was at his most developmental stage and the idea that he was worth less than dirt was beaten into him constantly. There is no way that didn't affect him in the long run, force him to cover himself with fancy clothes and big words so he wouldn't have to face the fact that he is just a useless street urchin running after success like an ant striving to step on the moon. It's such a nonsensical thought for him to actually climb the ranks and yet he did it, but I don't think that feeling of worthlessness ever went away. It's why he always will want more and more, because he will never truly feel good enough. No matter how many people he steps on, how many innocents he kills, how many titles and honours and power he gathers, it will simply never be enough because he wasn't born to ever be good enough. He will always be little useless Enver Flymm, son of a cobbler, an annoyance to his parents and a burden to the world. That shit never really leaves you.

Not to mention the physical damage he'd have to put up with, as if the psychological torture wasn't enough? Imagine being reminded of your time spent breaking your barely-developed nose and harassed every which way every single time you did something as simple as taking a step or moving the wrong way. The broken bones which never quite healed right, the burnt and destroyed skin, the engravings of a slave cut so deep into you that you will never be rid of them. How does he feel whenever he trips and his knee cries out in pain, reminding him of the time it was snapped in half like a twig and not allowed to heal? How does he feel whenever he reaches for something and his radius and ulna shoot a shiver through his nervous system, a reminder of all the times he used his forearms to hide his face from repeated kicks and punches? Can he still taste the blood in his mouth, smell the copper and burnt skin that lingered on him? Does he wonder, standing in the mirror, how his face would have turned out had it not received so much abuse? How his nose should normally look? How his eyes shouldn't be as dark as they are? Does he envy the man he was not allowed to grow into?

just some thoughts

[apomaro-mellow]

King&Prince 5

Steve's sleep at this point was mostly restless. It was hard to get comfortable down here, being a dungeon and all. And he was already a light sleeper by nature. Still, it took him longer than he liked to realize he was being watched. He'd awakened, feeling slightly colder than normal. He didn't hear footsteps or breathing, nor had any of the torches lit. Yet he could feel eyes on him. Someone was here. And it was something inhuman.

He could imagine a drooling maw opening wide and then snatching shut. Or a clawed hand reaching out to gouge. Slowly, Steve reached out for one of the stray bricks in his cell.

He turned and shot up quick, brandishing the rock only to find nothing. It was still completely dark, but he didn't feel the presence anymore. He dropped the rock and sat back down, still feeling tired but now completely awake. He stayed up, watching the bars of his cell until someone came to light the torches and deliver his breakfast.

----------------------

"He looks pathetic", Eddie said, feet propped up onto the table.

"He's been sleeping in his own filth this whole time, of course he does", Nancy said, arms crossed.

"Are you sure his father isn't coming to save him?", Jeff asked.

Eddie had sent the ransom letter on a demobat. He was able to connect to any of the creatures in his domain and he'd kept this one tethered just to see and hear what King Alric would say once he'd received the message. The demobat had heard it loud and clear and relayed to Eddie the fact that his letter had been burned.

"No one from that kingdom is coming for him. He's been abandoned", Eddie said. Not too long ago, he would have said that with glee, maybe even dancing. But after seeing the state that Steve was in last night...

"So what's the next move?", Nancy asked. "You're not just thinking of letting him go, are you?"

Jeff stood up. "Why not? He's no use to us if he's a worthless prince. We might as well send him back."

"Send him back to what?", Eddie shot up. "His own father threw him away like trash." He went over to the window, gazing at the view of his kingdom at sunset. "I can't return him to that."

"Are you suggesting that you keep him as a pet?", Nancy raised a brow.

Eddie snorted. "Not me. Robin can have him. She's been wanting some help corralling the kids for their music lessons and to rearrange the storage for instruments."

"You're going to make a prince be Robin's lap dog?", Jeff snickered.

"She'll love it", Eddie grinned.

------------------------

"I don't want him", Robin said as they went down to the dungeons.

"Too bad, he's yours", Eddie said.

"Do I at least get a leash?"

Eddie stopped when they got to Steve's cell. "I think he's already broken."

A brick thrown at the bars said otherwise.

"I think he's still got some fight in him", Robin snarked.

Eddie looked the prince up and down. He looked more like a street urchin than a member of a royal family. Covered in dirt and grime and probably other things. Eddie took a key from his pocket and started to unlock the cell.

"Time for my execution?"

"More like it's time for you to earn your keep around here", Eddie said as he slid the bars open. "You've been getting free meals and your own room to boot. I bet it's barely a change from back home."

Steve stood up suddenly and jabbed a sharpened piece of brick at the monster before him. His wrist was caught easily though and he ended up pinned against a wall. He didn't let up though, trying to land a hit until the king had both of his wrists held above his head and his lower half was being pressed by his hips, keeping him from kicking out. It didn't help that all this time being trapped and fed scraps had made his body weak.

"A rather valiant effort. You almost got close to laying a hand on me."

"Fuck you", Steve bit out. "I'm not working for you or for anyone here."

"You don't have much of a choice. I'm not in the business of letting people rot away useless. So you will be of use to my household in whatever way I see fit."

Steve thought of the horror stories he'd been told as a child. This beast could shift into anything and rip him apart. Why was it that right now, he was holding back? He had just tried to murder him Was he that little of a threat? Or maybe he was trying to keep from damaging the goods, lest his father go back on any deals to get him back.

"You can go ahead and execute me then. I'd rather die than be of use to you." Steve was surprised when he was released. It was so quick that he couldn't help but stumble.

"You would rather die than be a hostage for ransom? A little late for that, isn't it? And if you die, there goes negotiations."

"I don't know what my father has promised you for my return, but I don't fucking care anymore."

Steve hadn't even raised his voice, but the silence that followed was deafening. How long had he felt this way? His home wasn't a home anymore. His parents had already been shipping him off in the hopes of bettering him and meeting their standards. The difference between this cold dungeon and their frigid stares were very minimal.

He met the king's eyes but his expression was unreadable. Someone cleared their throat and Steve looked to the woman who had come with him. There was a trio of guards surrounding her now. Why a creature of chaos and darkness needed guards, Steve didn't know. Honestly, he was surprised to see as many humans as he had so far.

