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Prompt: Horse ride. Vandermorgan.

His white horse flies across the meadow. Its silky smooth hair fluttering in the wind. The man on its back a bloody contrast. Red and black atop majestic white.

His preferred house. His beloved.

The Count.

A king’s steed.

He yells into the wind and the air carries it to him. Like a siren song.

“Come on, son! You can do better!” A wide smile splits his face and his eyes crinkle at the corner. His hair whips around his face and Arthur bites his lower lip.

His eyes widen in wonder. The blue taking in the scene before him. He pushes in his legs and his horse picks up speed.

The wind is strong. The sun shinning.

Dutch has always been breathtaking.

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"Your Arthur." UGHHH the declaration of ownership in this statement. Quickly followed by "Your pillar." Because Dutch needs Arthur. There's this cloying mutual dependency between them that not even death itself could smother.

This post has once again ignited a flame in me. I wanna ask, when we're talking about zombie arthur do you have an idea about where in the timeline he died, and how? (only because I've been assuming its earlier in the canon timeline if only so that other camp members are there as a sane foil to Dutch's gradual slippage from reality)

I can't stop thinking about the time in-between Arthur's death and his posthumous return. What kind of state would he be in? Complete despondency? Refusing to accept any consolation or comfort; barely talking, never eating or sleeping, completely trapped in his own head. Or perhaps it was a vengeful mania, his self-assured facade unraveling into something uncontrollable. With his pillar gone, the whole thing collapses.

So I can only imagine the moment that Arthur — his boy, his everything — came back to him. Limping disconcertingly towards Dutch. If he came back in the middle of camp I have no idea they'd have guns pointed on this damned monster that crawled its way out of the grave. But not Dutch. Dutch would walk towards Arthur without fear, breaking him out of his spell of grief and channeling all that emotion into devotion for his faithful reborn son.

It's almost like they both died when Arthur did, and likewise they both came back when Arthur did. But they're both back wrong (however I for one encourage this unhealthy behavior, godspeed ^_^).

“There's this cloying mutual dependency between them that not even death itself could smother.” exactlyyyyy exactly exactly godddddd they could never survive without the other— the second Arthur died Dutch died with him— that was his boy, his eldest, his first, his pillar, who is Dutch without him but a leader in free fall?

i know for a fact Dutch refers to Arthur as his inside his head like you know how he’s always like ‘my boy’ like i knowwwwww he means that shit literally that is his boy his Arthur, nobody else’s thats his boy his his his his his

i know he is beyond possessive over Arthur, like anytime Arthur does anything in his honor he’s like ah, my boy, feeding my people for me or my Arthur, killing in cold blood for me out of his own choice— like i think Arthur choosing to do things for him would be the sexiest damn thing to him— he would literally never find anything sexier like oh… for me? out of your own free will? (because unlike Colm, Dutch is about choice) and Arthur is a let me serve you to prove my love so they are literally perfect for each other like djfhjfndndknf

as for the timeline i actually have not one clue. for this one zombie Arthur story i was thinking, i followed your red thread when you asked about the other gang members and then i imagined kf Arthur died quite earlier, maybe at Colm’s, maybe somewhere else, but he died on some mission i’m thinking and so when he comes back everyone is freaked out, they are screaming, running away but he is walking calmly, so so calmly towards Dutch’s tent and Dutch comes out to see whats going on and he’s so shocked and the second Arthur sees him, he calls his name and it’s the first time he spoke since he came back, D- Dutch, and Dutch’s eyes burn and he walks forward with purpose and he says oh, my boy and he gathers him up into his arms and then after that he just refuses to let him go lmao

im thinking the boys were away on some stage robbery so they didn’t shoot him but even if they did, he wouldn’t die and he would be walking with a mindless one minded purpose towards Dutch because Dutch will make sense of everything and it’s a palm for both of them, because Dutch finally has his boy back and Arthur finally is with Dutch and Dutch will take care of him and make the noise and fear settle and they both lend each other strength like that— Dutch’s mania calms and Arthur isn’t as afraid of being a monster because Dutch is here and Dutch isn’t flinching away but looking at him with awe and speaking to him in hushed whispers, you came back to me or oh, i missed you so, Arthur or he would joke sometimes, you finally got your little vacation away from us then, and Arthur can’t smile anymore because his jaw hangs open but his eyes turn upwards a little like he is anyway and Dutch gathers him close and kisses him and kisses him again and again and again because he can’t— because thats his boy, returned to him onnghhhh

anon you get them so much i cry like yes they both died when Arthur died and they both returned when he did but they returned wrong and now Arthur is a monster and the shame eats at him and Dutch is even more paranoid something else will take his boy away (the gang, death again, strangers getting scared etc)

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hand slipped srry

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thought some of you might appreciate this (feat. a random npc)

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im ur number one

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do you think this is penitence or

would you call it the consequence for

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listening to camp convo's for writing purposes and the "you are precious to me, real precious" threw me out of furqing orbit, i almost started projectile vomiting all over the place.

dutchjohn core etc

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madurita

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panther Dutch

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The air buzzed with music and wealth inside the mayor’s mansion, golden chandeliers glowing warm above silk gowns and polished shoes. But it wasn’t the champagne or the caviar that left Dutch van der Linde a little drunk tonight— it was Arthur Morgan.

