Howl

They always do, when the hunger gets too bad. When the ache inside him swells up and makes a home beneath his ribs, carving out something hollow, something sickly.

Dutch is gone. Arthur misses him fervently.

It’s stupid. He knows it. He’s always known it, this thing curled inside him, ugly and shameless. But knowing don’t stop him. Nothing stops him.

His boots barely make a sound on the cold earth as he slips into Dutch’s tent. His body knows the way without thinking, his feet carrying him straight to where Dutch sleeps.

The bed smells like him.

God, it smells like him.

Arthur sinks to his knees, pressing his face into the sheets like some starved dog, like something rabid. His fingers clutch at the linen, knuckles white, breath coming in ragged gasps as he inhales.

Smoke. Whiskey. That deep, rich musk that belongs to Dutch and Dutch alone.

Arthur bites down on the fabric, hard, smothering a broken sound in the sheets. His body hurts with it, this yearning that has no words, no shape— just need, raw and bleeding.

His hips stutter forward.

Shame strikes him like a bullet, but it don’t stop him.

Can’t.

He grinds down against the place Dutch last lay, desperate and fevered, trying to carve himself into the sheets, trying to leave something of himself behind, the way Dutch leaves everything on Arthur.

It’s not enough.

It never is.

Arthur rips himself away, gasping, panting, aching. His eyes flick to the wooden chest at the foot of the bed.

His stomach turns.

He shouldn’t.

He knows he shouldn’t.

But his hands move on their own, lifting the lid, pulling out Dutch’s clothes. They’re rich and heavy, silk and velvet, smelling of him.

Arthur is starving.

His own clothes hit the floor without a thought.

And he dresses.

The vest slides over his bare shoulders, hanging too loose, swallowing him whole. The coat drapes over his frame, a shade too big, the fabric still warm like Dutch just pulled it off and handed it to him with a smile, with a laugh, with a touch.

Arthur stands before the mirror.

He stares.

Something in his chest cracks.

It ain’t him, looking back. It ain’t Arthur Morgan, the stray dog, the dirty orphan, the good-for-nothing.

It’s something else. Something finer.

Something Dutch could want.

His hands tremble as they ghost over the fabric, tracing the seams like he’s touching Dutch himself. He drags his fingers down his chest, his stomach, watching the reflection like it ain’t even him doing it, like he’s somewhere outside his own body, watching himself drown.

His breath stutters.

He closes his eyes.

He pretends.

Dutch’s hands. Dutch’s mouth. Dutch’s weight, pressing him down, holding him still, telling him he don’t have to try so hard, he don’t have to be anything but his.

Arthur clutches at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, like he’ll collapse if he lets go.

He can still feel Dutch on his skin.

The ache in his chest twists sharp, violently.

He can’t breathe.

He can’t—

His fingers fist in the fabric. He rips the vest open, tears the coat from his shoulders, rips it all off, panting, shaking, falling apart.

The clothes hit the floor in a heap.

Arthur sinks down beside them, pressing his forehead to the wood, gasping for breath like he just came up for air after being drowned in it.

It was stupid. Pathetic.

But Arthur is drowning.

And Arthur don’t leave the tent.

He should. If he had any shame left in him, any dignity, he’d pull himself up, shake the dirt off, act like nothing happened.

But he stays.

Dutch’s clothes lie in a heap beside him, the rich fabric crumpled, wrong. His hands shake where they press into the wooden floor, his breath still ragged in his throat.

He don’t know how long he kneels there, naked and fevered, ruined by his own want.

The tent is warm, too warm, thick with the scent of Dutch. It clings to Arthur’s skin, settles deep in his lungs.

No matter how deep he breathes, it ain’t enough.

It’ll never be enough.

He lifts a trembling hand, picks up the vest again. His fingers trace the seams, slow, reverent. The fabric is fine, the kind Dutch always wears, soft against his calloused skin. He lifts it to his face, buries his nose in it, breathes deep.

God help him.

Dutch ain’t here, but Arthur can pretend.

He presses the vest against his bare chest, eyes fluttering shut, mouth parting around a sharp inhale.

If he’s real quiet, if he holds his breath just right, he can almost feel it— Dutch’s warmth, Dutch’s hands smoothing the fabric against his skin, Dutch’s voice— low and amused in his ear:

“Look at you, son.”

Arthur shudders, clutching the vest tighter. His thighs clench, heat curling in his belly, his body betraying him all over again.

