Hey!! I read through a lot of your work, and I don’t know if you do family stuff, but I had an idea bounce around my head and I NEEDED to get it out somewhere. Hear me out.
One of the Van Der Linde men (idrc who, Arthur, Dutch, Charles, Javier, i dunno whatever you prefer 💖) has a young daughter, and during the O’Driscoll’s raid on shady belle, she gets kidnapped by them in the chaos, and (whoever it is) is on a HUNT to find her. Shes probably fine, just scraped up and crying a lot, but I would love to see some headcannons, or just your take on how any of them would react to this!
If you aren’t feeling this that’s totally fine as well, but this idea was so SO intriguing to me that I had to get it out somewhere
Okay so I kinda went a bit wild with this!
I only did the immediate aftermath but may expand to the recovery of her.
I used Dutch's daughter - hope that's okay!
(Also not so much HCs as I'm pretty naff at that)
Anyway - thank you for the request, it made my heart happy. I hope you enjoy ♥️
Bring Her Back
In the flurry of gunshots and panic that was the Shady Belle ambush, no one noticed at first that someone had gone missing. No, not missing… taken. Then the smoke cleared. Then the sickening dread began to weave its tendrils around the members of a camp trying to account for broken pieces.
Dutch’s daughter was a sweet thing, as quick witted as her father and possessing just as lofty dreams, though hers always seemed to ring a little humbler. Nineteen years old but with a wisdom beyond her years and an attitude to match, she set her sights clearly on a future that would one day see her to a free life. A normal life. Through her rebellious years, she always wondered if her father really cared for her as much as he proclaimed to - or whether his grand talk was nothing more than a ploy to sate her relentless dreaming, nothing more than idle chatter to get her to shut up and to fall in line. Often times it seemed to be nothing more than an endless slew of metaphors and ideation that lacked any substance - a device to gently promote the use of skills she had honed since she could talk, passed down from bloodstained men that had known her since she could walk and from outlaws now long lost to forgotten wooden crosses beside a dirt road.
What a sad state of affairs it was that her capture would be the event that would prove just how much she not only meant to her father – the great Dutch van der Linde – but to this band of criminals she had spent so much time plotting her escape from.
In the grand master bedroom of Shady Belle, the air thickened around the three founding and most trusted members of the Van der Linde gang. Arthur stood in silence with arms folded as he traded concerned glances with Hosea, the lavish velvet curtains and tall oak doors not nearly enough to contain the rage pouring from their seemingly unshakeable leader.
"He took her”, Dutch heaved as he paced up and down across the threadbare rug, hands trembling as his voice came in breathy spurts to no one in particular.
With trembling fingers, Dutch blindly snatched his prized phonograph cylinder of La Traviata from the mantle as he passed, rolling the weight of that scrap of refinement and civility gently in his hand before launching it with an unbridled yell against the wall.
“Colm took my goddamn daughter!"
The wax cylinder shattered into irreparable shards, its fragments skittering across the floorboards.
Hosea turned his solemn gaze to the ceiling, watching the scene play out, allowing his best friend his destructive release. For once, all comforting words failed him. After all, how could he offer comfort when the girl captured had been a girl he’d known since near birth, the girl he had helped to raised, who he had tended scraped knees for and read from weather worn story books to. There was nothing to be said. Nothing that could ease the rage and pain and gut-wrenching sorrow that clung to the air and choked once unshakeable men.
With ragged, uneven breath, Dutch paced thrice more before collapsing down onto the edge of the overly large, plump mattress, his restless ringed fingers scrubbing at his moustache, through his hair, at his eyes.
Arthur bit at the inside of his cheek. He’d seen Dutch worried before, driven near mad at times by the incessant need to keep this rag tag family together. To keep it whole. Yet despite all the times it had seemed that there was no way out, he'd never seen Dutch scared. There had always had a plan, a direction to run. Worried, sure. But trembling with an excruciating fear that set even Arthur’s nerves on edge - never.
Until now.
And it terrified Arthur to his damn core.
“We need to take a breath”, Hosea said softly.
“Take a breath? Take a… take goddamn breath?!”, Dutch yelled, pushing himself up again and striding to the fireplace, bracing both hands against the carved sandstone until his knuckles whitened.
“You know what I mean, Dutch… We… we just need to keep a clear head. Get a plan together.”
“A plan…”, Dutch breathed, his voice barely a whisper against the still air as he stared into the pit of the flames, his mind whirring at a mile a minute and every thought spilling unfiltered from his tongue like a madman, even as he tried to push down the horrific possibilities that plagued him. “Colm. Colm, he took her. He took her. I need… I… He took her...”
Threads were unravelling. Sanity was wavering. Dutch’s insecurities spilled to the surface in whispered confessions to dying flames.
“I’ve been a bad father.”
“We'll get her back, Dutch”, Arthur offered with feigned surety, “Just like we did Jack.”
All too quickly, Dutch had pushed himself from the fireplace, eyes wild as he jabbed a finger at Arthur’s broad chest, his jaw set and nostrils flaring.
“This. Ain't. Jack", he hissed. “And it ain't Bronte. It ain’t the town law, or Cornwall or the Pinkertons.”
With soft downturned eyes, Arthur held up his palms, mouth gaping as Dutch continued, the forefinger pointed at Arthur’s chest trembling wildly, spittle flying from his lips as his muted frustration rose once again to cracking screams.
“This is Colm O'Driscoll who just sent one of our own ridin’ in here holdin’ his goddamn head!"