"Get him cleaned up", King Edward ordered. "Then take him to Robin's study."

The woman's eyes narrowed. "You can't be serious. I told you I don't want him!"

He walked out of the cell and the guards entered, taking a hold of Steve easily despite his struggling. He was taken out of the dungeons for the first time since he arrived. The castle's architecture and decor looked...homey. It was still grand, as most castles were, but Steve could hear people talking. Just talking. Some of them laughing. It was quite the change from his own castle's silent walls, but Steve wasn't able to take it in much before he was thrust into a room with a steaming bath.

He wanted to cry but then he immediately got into a defensive mode, expecting the guards to forcibly undress him and toss him in. Instead, once they released him, they left the room. He was surprised but not too surprised to see that they had locked the door behind themselves. Resigned, Steve took off his rags and stepped into the tub.

He couldn't help the soft moan that left his lips as he submerged. Instantly, his mood lifted. He soaked for a while, and then began to wash in earnest before the water could cool. He knew he'd been filthy but seeing the color of the water when he got out made him shiver. Steve dried off and looked around for something to wear. On the sink, a folded bundle got his attention.

While the prince was washing up, Robin was working in her study, trying to figure out what the prince could even do.

"You could always keep him busy with some heavy lifting", Eddie offered, being very helpful by sitting off to the side and tossing nuts into his mouth.

"You're really not going to tell him, are you? About his father's refusal to come?"

"...I think part of him already knows." Eddie had seen that look many times before. When Nancy had shown up at his doorway, tiny Mike in tow. When he'd found El causing a ruckus in one of his towns. Even the vision of Max popped up in his head. They had all been leaving something behind. But that something turned out to be absolutely nothing to them.

Prince Steven, coming from a long line of Harringtons, born in the lap of luxury with a legacy secured as long as he stayed in line...he didn't want any of it.

Eddie wanted to know why.

Part 7

And he's out of the cell!

Tag Team

@thesuninyaface @only-evanescent @snakeorsquid @ignoremyworld @theclichefortunecookie @goodolefashionedloverboi @just-a-tiny-void @0body0disphoria0 @cinnamon-mushroomabomination @samsoble @sugartin @jamieweasley13 @y4r3luv @xtkxkrzrizir @un-knownperson @greekgeek24 @justdrugsformethanks @potato-of-the-lord

[kaladinkholins]

(concept art of young taigen - source ; art credit: @abigaillarson)

i cannot get over this concept art of young taigen. god.

just look at this angry bratty boy, too many feelings that he doesnt know what to do with! an abused 9 year old kid in poverty always playing with sticks in the dirt, obsessed with greatness and dreaming to escape his decrepit village—and he does!

he does escape. he runs away. this angry little boy, all claws and teeth and biting words uttered with a lisp, going on the run into a world he's never seen before until he makes his way to kyoto. and knowing him he probably forced his way in to be accepted by the dojo, growling and kicking even as he's thrown out, back into the streets, too stubborn to take no for an answer and never knowing when to give up.

taigen calls mizu a dog, weak, an orphan, a scrawny street urchin. but i can't help but think that he feels so bold to use those words because he had them spat at him too.

because taigen had the idea of "this is how the world is" beat into him from birth. he learned quickly that if you couldn't beat the world you could join it. but that meant losing your way, your values, your principles. and isn't that what true honour is? not just titles and status and glory?

we don't get to see what taigen, as a child surrounded by peers encouraging and goading him on, would've actually done if that meteor hadn't fallen right in front of them at that very moment. would he have really tried to throw that stone on mizu, killing her? we don't know.

but we do see what taigen (his true self, with no one around) does, when presented with the same opportunity. when mizu passes out in front of him, unconscious and near death, vulnerable, the path to restoring his honour lays itself out for him on a silver platter. and he wants to take it, wants to kill mizu, to claim what is his and return to kyoto and get back everything he'd worked tooth and nail for. he feels like it's what he should do. but he doesn't.

and later, again he is presented with the chance to betray mizu, likely offered by heiji shindo to get his rank reinstated within the shindo dojo. and again, taigen doesn't take it. he refuses. "stupidly loyal," fowler calls him later. loyal, like a dog.

because now, pulled away from the sneering looks and jeering words of people around him, telling him that this is what the world is, taigen had met ringo and mizu, two outcasts who refuse to follow a predetermined path to greatness. and so inside something blooms in him. something like hope. a chance to live in a world that doesn't kick you down every chance it gets, to live in a world where genuine kindness and and love and friendship and even weakness is possible, allowed to simply exist without fear.

because he'd been running away from the very idea of it the whole time. when he ran from kohama, he never looked back, never wanted to remember what it was like to be a child, afraid and hungry and angry and hurting, without the words to make sense of it, desperately wishing for something. something more. he doesn't know what. but he hears stories of great swordsmen and decides, yes, this must be it. this is what i want: glory, greatness. the twisted seed gets planted and thrives in this barren land.

and when he returns to kohama with mizu and ringo, he at last is forced to stop running. he must face the child within him again, and he tells that child to put down the stones in his hand, tells him to stop barking at anything that moves or looks at him wrong.

the child drops the stone, and taigen buys dumplings instead, gives them to mizu. the child within him, wide-eyed at the prospect of friendship, moves him to pick up a hammer and toss it to mizu. he's smiling inside even as he does it; giggling like a kid hiding a silly prank. as soon as mizu drops the hammer after him, he leaps at her, tackling her to the ground and they wrestle and laugh unbridled like two children playing while the adults aren't around to barge in and yell at them.

and then his gaze catches on mizu's lips, he stares into mizu's eyes, a sparkling blue, inviting like the open sea in good weather.

it's a man's desire that takes hold then, the child in him sinking away again, and he curses himself for it, because it ruins the moment.

everything goes to shit from there, and then it's back to being a man, back to putting on his grown-up's armour to play hero.

it fails. the shogun dies. fowler's beatings reopen all the wounds left by heiji shindo's torture. "honour is meaningless," mizu tells him. "nothing comes from being a samurai but death."

the words follow him, and he follows the words.

as everything burns down, he runs, leaving the fire behind him, and sees akemi, as well as the verdure of spring behind her, calling him. he does not hesitate then to hold his hand out to her, inviting her to come with him. "i don't want to be great," he says. "i just want to be happy."

what is happiness to him? perhaps he doesn't know it yet, or perhaps he does. but really, i believe happiness is what the child in him always wanted but never received. happiness is a home.