It ain’t fair.

How Dutch gets to him like this. How he unmakes him, without even being here.

Arthur presses his forehead against the wood, fists tightening in the fabric, breath coming short and sharp. He ain’t praying, but if he was, he’d be asking for something he knows he can’t have.

Dutch Van der Linde.

His leader. His father. His everything.

Arthur bites down on the vest, hard, muffling a sound that ain’t fit for a grown man to make.

It’s too much.

It’s too much.

He throws the vest aside, pushing himself up on shaky legs. His reflection catches in the mirror, naked, wild-eyed, flushed from something ugly and shameful.

He hates himself.

But not enough to stop.

Never enough to stop.

His clothes are on in a rush, like covering himself up will fix what he’s done. He grabs Dutch’s vest off the floor, folds it with care he don’t deserve, and shoves it back into the chest.

The sheets are still ruined with the shape of him, with the scent of his own sweat mixing with Dutch’s. He smooths them out, heart hammering, like it’ll erase what he’s done.

Like it’ll erase the hunger still clawing at his ribs.

Arthur stumbles out of the tent, the cold air hitting him hard, making him feel his own skin, the heat still burning under it.

The camp is quiet. No one knows.

But if they looked at him close enough, if they listened— they’d hear it, the way his breath still stutters, the way his hands still tremble at his sides.

Dutch will be back soon.

Sean stumbled after him, boots skidding in the dirt, barely able to stay upright. The campfire crackled behind them, warm light spilling over the trees. Arthur kept walking, arms crossed tight over his chest, jaw clenched so hard it hurt.

“I just got back, y’know?” Sean whined, almost tripping over a root. “After them bastards took me— you missed me, admit it.”

Arthur sighed hard through his nose. “Jesus, kid. You’re like a damn tick. Ain’t even been back a whole day and you’re already clingin’ like a drunk pup.”

Sean didn’t even flinch at the words. If anything, he grinned bigger, that lopsided, cocky smile that somehow made Arthur’s guts twist into knots. His cheeks were flushed — partly from the whiskey, partly from something worse.

“You did miss me,” Sean said, sing-song, bumping his shoulder against Arthur’s. “C’mon, Arthur. Jus’ admit it. Say it. Say it.”

Arthur stopped dead in his tracks, growling low in his throat. “I ain’t sayin’ nothin’. Go bother someone else, damnit. You’re drunk as hell.”

Sean grabbed his sleeve and tugged — a desperate little pull. “Arthur, please.”

Arthur swore under his breath. He should shove him off. He should tell him to go sleep it off and stop makin’ a damn fool of himself.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he let Sean tug him off the trail, back behind the wagons where the firelight barely reached. It was quieter here, just the crickets and the far-off murmur of the others drinking and laughing. Sean pushed him up against a tree — not hard, but enough that Arthur could feel the heat of him, the way he was vibrating with nerves and booze and feeling.

“I missed you,” Sean said, lower now, more serious. His hands fisted in Arthur’s coat like he was afraid Arthur might slip away if he let go.

Arthur sighed again, but it came out softer this time. Almost a groan.

“You’re a damn fool,” he muttered.

Sean just smiled — a little more genuine now, a little less cocky. “Yeah, but I’m your fool, aren’t I?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He grabbed Sean’s face, rough and firm, and kissed him — messy, hard enough that their teeth clicked. Sean made a sound, surprised and pleased, hands scrambling to clutch at Arthur’s shirt.

“You’re so goddamn needy,” Arthur rasped against his mouth, voice rough and fond and miserable all at once.

“And you love it,” Sean breathed, grinning against his lips.

Arthur kissed him again, slower this time, one hand still cupped around Sean’s jaw, thumb brushing against the stubble there like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Sean leaned into him with a needy little sigh, chasing after the touch like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between them.

“You’re lucky I’m drunk too,” Arthur muttered against his mouth, voice low and rough. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be puttin’ up with this.”

Sean chuckled, breathless, his fingers twisting tighter in Arthur’s coat. “Bullshit,” he said, grinning against Arthur’s lips. “You’d’a come after me yourself if I didn’t drag you out here.”

Arthur grunted, neither confirming nor denying it, and grabbed Sean’s hips to steady him when he wobbled a little too much. Sean was practically melting against him, warm and heavy and just so damn much.

“You don’t even know what you’re askin’ for, kid,” Arthur said, barely above a whisper.