Dutch had expected Arthur to clean up well enough. The man was solid in every sense— tall, broad, dependable. But what walked out of the hired carriage tonight wasn’t the Arthur he was used to.

This Arthur stood in a crisp black tuxedo, freshly shaved with his hair combed back, the candlelight catching on the faint red flush of his cheeks. And Lord help Dutch, the bow tie was slightly crooked. He hadn’t even noticed it was his own hand reaching to fix it until Arthur stiffened a little, eyes flicking to him.

“You clean up real nice, son,” Dutch said, soft but warm, smoothing the lapel of Arthur’s jacket longer than he should’ve. “Could’ve warned a man.”

Arthur muttered something about how this wasn’t his kind of party, tugging at his cuffs like they were too tight. He didn’t meet Dutch’s eyes, and Dutch couldn’t blame him. Dutch had always dressed sharp— presentation mattered—but he’d gone the extra step tonight. Black velvet jacket, the kind that shimmered faintly when he moved, and a gold pocket watch glinting at his side. His mustache was waxed into perfection, which Hosea had teased him about for half the ride over.

Bill was already halfway through a glass of brandy, muttering under his breath about “rich folk” and how many kinds of fish eggs there were. Hosea, calm as ever, had posted himself by the bar and was people-watching with the amused distance of someone who knew he wasn’t ever going to be truly impressed.

Dutch, however, wasn’t paying attention to the guests. Or the plan, really. Not when Arthur was standing next to him looking like that.

“You alright, Arthur?” he asked as they made their slow pass through the ballroom.

Arthur nodded, kept his hands in his pockets. “Just don’t see how this helps anything. Feels wrong. Pretendin’.”

“You’re not pretending anything,” Dutch murmured, voice dropping. “You belong here more than any of these bastards.”

Arthur glanced at him, quick and sharp, then just as quickly looked away. His ears were red. Dutch smiled.

“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” Arthur muttered under his breath, flustered.

Dutch leaned in just slightly, as if examining something over Arthur’s shoulder. “Just admiring the company I keep.”

Hosea cleared his throat loudly from a few feet away. Dutch stepped back, a touch too slow.

Arthur busied himself with a passing tray of champagne. “You’re gonna get us both looked at.”

“Let ’em look,” Dutch said, hand brushing the small of Arthur’s back as they moved through the crowd. “Let the whole damn city see what a real man looks like in a suit.”

Arthur nearly choked on his drink.

Bill wandered over and glanced between them. “You alright, Arthur? Lookin’ a little red.”

Arthur glared. “Fine.”

Dutch just chuckled and handed him a handkerchief, tucking it into Arthur’s breast pocket with a little pat that definitely lingered. “There. That’s better.”

Arthur looked like he might combust on the spot. He still couldn’t meet Dutch’s eyes. Dutch didn’t mind. Not one bit. The boy could stay pink-cheeked and bashful all night long— he looked beautiful that way.

Dutch kept close, too close. Fingertips brushing arms, leaning in when he didn’t need to, speaking low with that honeyed voice that Arthur usually rolled his eyes at—but tonight it was making him fidget like a schoolboy.

The night wore on, the mission proceeding as planned—but Dutch barely remembered the details. What he remembered was the way Arthur’s voice caught when Dutch whispered something close to his ear, the way his mouth twitched when Dutch complimented his smile like it was a casual thing.

When they finally stepped back out into the night air, the noise of the party behind them, Arthur exhaled like he’d been holding it in for hours.

Dutch leaned in again, this time without the excuse of a crowd. “You looked good in there, Arthur. Real good.”

Arthur finally met his eyes—just for a second—and Dutch felt it like a shot to the chest.

“You too,” Arthur mumbled, before walking fast to the carriage.

It was quiet inside the carriage. The kind of quiet that felt heavy. Arthur sat stiff beside Dutch, legs wide like he was bracing for turbulence that wasn’t coming. His hat was in his lap, his eyes locked on the passing scenery, jaw working like he wanted to say something, anything— but didn’t trust his own voice.

And the light— God, the light kept hitting him just right.