[batsarebetterthanpeople]

You know what I've decided that Lucius was dirt fucking poor like the rest of them and then he became a marginally successful hooker and used that money to pay for a tutor or go to a university or whatever. It gives his little "Do we look like prostitutes" "Not terribly successful ones" line new depth, it explains why he's working for Stede (he ran out of money but now he has qualifications to dabble in other occupations, ones that might allow him to travel), and it explains why his go to ways to get out of any given problem are sex and blackmail. I'll bet it's why he's so good at relationships. We like to project relationship councilor onto him, but a relationship councilor would never yell at a client like that. But you know who does yell at clients like that. Prostitutes dealing with entitled Johns. Also that boy has saved multiple Johns' failing marriages through pillow talk. When somebody is paying you to fuck them and then you finish fucking early but he's still got 30 minutes, you might get a guy's life story and he might ask you for some advice, just saying.

He's hooker coded you guys. My third eye just opened. Like he can't be rich because he was "a bit of a pickpocket back in the day" i.e. stealing for an occupation, but he had to get his hands on books somehow to learn to read and that's how. Lucius isn't middle class he's a prostitute. I'm betting that the progression of Lucius's life goes like this:

under 18 - pickpocket street urchin

18- 29 - hooker

29+ - pirate but in a way where he doesn't have to get his hands too dirty.

Also hot take but it might explain why he's not intimidated by Ed. Like the culture of piracy is to respect the captain or get hit, and to look up to these very successful pirates, but that's definitely not the culture of sex work. There was that high profile madam bust in hollywood where Charlie Sheen testified and I can't remember exactly what it was he said but basically it boiled down to "I'm famous. I'm not paying the girls to have sex with me I'm paying them to leave me alone after we have sex." And Ed is rock star coded. What I'm saying is that if Lucius was hooking in the Caribbean he knows at least somebody who has fucked a very famous pirate captain and he knows exactly what embarrassing shit that famous pirate captain asked them to do. He knows about Calico Jack's piss kink and he knows that Charles Vane has a foot fetish, and he has it on very good authority that Captain Kidd likes getting pegged. Blackbeard wouldn't come off so hot if you had all that information in your back pocket is what I'm saying. Like the other guys are looking at Ed like "Oh wow it's pirate Beyonce. he's like a god he's the top of his game he's everything I could ever hope to be." and Lucius is looking at him like "I bet your into pain play, aren't you" And he's right.

[gwenphobic]

COWBOYS ARE NOTHING BUT TROUBLE.

(arthur morgan x pianist at a saloon!male reader)

a/n; sorry for not posting for so long!! gwen stacy x black cat reader will return but rn i’ve had this worm stuck in my head for a min so hold on on that. STAY with me now, this one is good i swearr

You’ve never found it especially appealing, the way cowboys hold themselves and yip and yell about. The way they loiter and accidentally make themselves family men. It’s always been quite annoying though you imagine it is what you would’ve been had your parents been present. Nonetheless, it is not envy you hold toward them but.. annoyance. Yes, that red warmth in your stomach and heat on your face is pure annoyance. And nothing more. Of course.

Your town is small, of no concern. It would never even be dotted out on a map, it is so unimportant. You’ve always imagined what it would be like to leave but have never had the strength. Your place is here at town saloon, fingers dancing around the keyboard. The man who’d taken you had been saloon owner Pete Carter who’d taken your street urchin mind and managed to shift it into something greater, or well, something that makes money. Perhaps, this is why your faith is so strong.

The heat of the day beamed even on your face and flooded the floorboards of the saloon. You sigh. Still, the saloon will open and still will you play away. An Irish woman came in for she was new to town, new to America in a way so obvious. Not much people were here, only the town drunk and a few of the working girls. You sat down with her as she weeped softly, her curly brown tresses falling into her eyes. Her face was bent and curved to her age. She was a mother, you knew and had seen her son and daughter around town often. Trailing upon her like ducks to a mom. Her son was sweet and her daughter, proper. Both young, you didn’t believe either were a day over 6.

“Sir,” she cried, accent thick in her mouth. You rubbed her back before taking her hands. “Yes?” you replied. The mother sighed as she stopped her tears. “I need to write a letter home, but I’ve made no sense of the alphabet. Please do help me, sir,” she said and prayed, “Please know to write.” She looked as desperate as she sounded. She continued, “My Mam has passed, and I don’t know— I need to send my Da a letter. Oh, please, sir!” You shushed her and went to find a piece of paper. That afternoon you’d spent helping her craft a letter home.

As you sent her off, the saloon wasn’t quite full but neither was it empty. A few sat in drunkenness, others sat in a buzz. Some old, some young. It was a comforting feeling, a saloon not so full but neither so empty. You adjusted yourself when you heard it. The sounds of immature folk coming into town. The hooves of horses didn’t stumble as the clambered onto the dirt road. You could feel your stomach tighten with annoyance. Cowboys. Or rather, outlaws. Nonetheless, both were strangely irritating to you. The leather, the boots and all the self-confidence. Can anyone really blame you for holding such disdain? You roll your eyes and sit on the piano bench, beginning to play a tune.

Eventually, the attendance of the church extends and the more proper day drinkers leave. The last to leave is Old Charles McDonald, the union soldier with a limp and a missing tooth. He’s especially fond of his granddaughter who helps him around. He said, some days, he feels crazy. You remember nearly everyone who comes into the saloon, everyone who shares their tale with you. Why would anyone want to forget such history? You begin to help clean up before the sound of jangling spurs throw you off. You froze, completely froze. You turned around;

And there, your worst annoyances stood, an outlaw with two others trailing just before him.

You hid the grimace and continued to wipe down the windows. He wouldn’t be the last cowboy to come out tonight. You just knew the cowboy was walking with some sense of self-importance. You’d only gotten a glimpse but found yourself reflecting on the man’s looks, body. His sandy blond hair and nice tanned skin. Those shining eyes that you were almost certain were a shade of blue or green. You swallowed. He must be popular with the ladies, you came to the conclusion. He’s attractive, alright? Even you can admit that. You pushed a piece of hair behind your ear, suddenly feeling.. insecure of your appearance. But insecure isn’t the right word, maybe just.. very oddly aware.