Sean nuzzled against his cheek, shameless and sweet. “I know what I want,” he said, hot breath brushing Arthur’s ear. “Want you. Missed you so much it hurt.”

Arthur froze for half a second — because it was too much, too raw — but Sean just looked up at him with those bright, earnest eyes and that stupid, crooked smile, and Arthur was helpless.

“Goddamn it,” he growled, and kissed Sean again, rougher this time, pushing him back against the tree. Sean made a desperate little noise, kissing him back with everything he had, like he was trying to make up for every hour he’d spent locked up and alone.

Arthur’s hands slid down to Sean’s hips, gripping them hard enough to bruise, and Sean laughed breathlessly into his mouth, like he couldn’t believe his luck. His fingers slid up Arthur’s chest, clumsy and eager, tugging at the buttons of his shirt like he wanted to get closer, closer still.

“Easy,” Arthur rasped, catching his wrists. “Ain’t doin’ nothin’ out here with the whole damn camp five feet away.”

Sean pouted — actual, honest-to-God pouted — and Arthur almost laughed. Almost.

“Later,” Arthur promised, voice low and rough as gravel. “You sober up a little. Then we’ll talk.”

Sean leaned his forehead against Arthur’s, eyes fluttering closed, still smiling. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Okay. Long as you stay.”

Arthur huffed a soft laugh and tightened his grip, holding Sean steady.

“I’m here,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

The camp had long since gone quiet. A few snores drifted from the tents, and the last embers of the fire glowed low and red.

Sean was still buzzing around Arthur like a damn moth to a flame, though — even after sobering up a bit. If anything, he was worse now. Touching him, grinning at him, bouncing on his heels like he had a secret he couldn’t keep.

Arthur grumbled under his breath when Sean tugged at his sleeve again, but he followed anyway, boots crunching soft on the dirt as they slipped away from camp.

“You are tiring, you know that?” Arthur muttered as they pushed deeper into the trees.

Sean just laughed, not the least bit discouraged. “You love it. Admit it, big man. You missed me dancin’ circles around ya.”

Arthur shoved him lightly — a hand to the back of the head, rough but almost fond. “Shut up,” he growled.

Sean stumbled a little, laughing harder, but when he turned around, his smile was sharper — hungrier. His eyes raked over Arthur, top to bottom, and it sent a bolt of heat straight through Arthur’s gut.

“You gonna kiss me again, Arthur?” Sean asked, voice low and teasing. “Or you just gonna scowl at me all night?”

Arthur’s jaw ticked. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He stepped forward, crowding Sean back against a tree, looming over him.

“You don’t ask for it,” Arthur said, voice dark, “you earn it.”

Sean grinned, sharp and wicked, like he’d won something. “Then teach me how, tough guy.”

Arthur didn’t give him the chance to be a little shit about it. He grabbed Sean by the front of his shirt, hauling him in and kissing him — hard, messy, nothing sweet about it. Sean gasped into his mouth, hands scrambling up Arthur’s chest, clawing at him like he wanted to climb inside his damn skin.

Arthur manhandled him without much ceremony, crowding him against the rough bark, sliding a knee between Sean’s legs to pin him there. Sean rolled his hips down with a shameless little groan, chasing friction, grinning even as he kissed Arthur back like his life depended on it.

“Goddamn,” Arthur muttered, breaking the kiss long enough to catch his breath. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love it,” Sean panted, rocking against him. “C’mon, Arthur. Want you—been waitin’ for you—”

Arthur gritted his teeth, pressed a rough kiss to Sean’s throat, biting down just enough to make him squirm and whine. His hands wandered without thinking — rough palms skating over Sean’s hips, his sides, squeezing hard enough to leave bruises. Sean lived for it, gasping and laughing and mouthing at Arthur’s jaw in return.

“You’re gonna be the death of me, kid,” Arthur growled, sliding one hand down to cup him through his pants, squeezing slow and mean.

Sean jerked, hips bucking, a raw sound torn from his throat. “Then what a way to go, eh?” he managed between pants.

Arthur snorted, half a laugh, half a warning, before kissing him again — this time deeper, hungrier, grinding their bodies together until they were both breathing hard, losing what little patience they had left.

He didn’t let Sean have anything easy — made him work for it, kept control of the kiss, the pace, everything. Every time Sean got too eager, Arthur would grab his wrists, pin him harder, bite at his throat until he was panting and pliant again.

