#young!arthur

[splat-dragon-correct-fandoms]

Young!Arthur: (speaking to Dutch) You promised to take us to the lake.

Dutch: I promise you kids lots of things. That's what make me such a good father.

Young!Arthur: Actually, keeping promises would make you a good father.

Dutch: No that would make me a great father.

[notcraft]

Just wanna draw fav racoon boi :’v

also im using a new pen? idk

[therussiankat]

Red Dead Fanfic Prompts

Hey! As it looks like this lockdown is going to keep going for a while, I figured I'd open myself up for prompts before I go stir crazy and hold my roommates toaster hostage cos SHE KEEPS LEAVING CRUMBS EVERYWHERE! IT TAKES 5 SECONDS TO WIPE A COUNTER DOWN! THE KITCHEN PIXIES DONT MAGICALLY CLEAN IT WHILST YOU SLEEP! ...anyway... I'm in the middle of a sequel to a previous red dead fic at the moment and have hit a mental brick wall with it but still want to write about our favourite outlaws! So, I can write Charthur, Van Der Matthew's, general gang idiocy and young Arthur & John's adventures growing up with the most unorthodox parents in the west! So yeah, drop me a prompt and I'll make it happen!

[missblissy]

Arthur was the kind of kid to see a snake and pick it up with his bare hands and show it to Dutch like, “Look father I found you a gift,” And then throw said snake at Dutch... like.... What a guy.

[teacuphuman09]

Chapter 11 of Superstar is up! Clothes come off!

[ignorantarmiesclashbynight]

Whumptober 2021 Day 7: helplessness | numbness | blindness

Just light the fuse and run.

The instructions had been simple enough—so easy even Arthur can’t fuck it up, Dutch had said—but he’d never used dynamite before, and nothing could have prepared him for what happened afterwards…

* * *

It was just his luck, being the youngest, barely seventeen and still small enough to slip through the gap in the boarded up mine entrance. Dutch had been sure there’d be something worth finding down there, even if it meant Arthur going in alone, with nothing but a lantern.

C’mon, son. You’re the bravest one of us, Dutch had said.

And Arthur was still naive enough want to prove him right.

The track down into the mine went on for miles, it seemed, and all he found for a long while was a whole lotta rats, some rusted old tools, and stagnant, dripping water. And then, as if it was just waiting to be discovered: a blocked-up passageway and a box stuffed full of explosives.

He’d brought it all the way back to the entrance and Dutch’s eyes had lit up like fireworks.

 It’s simple. Just light the fuse and run…

* * *

The world fell right out from under his feet. Or perhaps the ceiling came down to crush him. Or both. Either way, one second he’d been running and the next he found himself half-buried in rubble, breathing in rock dust, feeling as if every bone in his body had shattered all at once.

He couldn’t see. Couldn’t hear. Couldn’t move. Only panic.

There was grit in his eyes he couldn’t blink away, and even when he managed to squint them open they wouldn’t focus. Not that there was anything to focus on, anyhow. There was nothing but dark behind his eyelids.

His ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton, as if he were miles underwater, and every sound was more a vibration than a noise, muted and muffled. He tried shouting but his throat was raw from inhaling so much dust, and although he could feel his vocal chords straining, he couldn’t hear the words come out. Dutch! Help!

The effort made him cough, but coughing was all but impossible under the weight of whatever was crushing him. It was as if he’d become part of the very mountain itself, surrounded by stone, feeling every pound of pressure above him. He couldn’t feel his legs, only the ache of his ribcage and the tingling of his fingers, turning colder and more numb by the second…

He was going to die down here. He could already feel the air thinning. Could feel himself starting to hyperventilate. The ancient staleness of the earth filled his nostrils and it smelt like a grave.

He hauled in a deep breath, knowing it was foolish to waste it on a yell but too terrified to give in to the ominous pressing silence. Even if he couldn’t hear, maybe Dutch would. Maybe, if he hadn’t given him up for dead. If he hadn’t already left him here.

Hot tears ran down his face, burning his eyes but doing nothing to clear his vision. His head still pounded with the aftershocks of the explosion, echoing over and over inside his skull. Perhaps it was still going on. Perhaps he was already dead and this was hell and he would spend an eternity here, forever being crushed, forever floating in this sightless, soundless nightmare.

He choked on his next breath, or perhaps it was a sob. He had no idea if he was making any sound at all.

Dutch, please…

And the pressure was more than he could bear, pushing down on him as if the darkness was a living thing, suffocating and consuming until he was nothing but a tiny black dot in the nothingness.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not that it made any difference. Tried to blink himself out of existence so he wouldn’t have to feel any of it any more. He was so tired. So cold he couldn’t even feel his face any more. And maybe if he gave into it he would just… drift away. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad…

 Oh, my boy…

It was too loud. Too rough and too sudden, too painful. A shock of light and sound that felt like a lightning strike. The ground was shaking again, rock tumbling all around him like a landslide. He felt it shift, wondered if he’d get swept along with it, where he’d end up. Deeper into the mine, maybe, where no one would ever find him.

But then a hand grasped onto his numb fingers and squeezed.

A voice he’d begged to hear saying words he couldn’t quite make out. Everything was blurred. A swinging, glowing light. The strange warmth of a palm against his cheek. His own name, repeated over and over again. And suddenly the pressure was lifting. Piece by piece, the weight pinning him down came free as a pair of bloody hands dug him out.

I got you son, I got you…  

* * *

He didn’t remember how he made it out of the mine—if he walked or if Dutch carried him. The next thing he knew there was a vast, bright sky above him, water washing out his eyes, Dutch’s insistent voice telling him to lay still, ordering him to breathe, to hold on.

 His body still felt broken, made up of a thousand bruises, every bone aching, every muscle useless. But he tried to lift his hand and Dutch grasped onto it like a drowning man.

‘m sorry… Arthur murmured, his voice barely a whisper of a breath. Fucked it up.

 And this time it was Dutch who couldn’t speak. Just shook his head over and over until tears started dripping down onto Arthur’s chest. He thought it might be the first time he’d ever seen the man speechless.

And all he had to do was blow himself up.

Simple.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Also on AO3! Requests more than welcome (prompt list is here).

[splat-dragon-correct-fandoms]

Arthur: And what if I pull the trigger and nothing happens?

Dutch: Throw it away and punch him on the nose.

[ignorantarmiesclashbynight]

If you like your found-family stories full of angst and foreboding, you're in the right place. Let's start with how Arthur met Dutch...and Hosea...and Grimshaw... Except it's not the beginning. Not quite yet.

Oops. Guess I started writing a new fic then. Yeehaw, babies.

Read it on AO3 here