“Play a good one,” the man shouted out, his more pale friend snorted while the tanner one huffed. You scowled. You’ll play what you want, not what some insolent outlaw wants to hear. Your fingers find the keys and continue the same tune you’ve been playing. The outlaw can deal with it. Faintly, you hear the drunken footsteps coming closer. The saloon is bustling with business now, outlaws and working girls all circulating about.

“Hey there,” he greeted, his voice was faintly reminiscent of a southern accent. He was pretty, his eyes at least. All green and.. nice. You shook the thought away and returned in a hardened voice, “Hi yourself.” The man looked a little embarrassed if not.. nervous. He looked down, his hat shielding his face. “You, uh, you play real nice,” he complimented and a fill of warm crowded inside your stomach. You returned, “Thanks.” You continued playing as he spoke, “I hope.. Uh, we ain’t causing too much trouble for ya.”

You wanted to say something mean, or snarky. Usually, you would. But staring at this.. outlaw— he’s an outlaw, remember— you couldn’t help but fumbling out, “Oh, don’t worry about it. Y’all ain’t no more trouble than a few drunkards.” He smiled nicely. Really, it was a nice smile if you ignore how beat up his teeth seem to be. “Alright,” he drawled, “good.” The sound of the piano and chattering of the saloon kept the scene from being awkward. “I’m Arthur,” he added like it was an afterthought. You told him your name. “That’s a nice one,” he said and looked as if he was about to say something else before one of his friends called him back over.

“It’s alright,” you said, “go.” Arthur smiled a little brighter and touched your shoulder. “This ain’t the last you’ve seen of me,” he said lightheartedly before stepping back and returning to the bar. You could feel your face all warm, you inhaled. What was that feeling? Hate, maybe. But hate doesn’t make you all flustered like that. He didn’t even do nothing! You grimaced.

It was gonna be a long night.

[ocean-sunfish-hater]

Wasps enter the stone age

Think about animals that use tools. The first ones that come to mind are probably us, other primates and birds. Some of you may think of octopods and even sea urchins. But we don't usually associate insects with tool use.

Here it's important for me to distinguish between tool use and construction. Construction can involve the usage of external materials to build structures that aid the animals - think carpenter bees and termites. Tool use, on the other hand, involves the use of external material to aid in a specific task. Crucially, tools are often discarded after the task is complete.

ID: a close-up image of a species of digger wasp, Ammophila ferrugineipes. It has a black body with orange sections on its abdomen and legs. The body is incredibly slender, more so than the more common yellowjacket wasps. It is sat upon a grey rock, and the background is a blurred green.

Digger wasps are a group of wasps that make a nest for their young by, you guessed it, digging. Whilst some wasps use their abdomens to pack down dirt, some use their heads and mandibles to do the same. And interestingly, almost all of these wasps are also NERDS and have figured out how to use tools. They'll take stones and pebbles and repeatedly tap the soil in order to compact it, thereby improving the structural integrity of their burrows. Whilst some then use those stones to block the entrance, most will just throw them away after use.

Isn't that cool? Wasps! In the stone age! Just goes to show that neural complexity and tool use don't really go hand in hand, and that surprising behaviours can develop all across the animal kingdom.

[justporo]

A/N: So a little while back on a Discord server something came up about nosebleeds and my head immediately went: haha, Astarion would surely lick that off his partner face no matter that it's kinda disgusting. So have creechur Astarion and also my first official piece for my babygirl Fox!

Pairing: Astarion/Fox(Fem!Tav) Wordcount: 1,2k Warnings: blood and Astarion being a little weirdo about it

Nosebleeds

The fight had been vicious. Everyone in the group had taken a good beating but this time Fox had gotten the worst of it. When Shadowheart had been struck down she had had no other choice but to move from her ranged position to help her friend - resulting in having been beaten and sliced by one of the several Bhaalites the group had been fighting.

At least now it was done with no major losses. Fox looked a little worse for wear but she insisted that she had been roughed up worse before on the streets of Baldur’s Gate as Karlach helped her up and she tried to rub some of the grime and gore off of herself.

It was no help though: blood and dirt was all over her and her red brown hair and she was holding her side - obviously more hurt than she wanted to acknowledge.

Astarion quickly rushed over to her, catching her in his arms before she could stumble to the ground again. There was honest concern in his eyes. The rest of the group took a step back - they very graciously gave the fresh couple their moment. Although - as some of them seemed to say with their glances - they got these moments fairly often.

“Darling, are you sure you can keep going like this?” the vampire asked with an arched eyebrow. Fox scoffed at him and immediately tried to brush him off. She was used to hiding pain and weakness as growing up as an urchin on the streets of this city.

And it was a habit that died hard even with a bunch of people around her caring about her. Too deep ingrained were the manners of acting like a lone survivor.

Astarion rolled his eyes a little, knowing how his beloved absolutely hated being told what to do - and knowing it was even harder for her to accept help.

But she definitely needed a break and maybe Halsin would have to patch her up a little as well. So he would have to resort to other options to convince her. Thankfully by now Astarion had a bit of experience on how to make her take an offered supportive hand.

“My heart,” he began again, cupping Fox’s face and running his thumbs over her cheeks and the freckles there, “you’ll scare all of our targets right off if you keep walking around looking like this.”

“Looking like what?” Fox immediately responded, squinting silver eyes at her vampire, pursing her lips.

Astarion clicked his tongue and waved one hand up and down her form with a pitiful look on his face: “Disgusting, darling.”

Fox swatted his arm - hard - with almost all of her remaining power. “That’s no way to talk to a lady,” she scolded the vampire, sticking a finger into his face but a grin already played on her lips. Somewhere behind her Lae’zel could be heard moaning at the interaction between the two lovers.

“Usually you do the best to claim that you’re anything but a lady, my sweet. You can’t just choose to be and be treated like one whenever it pleases you,” Astarion said and clicked his tongue, lifting one eyebrow again in judgment.