“You wanna act like a damn brat,” Arthur muttered against his ear, “you’re gonna get treated like one.”

Sean just moaned and grinned, the cocky little bastard.

Sean rutted against him, wild and desperate, his hands pawing at Arthur’s coat like he couldn’t get close enough. His breath came hot and fast against Arthur’s neck, whimpering little noises he didn’t even seem to know he was making.

Arthur growled low in his throat and shoved Sean harder against the tree, the bark scraping at his back through his shirt.

“Hold still,” Arthur barked, voice low and dangerous.

Sean only laughed, breathless and wrecked. “Make me,” he taunted, rolling his hips again.

Arthur’s patience snapped.

He grabbed Sean’s wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand, holding him tight against the rough bark. Sean hissed at the sting but his hips bucked helplessly, chasing friction, chasing Arthur. His pupils were blown wide, lips kiss-bruised, hair a damn mess from where Arthur had been grabbing at it.

“You’re a damn nightmare,” Arthur muttered against his throat, biting down just enough to leave a mark.

“And you fuckin’ love it,” Sean gasped.

Arthur didn’t bother arguing. He freed Sean just long enough to yank open his belt, rough and impatient, fingers fumbling a little in his own urgency. Sean helped, clumsy with eagerness, laughing quietly every time their fingers brushed.

“Greedy little bastard,” Arthur rasped, palming Sean through his underwear, feeling the thick heat of him.

Sean groaned, hips jerking. “Arthur, c’mon—need you, need you—”

Arthur grunted and shoved Sean’s trousers down enough to get at him, wrapping a calloused hand around his cock and stroking him slow and hard. Sean gasped, throwing his head back against the tree, baring his throat in a way that made Arthur’s chest ache for reasons he didn’t want to examine.

“Fuck—” Sean bit his lip, trying to stay quiet even as his body jerked under Arthur’s hand. “God—you’re killin’ me—”

Arthur kept stroking him, slow and steady, hand rough, unforgiving. Every little noise Sean made went straight to Arthur’s cock, thick and aching inside his own pants, but he didn’t rush it. He wanted to watch Sean come apart first, wanted to see how badly Sean needed him.

Sean was shaking, eyes fluttering shut, hips fucking into Arthur’s fist helplessly. “Please,” he gasped, “Arthur, please—”

Arthur leaned in close, lips brushing Sean’s ear. “You finish for me, kid,” he said, voice a rough, low growl. “And maybe I’ll let you have me next.”

That was it — Sean shuddered hard, hips bucking once, twice, before he spilled hot and messy over Arthur’s hand with a broken moan, muffled against Arthur’s shoulder. His whole body sagged against the tree, boneless, wrecked.

Arthur didn’t let him go. He held him there a second longer, feeling him shake and gasp and cling.

When Sean finally blinked up at him, dazed and grinning like a fool, Arthur just shook his head and muttered, “Dumbass.” But there was no heat in it.

Sean laughed weakly, pressing a sloppy, grateful kiss to Arthur’s jaw. “Worth it,” he mumbled.

Arthur huffed a breath — half a laugh, half a surrender — and finally let him slide down to sit against the tree.

“You’re gonna owe me for this,” Arthur said, undoing his own belt with rough hands, voice low and dangerous.

Sean just grinned up at him, eyes bright and wicked even through the haze. “Anything you want, big man.”

Arthur smirked, dark and fond.

“Good.”

Sean sat slumped against the tree, still catching his breath, his shirt rumpled and half-untucked, trousers pushed down to his thighs. His cheeks were flushed deep pink, and his stupid grin hadn’t faded an inch.

Arthur finished buckling his belt, gruff and efficient, trying to pretend he wasn’t still aching for it. He wiped his hand off with a handkerchief, grumbling low under his breath.

Sean’s head lolled against the bark, but his bright eyes were still fixed on Arthur, sharp and hungry.

“My turn,” Sean said, voice rough and giddy.

Arthur shot him a look. “Your turn?” he rumbled.

Sean pushed himself upright, wobbly but determined. “Yeah, c’mere. S’always you takin’ care of me. Let me—” he licked his lips, grinning wider, “—return the favor.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “You’re half-drunk and all the way stupid.”

Sean just cackled and grabbed for him anyway, hooking fingers in Arthur’s belt loops and dragging him closer with surprising strength.