The yell rang out, reverberating around the room for a moment. Arthur’s jaw clenched. Hosea’s throat bobbed. Dutch’s hands dropped to his hips as he turned his gaze to the floorboards, chewing at his bottom lip.
After a beat of silence, Dutch stared back up at Arthur with glistening chestnut eyes, his lips hanging open in hopelessness as three words dragged themselves painfully free of his throat. "She's my kid", he whispered with a shrug that said more than smashing and yelling ever could.
A beat passed, heavy and thick as Dutch’s top lip wavered, as Hosea’s skin itched with not knowing what to do, as Arthur set his jaw and grasped at Dutch’s bicep.
“Charles is the best tracker we got. If there’s a trail, he’ll find it”, Arthur glanced at Hosea for a confirmation he didn’t need. “I’ll take Charles, Bill, Javier and John. Leave the others to watch camp ‘case they come back.”
Hosea gave a solemn nod, his tongue tracing his top teeth before meeting Arthur’s eyes again.
“Better go quick.”
“Yeah.”
Arthur nodded in return before heading for the door, his hand almost reaching the doorknob before Dutch’s voice broke the silence.
“I’m coming.”
With a slow turn, hand still on the knob, Arthur met his eyes with a pleading gaze. “No, you’re not.”
“Son, I am.”
“I have never stood up to you in my whole life. I have never told you no. Not once”, Arthur said quietly, laying a hand on Dutch’s shoulder and squaring his jaw. “But I am telling you now. No. You’re too close. We don’t need a massacre. We need her safe.”
Jaw gritted, Dutch made to argue – completely disarmed when Arthur squeezed at his shoulder again and ducked his head, lowering his voice. “And she’s gonna need her daddy to come home to.”
With mouth agape, dew gathered against the lash line of broken, bloodshot eyes, a mistimed blink sending a single tear rolling down a gaunt cheek.
“She’s my daughter.”
"I know.”
Arthur watched as Hosea guided Dutch back towards the edge of the bed, watched as frantic eyes traced every inch of the room in helpless agony.
With a hand still on the doorknob, Arthur swallowed thickly before nodding at the broken shell of his mentor.
“I will get her back”, Arthur murmured. “You have my word.”
Arthur turned towards the hallway. The door creaked. Dread curdled in his stomach.
“Son?”, Dutch’s trembling voice echoed.
Arthur glanced back.
“If you don't get her…”, he said with eyes focused on the peeling wallpaper. “Don't come back.”
one of a few favorite pieces chatgpt wrote for me from my prompts that i wanna share. short oneshot i guess?
Everything He Doesn’t Say
pairing: AU mob boss!Dutch Van der Linde x sugar baby!f reader
tags: modern universe, implied smut, fluff?, age gap (Dutch is in his mid 40s, reader is in her early 20s), implied size difference, established sugar daddy/sugar baby arrangement, love marks, he falls hard but doesn't say it, dangerous man with a soft spot for his girl.
word count: 539
Dutch Van der Linde does not talk about his feelings.
He never has. Not when he was young and reckless, not when he grew into the kind of man people feared and followed. He’s been burying emotions his whole damn life, locking them away like secrets no one should ever get their hands on.
And then there’s you.
You, who make him feel everything too damn much.
It’s in the way you come to him without hesitation, slipping into his space like you belong there. In the way you tilt your head up at him, bright-eyed and expectant, like there ain’t a damn thing in this world that could make you doubt him.
And he knows you can feel it.
He doesn’t have to say a word. You know how deep you’ve got him, how thoroughly you’ve ruined him.
And fuck, he lets you.
⸻
He watches you from across the room, pretending to read while you lounge on the bed, mindlessly tracing little patterns onto the sheets. Your hair’s a mess from where he buried his hands in it earlier, your skin still marked with the evidence of his love—though he’d never call it that out loud.
He should be doing something. Looking over reports, making calls, planning the next move. But all he can focus on is the slow, steady rise and fall of your breath. The way his shirt—his—drapes over your body, swallowing you up. The way your bare legs shift against the sheets, your knee brushing the spot where his hand had been not too long ago.
And just like that, his restraint unravels.
The book closes with a quiet thud, abandoned. In two strides, he’s at the bed, looming over you before you can even register the shift.
You look up at him, blinking slow and lazy. “Done pretending to read?”
He huffs, smirks, but doesn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he grips your ankle, fingers wrapping easily around the delicate bone, and pulls you toward him.
A soft yelp leaves your lips as you slide down the mattress, stopping just before your hips meet the edge. You don’t protest, don’t resist—just look up at him with that knowing little smile, like you already know what he wants.
Like you always know.
His fingers trace absent circles over your calf, his grip possessive, grounding. “Y’look real sweet like this, darlin’.”
You hum, stretching like a lazy little thing, and God help him, he wants to keep you like this forever—sated and soft, tucked away in the only place safe from the world.
But that ain’t how things work.
So instead, he leans down, pressing his weight over you, trapping you beneath him. You gasp when his lips find your throat, dragging slow and deliberate along the sensitive skin.
“You’re trouble,” he mutters against you.
You sigh, arching just enough to press your body into his. “You like trouble.”
You have no idea.
He doesn’t say it. Doesn’t say any of it. But he kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like he needs to memorize every little sound, every little shiver, every way you break for him.
ik dutch goes crazy but i feel like dutch and hosea would let young arthur or john cry and not be weird about it like most during the time period they have good dad energy fr