“Tsk, you’re just afraid to be seen with me like this,” Fox gave back a little more weakly. Her injuries really were draining her, it was easily seen now. Astarion tightened his grip on her slightly. His haughty expression dropped, allowing for true and honest concern to fill his crimson eyes. Carefully he moved his hand to brush back a single strand of hair out of the smaller wood elf’s face. She smiled back at him at the gentle gesture.

But there was still a little mischievous sparkle in his crimson eyes. He leaned his forehead against Fox’s.

“Maybe I am,” he whispered and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. (More moaning from Lae’zel.)

Fox heaved a dramatic sigh after the vampire broke the kiss. “Well then,” she said “can’t have the lovely nobleman walk around with a miserable, disgusting wretch on his arm, eh?”

“Ah, thank you so much for understanding, Fox my love,” the vampire responded and cupped her cheek again to press another kiss onto her lips while he wrapped his other arm around her, allowing her to kind of melt into him.

This time though it was interrupted when Fox felt something warm and wet run down her lip. Her nose had begun to bleed. Probably another consequence of the vicious fight that had just ended.

Fox tore away from Astarion, immediately going to wipe her face with the back of her hand as she felt blood already run down her lips and chin. But with his roguish dexterity Astarion was much quicker: he grabbed hold of Fox’s wrists then moved in again as if going for another kiss. But in fact he licked up the fresh blood running down her face - making a little show of it too. Making sure not a single drop of fresh blood went to waste.

Lae’zel’s moaning turned into outright retching noises - joined by some cackling from Karlach and Halsin and comments on how the vampire should keep his gnarly tongue in his mouth by Shadowheart. Gale and Wyll just looked a little startled by what they had to observe out on the open street.

Astarion ended by licking over your lips, making it a lot more lascivious than it had to be and thereby drawing a playful smile from his partner. He ended the whole act with another kiss which Fox quickly deepened, tasting her own blood on the tip of the vampire’s tongue when she pulled him a little closer. Astarion gave a little content hum, intrigued by how the smaller elf had quickly become prone to very public displays of affection - she had learned terribly quickly from him.

She drew back after some more heartbeats. “Maybe a bath and some rest would actually be nice,” she murmured and smiled at Astarion in a way that was clearly asking if he would be joining her.

The vampire’s face lit up knowing he had broken her defiance to a much needed rest. Astarion gave her a smile that answered her unasked question as well as being filled with love and affection.

But before she could turn away so they could make their way back to the Elfsong, the vampire grabbed her face again.

“Wait, love, you still have a little something there,” he murmured and leaned back in to run his tongue over her face again, catching another streak of blood - directly under her nose.

Fox’s nose scrunched up as Astarion now licked the rest of the blood off her rather as if he was a cat trying to clean a kitten. She softly struggled against it but the rogue had her face firmly in his hands and he made sure nothing was left behind.

“Astarion! For someone who just called me disgusting you really have double standards,” the wood elf moaned and pushed her vampire off her finally with her fingers splayed over his face. But it was too late anyway: Astarion ran his tongue over his lips and teeth, fangs glistening before he laughed and and carefully looped an arm around his injured partner.

“Don’t worry, darling, we can be dirty and disgusting together as soon as we are in the privacy of a tub at the Elfsong,” he lewdly promised in a low voice.

Fox laughed and bumped him with her hip. The rest of the group simply were in different stages of burying their faces in their hands for having to put up with the two love doves.

[allzelemonz]

Street Urchin: Dutch Van der Linde X Male Reader

Fictober Prompt: Day 1, Age Play Pronouns: he/him, Reader referred to as ‘boy’ and ‘son’ Physical Sex: AMAB Rating: E/Smut Warnings: Age play, role play, begging, slight pain/rough handling, anal fingering, anal sex, prostate massage, biting, neck kissing, dirty talk, teasing Summary: Dutch suggested you pretend to be one of those young street boys while in Saint Denis so he can teach you a lesson.

Dutch had asked about it before. He likes his partners younger than him and he thought it could be fun if you acted younger than you are. Well aware that you’re not some sniveling brat of a teenage boy, he seems all too happy that you’re acting like one. His fist is curled into your shirt, a size too big to really sell it. His idea. The bit of dirt on your face was also his idea, making you look like a street urchin in the slum alleyway of Saint Denis. And, of course also his idea, is his pocket watch in your hand. With Dutch glaring down at you with those menacing eyes and stern face, you actually begin to feel like some kid that got caught picking a man’s pocket.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, boy?” Dutch says with a venom you haven’t ever heard directed at you.

The nerves come easy, hardly acting. “I-I wasn’t doing-”

“Stealing.” Dutch chides, his voice mocking. “And doing quite a poor job of it too.”

Your breath hitches when you try to speak this time. Dutch wrestles the watch from your hand, shoving it back into his pocket. His fist tugs you closer only to press you hard back into the wall as he steps closer. In normal circumstances, you’d be hard from his rough handling by now, but those eyes make you shiver instead.

“You need to be taught a lesson, don’t you, son?”

You shake your head lightly. “I ain’t gonna do it again, mister. Honest!”

That brings a smirk to Dutch’s face and you can’t tell if it’s because you threw on a little voice for him or if it’s the situation itself. His free hand winds into your hair and tugs at it to make you look up at him, your knees buckling slightly from the hold and allowing Dutch to fully tower over you.

“You ain’t gonna learn a damn thing if you got no one to teach ya, son.”

It’s a fluid motion, one that makes you gasp before you groan when you hit the wall. Your chest hurts, flush against the bricks as air struggles to reach your lungs again. Dutch shoves your head forward and your cheek digs against the harsh texture. His other hand is already at your pants, tugging them down.

“Ya ain’t gonna hurt me, are ya, mister?” You ask, keeping that voice in case Dutch likes it.

You can feel his breath on your neck, his voice that low rumble it usually is when you do something to please him. “Oh, I ain’t gonna hurt ya, son. Just pay attention, you may learn somethin’ useful.”

“S-Sure, mister.”

He takes that in stride, letting your pants drop to your ankles and pressing himself flush against your. You can feel his familiar hardness digging into your ass as his hand kneads the other cheek. When he gives a small slap to it, you whimper and it makes him chuckle.

“You done this before, son?”