“C’mon, Arthur,” he purred, voice dropping into a low, teasing drawl. “Lemme be good for ya.”

Arthur grunted, but he didn’t move away. Didn’t stop Sean when he slid down onto his knees in the dirt, looking up at him with that wild, mischievous gleam.

“You’re a damn menace,” Arthur muttered.

Sean just grinned wider, hands fumbling at Arthur’s belt, undoing it with clumsy fingers. Arthur should’ve stopped him — the whole damn camp was just a few hundred yards away — but when Sean looked up at him like that, pupils blown wide, freckles flushed dark across his cheeks, Arthur’s willpower cracked clean down the middle.

Sean freed him from his trousers and gave an appreciative little whistle.

“Big fella,” he said, practically beaming. “No wonder you’re so grumpy all the time. Must be a burden, haulin’ this thing around.”

Arthur barked a low laugh before biting down on it, rolling his hips forward just enough to brush against Sean’s eager mouth.

“You gonna keep talkin’, kid,” Arthur growled, “or you gonna do somethin’ useful?”

Sean’s grin turned filthy.

Without another word, he licked a slow, teasing stripe up the underside of Arthur’s cock, pausing at the tip to swirl his tongue around it like he had all the damn time in the world. Arthur hissed through his teeth, one hand coming down heavy on Sean’s messy red hair, holding him steady.

Sean took him in slow at first — too slow — eyes bright and playful even as he hollowed his cheeks around him. Arthur groaned low, hips jerking forward involuntarily. Sean made a pleased little sound, like he liked getting manhandled, and started working him in earnest — fast, greedy, messy.

Arthur’s hand tightened in his hair, grounding himself.

“Christ,” Arthur muttered, voice rough and tight. “Ain’t no damn patience in you, is there?”

Sean pulled off with a wet pop, panting, grinning up at him, chin slick. “Patience is for cowards,” he said proudly, before diving back down again, taking him deeper this time, until Arthur felt his knees damn near buckle.

Arthur bit down on a groan, his free hand bracing against the tree behind Sean’s head, trying not to fuck into that hot, eager mouth too hard. But Sean made it damn difficult, moaning around him, hands clutching at Arthur’s thighs, desperate and unashamed.

It didn’t take long — it couldn’t, not with Sean looking up at him like that, drunk on it, drunk on him — and Arthur finally lost it, hips jerking once, twice, before he spilled down Sean’s throat with a low, wrecked growl.

Sean swallowed every drop, messy and eager, licking his lips like he couldn’t stand to waste a drop. Arthur leaned heavily against the tree, trying to catch his damn breath.

When Sean finally pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked ridiculously pleased with himself.

“Good, wasn’t it?” he said smugly.

Arthur let out a broken, breathless laugh, still trying to recover. “You’re insufferable,” he rasped.

Sean beamed, crawling up into Arthur’s lap like a damn stray cat, hands sliding under Arthur’s coat to feel his chest.

“Yeah,” Sean said, pressing his nose against Arthur’s throat, “but you like me anyway.”

Arthur sighed, a long-suffering sound, but he didn’t push him off. He just wrapped an arm around Sean’s waist, holding him there against the tree, while the night spun slow and lazy around them.

Maybe he did like him anyway.

The little bastard.

Arthur shoved Sean lightly ahead of him, trying to get him to shut up and walk straight as they stumbled back toward camp. Sean was still riding high, practically vibrating with smugness, flashing that big idiot grin like he’d won a goddamn prize.

“Shut up,” Arthur muttered under his breath, elbowing him.

Sean just laughed, way too loud for the hour, and stage-whispered, “You’re just mad ’cause I got you to make all them pretty noises, big man.”

Arthur grit his teeth, cheeks burning under his beard. “I will knock you flat on your ass if you don’t shut it,” he growled.

But it was too late — they were already in the edge of the firelight. A few of the gang were still up: Bill, Javier, Uncle — playing a lazy hand of cards and drinking the last of the evening whiskey. They all looked up as Arthur and Sean came bumbling back in.

Sean swaggered, all puffed up like a damn rooster. Arthur tried to slouch behind him, shoulders hunched, scowling deep enough to scare off a bear.

Didn’t help.

Bill took one look at them and barked a laugh. “Well, well, well,” he said loud enough for the whole damn county to hear. “*Look who got himself rode hard and put up wet.”

Sean whooped, spinning around to walk backwards so he could wink at Arthur.