Every time they passed under a streetlamp, the glow caught Arthur’s profile in sharp relief: the edge of his cheekbone, the line of his jaw, the freckle near his eye Dutch always noticed when he was close enough. His hair was a little messy now, fallen out of its slicked-back form. There was something undone about him, but Dutch thought he looked even better this way. Looser. Real.

Arthur shifted in his seat. Dutch was staring. He knew it, and still he didn’t look away.

“You’re doin’ it again,” Arthur said, not turning his head.

Dutch smiled, slow and warm. “Can’t help it.”

Arthur’s hands clenched around his hat. “You… you looked good too. Out there.”

Dutch turned slightly, letting the sway of the carriage press their shoulders together. “I always look good, Arthur,” he said playfully, but quieter than usual. “But I never feel quite as good as I do when you’re lookin’ at me like that.”

Arthur finally turned his head, eyes narrowing. “Like what?”

Dutch didn’t answer right away. The light hit them both just then— soft, almost holy, through the carved window. Dutch’s voice was hushed when he said, “Like you wanna eat me.”

Arthur looked away again, out the window this time. His ears were red again. The silence returned, thicker now, humming like tension in a drawn bowstring.

The wheels clattered gently over cobblestone. Dutch didn’t push. He just looked.

There were so many versions of Arthur Morgan— angry, tired, covered in blood, drunk off his ass, sweet with Jack when he thought no one was watching. But this one, sitting silent and self-conscious in a tuxedo that didn’t quite feel like his own skin, flushed and fidgeting and trying not to show how badly Dutch was getting to him— this was the version Dutch could hardly bear to look away from.

“You never even looked at me like this back when I was younger,” Arthur muttered, a flicker of something half-joke, half-bitter.

Dutch’s voice dropped. “You never saw it. I can be subtle.”

Arthur huffed.

Dutch leaned in, elbows on his knees now, voice low and coaxing. “I always knew that if I let you, you’d ruin me. God. What it does to me. You lookin’ like that. That tux. That mouth. That… way you wouldn’t meet my eyes but kept hoverin’ close like you didn’t know what you wanted. Like you wanted me to take you where you stood.”

Arthur huffed. “Christ.” Adjusted in his seat.

Dutch smiled again, soft now. “Tell me to stop, Arthur. And I will.”

The carriage rattled through another pool of light. Arthur looked at Dutch— just for a second. It was all Dutch needed.

“I ain’t tellin’ you to stop,” Arthur said, voice low. Honest.

Dutch reached over, slow and deliberate, let his hand rest on Arthur’s thigh, a warm and solid touch. “Good.”

Let his hand run up his inner thigh and rest on his bulge. “Good.” Voice like whiskey.

Arthur inhales sharply and bites his lips and he looks down. Bracing himself as Dutch’s fingers open him up and take him out.

His eyes transfixed as Dutch’s warm grip surrounds him. Gripping him tightly and stroking real slow. “It’s a little dry, here.” And his hand comes up under Arthur’s mouth for him to spit into.

Arthur makes eye contact as he leans forward to spit on his hand and Dutch groans. Punched out and low. Licking his lips and putting the hand back around his cock.

Fisting him firmly and harshly as his boys soft moans fill the carriage. “Keep quiet, Arthur. Can’t have him hearing, now can we?” And Arthur whimpers beautifully.

Arching a little into his hand and rutting into it. Dutch licks his lips. So enticing and plump. Redder than any woman and calling to him. He licks into his mouth and devours him like he’s always wanted.

His boy, so eager to please and so easy to please. Arching and keening loudly as he bursts over Dutch fingers. “Mm,” Dutch hums into his mouth, “That was nice.” He brings the fingers to his mouth and licks them slowly and sensually.

Never taking his eyes off Arthur’s flushed and wide eyed gaze. His chest heaving and his shy groans. “Dutch…” He whispers and Dutch lets him taste himself.

Arthur’s fingers flying to his zipper but Dutch stops him. “None of that now, my boy. Maybe some other,” he can’t help kissing his eyes, so blue and beautiful, “time, how about it?”

“Oh.” And disappointment colors his voice but he swallows it down. Tucks himself in again. “‘Course.” Comes out breathless. Dutch pats his hand as he sits back to watch the passing lights.

Arthur sits back and watches him. His chest full enough to burst.

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step one of treating any wound is sticking your finger right in there

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Chapter 3, Dutch, Special to me

D: You know... you know something, Arthur?

A: What?

D: You was always special to me. All these years... all these things we done. Good things. Bad things. All these people we seen passed on. You was always special.

A: Are we living or dying this time, Dutch?

D: I guess we'll find out soon enough.

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vandermorgan anthem fr........

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Yo I didn't know John Marston swung like that 👀👀

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People don't forget. Nothing gets forgiven.

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I mourn how wasted Dutch was on a fandom so devoid of imagination and so blind they cannot see the problems and commentary for what it is

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father son activities