“N-No, sir.”

His hand rubs gently at what you assume is reddening skin. “Good.”

There’s a wet sound, then Dutch’s finger at your hole. He circles the rim, letting the spit wetten it and you can’t resist the urge to push back. The hand in your hair tugs and his arm stiffens to hold you still. You take the hint, only arching your back in an attempt to get more. He does push inside, very slowly, like anyone would with a virgin. He’s careful, circling and crooking with slow movement. His second finger stretches you when he presses it along the first and this time he lets himself go for that nice spot, hitting it only lightly.

Putting yourself in the mind of your young self, thinking of the first time that little spot was found, you try to remember how you reacted and give it to Dutch.

“Like that, son?” He whispers, his lip grazing your ear. “You can do that to yourself too, next time you’re alone and thinking of a strong man fucking a runt like you.”

You gasp when he digs in, his fingers hitting relentlessly against it for a moment before he lets you breathe. He returns to idle movements, a third finger opening you up too. Your head is clouded by the sudden rush, you hardly register the motions as he lines himself up. Your senses only return when he begins to press inside and the hand in your hair drops to cover your mouth.

“That’s it.” Dutch whispers, slowly guiding your hips with his free hand. “See, even dirty little brats can be good boys.” He grunts, thrusting in the last inch and forcing you flat against the wall again. “Ya just needed a firm hand, didn’t ya, kid?”

His hand leaves your mouth in favor of your other hip and you let your forehead rest against the cold bricks. “Yes, sir.”

Dutch pulls back, his hands holding you in place against the wall and giving you no chance of bracing yourself. His hips snap forward and you hold in the noises that threaten to spill, your eyes very keenly aware of the light population on the street a few yards away. He wastes no time, quickly picking a punishing pace that makes you screw your eyes shut and your legs widen unconsciously.

“Yer takin’ me well, kid.” Dutch mutters by your ear. “I ain’t your first am I? You fool around with your little friends like this or is it another man that has you so well trained?”

You gasp when he bites at your neck. “M-Mister, please-”

“Articulate, boy.” Dutch chides between nips. “Ain’t gettin’ nowhere in life unless you let a man know what you want.”

“I wanna cum, mister.” You whine, putting in the extra effort to keep up that young urchin voice in your dizzied state. “Please?”

“Ain’t my job, son.” Dutch grunts, his hips beginning to stutter. “But I ain’t gonna stop ya.”

You wriggle your arm between yourself and the wall, desperate to get a hand around yourself while Dutch is still fucking you. He’s close, making all those familiar sounds as his fingers dig at your hips. You have to hurry. Contorting your arm, you get a fist formed and pump quickly. The heat builds with the motion and when Dutch groans in your ear, his hips stilling and pressing into you as he cums, you desperately twist and pump in an effort to match him. It doesn’t take much with all that Dutch has fucked into you, your wrist flicking so much from the odd angle that it hurts by the time you’re spurting onto the bricks.

With a hazy head and heavy breath, you can only just feel the feather light kisses Dutch presses onto your neck. “Alright, my dear?”

You hum, not quite capable of speech yet.

“I must say, you play quite the urchin.”

You smile, laughing lightly, but it turns to a groan as he pulls himself out of you.

“I hope we do this again, my dear.” He says, pulling your pants up for you. “I rather enjoyed myself.”

[ashs-cardboard-box]

Street rat

~ Hosea Matthews/Teen!Male!Reader

~ Familial (found family)

~ 3.2k words

Request :3

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Growing up a street urchin was far from easy, much less, when you’ve just barely turned fourteen. Often spending your nights scrounging the city of Saint Denis for any sort of food or shelter, only to get spit on and degraded as soon as the sun rose the next morning. You could count on one hand the amount of meals you’ve had in a month. Like most orphaned kids, having to turn to thievery as a means of survival.

Usually, you could get away with it all, growing a knack for pickpocketing. It was easiest to pick off the stupid or the drunk, but they didn’t always have the most money on their persons. When you got particularly desperate, you’d snatch someone’s coin purse and just pray you could outrun the lawmen. Taking shelter in whatever crack or crevice you could slink your nimble body into.

Naturally, when you saw a group of strange individuals one evening, wandering around the streets of Saint Denis, bickering about the lifestyle of the folk living here, you thought you struck oil. They all stuck out like a sore thumb between the whores and the rich pricks. Your eyes picked over each and every outfit, taking specific note of the worn, leather satchel, strung across one of the taller gentlemans’ torsos. Surely these folks had something to offer?

While you hadn’t been taught to read nor write, you were smart and resourceful. Yet, in that same instance, desperate for anything. It had been a couple days since you'd last eaten; having to hide out in an old alley in that time to avoid the hunt across Saint Denis that had been sparked against “that little street urchin robbing folk”. You didn’t want to imagine what would happen to you if you got caught– from lawmen to regular civilians– to you, they were all bad.

Watching. Waiting. Hiding behind whatever objects you could with your eyes locked on that one goal– the man’s satchel. You could practically feel the leather underneath your fingertips. The indents of the coins inside. Unfortunately, you got careless and sloppy. Feeling your blood run cold as soon as the group started to head back to their horses, all tied to an old hitch rail, you knew your time was limited before there would be more eyes on you than you could count.

Rushing out from your hiding spot and weaving your way through the group, only to finally get your dirt caked hands onto that satchel. Digging your fingers around it firmly and tugging, pulling it from the man in just two short pulls. You were surprised that the strap had snapped. Staring at the satchel now in hand, it took only a few milliseconds to register what it is you had just done, before you actually gathered your bearings and took off running.

“Damn it, kid!” you hear a gruff voice shout from behind you, but you don’t stop. Your bare feet hitting the rough, cobblestone road below, listening to the scuffing of several boots behind you. You were used to the chase. It was damn exhilarating, practically feeling the adrenaline rushing through your veins.

You thought you had made it away successfully. No longer did you hear the bickering nor shouting of angry men and women as you ran from them. That was, until you hit something akin to a wall, knocking you off your feet and right onto your ass on the pavement below. Instinctively, you clutch the satchel to your chest like your life depends on it. Panting heavily as you look up at what stopped you.