“Tired ya out, didn’t I, big fella?” he crowed.

Arthur glared daggers at him. “I swear to God, Sean—”

Then a shadow loomed out of the darkness.

Dutch.

Leaning casual against one of the wagons, arms crossed, cigar glowing at the corner of his mouth. He had that look in his eye — the one that made Arthur’s stomach sink and his chest ache all at once.

Dutch smirked wide enough to show teeth.

“Ah,” he said, voice warm and slow. “I see Mr. MacGuire has been… keepin’ you busy, my boy.”

Arthur groaned under his breath. “Christ Almighty.”

Dutch just opened his arms, that familiar, slow, knowing smile on his face.

Without even thinking about it, Arthur shuffled right into him, head ducked low, letting Dutch fold him up in a big, crushing hug. Dutch clapped him hard on the back, a low chuckle rumbling out of his chest.

“There he is,” Dutch murmured. “My good, hard-workin’ boy.”

Arthur grumbled something under his breath that might’ve been a curse, might’ve been a laugh — even he wasn’t sure — but he didn’t pull away. Just stood there a second, breathing in the warm smoke-and-leather smell of Dutch’s coat, the solid weight of him.

Behind them, Sean was catching hell.

Bill was cackling. “Took ya long enough, Maguire. Thought you’d die a virgin!”

Uncle wheezed, “Poor Arthur, he didn’t know what he was signin’ up for!”

Even Javier was laughing, shaking his head and muttering something in Spanish that made the others laugh harder.

Sean just beamed, throwing both arms wide like he was king of the damn camp. “Worth it!” he shouted. “Best damn ride of my life!”

Arthur made a low, pained noise against Dutch’s shoulder.

“You hearin’ this?” he muttered.

“I hear it,” Dutch said, chuckling deep. “Sounds like you’ve been properly appreciated, son.”

Dutch’s hands slid slow up his back, cradling him firm, one hand settling at the nape of Arthur’s neck.

“C’mon, my boy,” Dutch murmured, voice low and coaxing. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet.”

Arthur just nodded into him.

Dutch led him without fuss into his tent — private, dark, warm — and sat back heavy onto his cot, tugging Arthur right down onto his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Arthur straddled him without thinking, knees bracketing Dutch’s hips, heavy arms winding around Dutch’s neck as he pressed his face into his shoulder, just breathing him in. Letting everything else fall away.

Dutch smiled against Arthur’s temple, stroking big, slow hands up and down his back.

“Aw,” he said, teasing but fond. “Poor thing. Mr. MacGuire wore you clean out, didn’t he?”

Arthur grunted against him, muffled.

“Always yours,” Arthur muttered, voice rough and quiet. “Just say the word. I’ll do it. I mean… I probably won’t get it up, but I can still have you. If you want.”

Dutch huffed a soft laugh, low in his chest.

“No, no,” Dutch said, running his fingers slow through Arthur’s hair, so gently that Arthur practically melted against him. “That’s no fun if you’re half dead on your feet, son.”

Arthur breathed out a shaky little sound, almost a laugh, letting his weight sag even heavier into Dutch. Just letting himself be held.

Dutch tilted his head, thumb stroking slow over Arthur’s cheekbone, and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth — soft, coaxing.

Arthur shifted, letting Dutch guide him, and kissed him back slow, open-mouthed and sweet, no urgency to it. Just lazy warmth, the two of them sinking into each other like they had all the time in the world.

Dutch kept petting his hair, slow and steady, like he couldn’t get enough of the feel of it under his palm. Arthur leaned into the touch, pliant and trusting, making little low noises against Dutch’s lips.

“Good boy,” Dutch murmured against his mouth. “You’re always mine.”

someone to watch me die, I bet on losing dogs

“I— I wanted to carry your kids.” Quiet, like it's something shameful.

“I shoulda been born different,” he slurs, “shoulda been… softer. You’d’a loved me easier.”

vandermorgan.... god.... i just know dutch groomed the fuck out of arthur! i like to think arthur is trans, or the very least has a vajayjay, so i think dutch (and hosea) would help arthur transition. they'd help him cut his hair, help him grow out his stubble, how to dress like a man, act like one, etc

that being said, i dont think dutch expected arthur to get so horny. he'd notice arthur be distracted and more distant, looking uncomfortable. so one day dutch straight up asks him what's wrong, and arthur embarrassingly tells him he's so wet.