Dutch Van der Linde

Dutch was a narcissistic bastard, the kind who carried his confidence like it was law rather than personality. There was an undeniable arrogance to him, almost suffocating in its certainty. And yet, despite everything, you found yourself drawn to him in ways you couldn’t fully explain.

Every so often, he would appear at your hidden house in Saint Denis, as if he had stepped out of the world just long enough to remind you he still existed. Those brief moments with him felt intense, almost intoxicating—only for him to vanish again before dawn, leaving silence in his place. He always returned eventually, but never stayed long enough to feel permanent. It was as if he collected what he wanted from you and left the rest behind without hesitation.

When you once confronted him about it, he dismissed it without effort, as though your concerns were a minor inconvenience rather than something worth addressing. “I’ve got matters to handle, darlin'. I’m not built for settling down. Don’t start this again,” he had said, ending the discussion as easily as he began it.

And now, he was there again.

Standing at your door, a cigarette loosely resting between his lips, the ember dim and fading. When you opened the door, he didn’t hesitate—he simply leaned into the frame as if the space already belonged to him. His gaze lingered on you with that familiar, unsettling mix of confidence and amusement. “That's my girl,” he said. “You gonna let me in?” His voice was low, rough, and completely at ease.

“Oh, Dutch...” You had thought he’d left because he hadn’t come for a long time, so when you see him, you freeze for a moment, like you’ve been caught off guard. Then relief hits you, and a shy smile appears on your face.

Dutch didn't wait for a formal invitation. He stepped past you, the scent of expensive tobacco, leather, and a hint of gunpowder trailing in his wake as he invaded your personal space. He closed the door behind him with a heavy thud, his dark eyes scanning your face, lingering on the way that shy smile played across your lips. He loved that look the way he could make a woman like you feel small and precious all at once.

"Don't you go lookin' at me like a lost pup, darlin'," he chuckled, his voice a low, rumbling growl in the quiet of the house. He reached out, his large, calloused hand catching your chin to tilt your head up so he could look deep into those eyes of yours. "I ain't gone nowhere. Just had business to tend to... things that require a man's attention."

He let his thumb brush over your bottom lip, his gaze dropping to your mouth with a hunger that had nothing to do with food. He wasn't a man for small talk or pleasantries once he'd crossed your threshold; he was a man of action.

"Now," he muttered, his grip tightening just a fraction, his thumb pressing firmly against your lip. "Are you gonna stand there lookin' pretty, or are you gonna show me how much you missed me?"

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