A strangely stressed man with a weird scar on the right side of his jaw and cheek, interrupting the growth of his facial hair. His face was contorted into a scowl, his chest heaving just as yours was. You could hear a few more people approaching quickly, and you could only imagine they were a part of the same group the man was. Your wide eyes don’t leave his own.

“Gimme the damn bag,” the man demands. His voice sounding hoarse and breathless as he glares down at you like you were nothing more than scum underneath his boot. Stubbornly, you shake your head. He didn’t like that in the slightest. He crouches down to your height and yanks the collar of your shirt, pulling you face to face with himself.

“I ain’t askin’, brat. Gimme the damn bag or I swear I’ll–” the man is interrupted by another, but you’re too focused on the man grabbing you to look away. The satchel clutched tightly to your boney chest. “Let the boy go, John. He ain’t hurtin’ anyone..” the new man sighs, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder, whom you now know is John.

John looks over his shoulder towards the other man, he looks quite a bit older than John, you note. Reluctantly, John scoffs and lets you go with a shove to your chest, standing back up again and folding his arms over his chest. 

Instead of demanding the satchel from you, the older man digs around in his pocket for a brief moment before pulling out a roll of banknotes. Flipping through them as he counts mentally. Cautiously extending them down to you as if you were rabid. Your eyes flick down to the money, then down to the leather satchel in hand, before up into the old man’s eyes. He looks sincere and gentle. Something you’re quite not used to. Either run the risk of having the satchel be empty and keep it, or take the money from the man and run the risk of passing up a large sum.

You hesitate for a long moment, making the group grow impatient and groan, silently demanding you to make a choice. The man’s gentle gaze never wavers from you, showing you that it’s okay to take your time. Sighing heavily, you tentatively reach up in an attempt to try and take the money from the man, only for him to pull it away from you.

“Satchel first,” he says quietly as he extends his free hand to take it. He was wise, you note. Possibly assuming you would take both and run off. You huff through your nose before roughly setting the satchel into the man’s hand. Grinning warmly, he sets the roll of banknotes down into your lap. “Arthur,” he says gruffly as he stands back up with a small groan. His movements are stiff and uncomfortable, probably due to age. A third man with longer, sandy blond hair– Arthur, snatches his bag out of the older gentleman’s hand, earning a hearty chuckle from the man.

You inspect the roll closely. It’s almost hard to believe he just..offered it to you. No doubt it was to pay you off, but you had never earned anything that wasn’t stolen before. You look back up at the man in confusion as his friends walk back down the street to their horses. Slowly rising to your feet and clasping your new money protectively to your chest. The pockets on your overalls having long fallen off.

“What’s your name, boy?” the man inquires as he looks down at you. Your eyes narrow as you look back up at him. You didn’t trust this in the slightest. People weren’t nice to you, that’s just not how things were. The man sighs and looks over your head to where his group is retreating into the saloon.

“Fine. I’ll start. My name is Hosea Matthews, and you are-?” He, Hosea, trails off. Looking back down at you encouragingly. You grumble strings of profanity under your breath and look away from him, your trust issues on full display. Closing yourself off as you cross your arms over your chest, your money still clutched protectively in one of your hands.

“Y/N..” you mumble, shuffling uncomfortably underneath Hosea’s warm gaze. It felt crushing. Having been left without care or guidance for so long, any sort of kindness was foreign.

“Atta boy!” Hosea praises with a chuckle, slowly reaching forward and ruffling your greasy hair through his bony fingers. You scowl as you stare up at Hosea underneath your eyelashes. “How old’re you, Y/N?” he asks calmly, entirely unfazed by your piercing eyes as he pulls his hand back.

“You ask too many questions, old man.” you bark, taking a step away from Hosea. It’s not that you didn’t want the kindness, far from it actually. You just didn’t know what to do with it. You were never taught proper manners or politeness. No mother to teach you how to read nor write. No father to teach you to hunt nor shoot. It’s always been just you.

Hosea, however, finds great amusement in your outburst. Grinning widely as he takes a knee in front of you, getting down to your eye level. Pressing his palms into the denim of his jeans over his knees.

“Can’t say I disagree with that.” He muses with a chuckle. His eyes flick over your scrawny form entirely. Picking apart your mud and sweat stained shirt, underneath your tattered and torn denim overalls, of which he can only assume used to be blue. He can practically see your bones due to not eating properly, and it only makes him feel sympathetic to you. 

“Listen, kid. You got potential and I know we ain’t exactly..acquainted, so to speak- but what’d you say if i offered you a good meal everyday and a place to sleep?” Hosea asks abruptly, causing you to grow even more confused. What did this guy want from you? There was no way in hell he was just..offering these things to you, right? 

Seeing your reasonable apprehension, he continues. “I can- I can talk to Dutch and get everything situated if you’d like?” he suggests hopefully, to which your eyes widen with a realization. Dutch.. Where have you heard that name before?

“Dutch?” you echo, allowing him to nod in confirmation. “Heard the name before, I reckon? Dutch Van Der Linde?” Hosea inquires, cocking his head to the side as he studies your reaction, a grin playing across his chapped lips.

You swallow thickly and nod hesitantly. Dutch is well known around Saint Denis. Horror stories being told amongst townsfolk of the atrocities their gang has done. In that moment, you felt a mixture of confusion and fear. You regret attempting to steal from an outlaw; from Arthur– known for being so closely tied with Dutch himself. Yet all of this begs the question:

“What do you want with me..?” you mumble, feeling your heart race nervously in his chest. It was strange. Usually, it only beat like that after getting chased by the law. Standing here now, in front of Hosea, you felt a conflicting tsunami of emotions crashing inside you. Beginning to mindlessly fidget with the money in hand.

“Like I said, boy. You got potential to be a fine young man. We could use that around camp, y’know. You’d still have to work like the rest of us, but you’ll be fed ‘n cared for.” Hosea grins, carefully reaching forward and placing a supportive hand onto your shoulder. His thumb gently rubbing over your shoulder.

His touch was foreign to you. His kindness was like no other. You’d never admit it, but for the first time in your life, you felt like you actually had a father. While not trusting this strange, new man entirely, you couldn’t deny the innate curiosity to check out what this “camp” has to offer. Maybe it’d beat living out on the streets, vulnerable to the elements. Tentatively, you nod.

Hosea chuckles as he stands back up straight, his joints audibly cracking with each movement. He moves his hand back into your hair, ruffling it once more before walking off, silently telling you to follow. Walking next to him, you’re nervous and tense– a stark contrast to his calm demeanor, as if he’s done this before.

This was an incredibly stupid idea, you think, one of your most yet. Despite this, you allow him to help you mount his horse. Shifting uncomfortably atop the saddle as he takes his seat right in front of you before taking off. Startled, you wrap your arms around his waist tightly, your cheek pressed against Hosea’s back, earning an amused chuckle from him.

“Scared?” He teases, to which you shake your head subtly. He can feel your racing heartbeat against his back, it’s clear to him you’ve never ridden a horse before. With one hand on the reins, he moves the other down to your arms around his waist. His calloused hand rubbing up and down your forearm soothingly, careful to not nudge your bankrolls and make you think he’s trying to take them back.

The ride from Saint Denis and through some old woods is mostly silent. The various sounds in the surrounding environment is the only thing heard. Sounds of wildlife, occasional gunfire and screams, the horses’ hooves trotting against the dirt path below, paved by the past voyages of many. Taking in the different foliage, you only wish you could keep those flowers burned into your memory forever.

Hosea slows his horse as they approach a small clearing. Grumbling a small “sit tight” as he carefully dismounts his horse, leaving you sat on his saddle in confusion. Your eyes watching over his every move closely. His boots brush aside different weeds and plants until he crouches down, looking over his shoulder towards you.

“You see this, kid?” He chimes as he gestures to a strange plant amidst the rest of the foliage. Having small clusters of red berries over it’s large leaves. Without waiting for your response, he continues. “Ginseng. Good for a buncha shit.” he clarifies confidently. Digging his knee into the dirt as he grabs the plant by the base, attempting to tug it up but with no success.

 Huffing as he pulls his hand back from the plant, digging his thumb into his sore palm as he looks back over his shoulder towards you. Taking the hint, you hop down from Hosea’s horse. Stuffing your money into his saddlebags for safekeeping before shuffling over towards him. 

Crouching down just like Hosea, you wrap your whole hand around the base. Only to have him gently guide your hand down to the very bottom, closest to the roots and the dirt below. With his guidance, you start to tug on it. Your hands shake from the force until eventually, the roots snap free. Sending you backwards and right back down onto your ass in the dirt. 

Looking down at the plant in your, now sore, hand, a satisfied grin spreads across your face. Hosea laughs as he pats your back. “Good job, son! Ain’t seen one that big in a long while” he praises before slowly standing back up, helping you up as well.

It felt..oddly nice. Being called son. Having some sort of father figure in your life. Instead of getting pissed off like you normally would’ve, you can’t help but to share Hosea’s sentiment. You’re proud of yourself. You had never even considered harvesting such things before, as Saint Denis isn’t exactly known for its foliage. Glancing back up towards Hosea brightly, offering him the ginseng plant.

“How’d you know what it- y’know- was.. I guess?” you ask curiously as he takes the plant from you, walking right back over to his horse and placing it into his saddlebags. “Been ‘round quite a long time, kiddo. You learn a couple things over the years.” Hosea responds with a soft chuckle. Briefly inspecting his palm before offering to help you back up onto the horse, which you accept gratefully.

“Can you teach me ‘bout all that stuff, Hosea?” He nods eagerly. It was a hassle trying to teach Arthur about the medicinal value of different herbs and plants. He was glad someone was taking interest in it. He was unsure of just how long he had left, after all. Mounting his horse and sitting in front of you once again as you take off.

It’s a long while until you make it to, what you can only presume is, Hosea’s camp. All sorts of tents, wagons, horses, and people around a large clearing between the trees. Practically starry eyed as you looked over it all. Yet, unfortunately, everyone else didn’t share the same sentiment.

While not stopping their tasks, you could feel their eyes boring holes into your skin, only serving to make you nervous. Following in Hosea’s shadow as you dismount his horse once more. Having him pull out a few strange objects, the ginseng, and your money, before another gang member approaches and takes his horse. The man seemed timid, much like you felt, but you tried to be the strong-headed boy everyone wanted you to be.

Hosea is confident in each and every step. Unwavering under the stares of his colleagues. Marching right up to one of the open tents, with you following behind like a lost puppy. Your eyes flick across the interior as Hosea begins to speak with the man, whom you can only assume to be the owner. Taking in everything you can before you finally look up to meet the man. None other than Dutch Van Der Linde himself.

You could feel yourself shrink in his presence. He wasn’t as scary nor demonic as people made him out to be, but his stature was intimidating no less. You could hear Hosea speaking to him, trying to convince him to let you stay, but his words were jumbled to you. All you can focus on were Dutch’s eyes. It was as if they held no emotion behind them whatsoever. His expression remaining stoic as he looks down towards you, hiding behind Hosea’s leg, before back up to his co-founder. 

Utter silence. You couldn’t tell what was running through the man's head in that moment, but Hosea seemed to be able to read him like a book. The only response Dutch gives is an exasperated “fine,” much to Hosea’s surprise.

Hosea beams as he gently ushers you forth into Dutch’s direct line of sight, his hands gently on your shoulders as if a proud father. You give a sheepish wave with your free hand, your other clutching your roll of banknotes tightly– almost too tightly. Hosea’s hands reassure you slightly, but not enough. He introduces you to both Dutch and anyone around to listen.

As much as they distrust you, some of them can’t help but notice how similar you are to them when they were kids. Namely, John and Arthur. Picked up by Hosea off the streets, introduced to Dutch, and given the closest thing any of them call home.

Naturally, over time, everyone grew closer. No longer suspicious of you being an O’Driscoll in disguise, treating you as one of their own. Learning all sorts of new things from the only man you could ever know as your father, Hosea Matthews.

He would reassure you on those lonesome nights where the thoughts ran rampant through your head. Holding you close to his chest and letting you cry it all out until you, inevitably, fall asleep right in his arms in his bedroll. You were his pride and joy ever since his dear Bessie passed on. He could only focus on giving you the world as much as he was able.

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This ones a long one </3 but I hope you like it :3