Vampire! Dutch x Human! Reader Cinnamon Whiskey And Grease *Silly*
This is old! *Sorry if dutch sounds too OOC*
The key clicked sideways in the lock again. Damn thing. You jammed your shoulder against the cheap apartment door, rattling the knob until it finally gave with a groan. Inside smelled stale, like old coffee grounds and exhaustion. You kicked the door shut behind you, leaning back against the peeling paint. Twelve hours on your feet at the Double Barrel Diner. Twelve hours of grease burns, spilled coffee, and Mrs. Henderson complaining her pie crust was "too flaky" for the third time this week. Your ankles throbbed.
"Just… bed," you mumbled, voice rough. The hallway swallowed the words. You didn't bother flicking the light switch. Moonlight bled through the thin living room curtains, casting long, distorted shadows across the worn rug. Your bedroom door stood ajar. You shoved it open wider with your hip, stumbling inside.
Shoes. Off. Kicked somewhere into the dark corner. You collapsed face-first onto the thin mattress. The springs squealed in protest. A long, ragged groan escaped you, muffled by the pillow. Every muscle screamed. *Just sleep. Please.*
Silence. Thick and heavy. Then, a distinct *shift*. Fabric against wood. From the deep gloom near your dresser.
You didn't lift your head. Exhaustion pinned you down heavier than any hand. "Dutch," you sighed into the pillowcase, the name barely audible. "It's three AM. What in hell do you want?" The familiar scent of expensive tobacco and something drier, older, like old leather bound in cedar, drifted faintly across the small room.
A low chuckle answered, smooth as aged whiskey and carrying that unmistakable Southern drawl. "Now, darlin', is that any way to greet an old friend?" Dutch Van Der Linde’s voice cut through the dark, closer now. You felt the mattress dip slightly near your hip as he perched on the edge. "Heard you had yourself a day."
"Understatement," you mumbled, finally rolling onto your side, blinking against the gloom. He was a silhouette against the weak moonlight filtering through your cheap blinds – the sharp line of his shoulders, the familiar shape of his hat. "Feels like the whole damn town crawled over me twice. Twice."
He leaned in, the scent of tobacco and cedar intensifying. You could just make out the glint of his dark eyes beneath the hat brim. "Drudges," he murmured, the word thick with disdain. "All that pointless scurrying. Drains the spirit." His cool fingers brushed a stray strand of hair from your forehead. The touch sent an unexpected shiver down your spine, cutting through the bone-deep fatigue. "You deserve better than that."
Before you could muster a protest, his arm slid beneath your shoulders, effortlessly lifting you off the thin mattress. You gasped, instinctively clutching at his coat lapel – worn leather over surprisingly solid muscle. "Dutch, what—?"
"Hush now." His voice was firm, yet held a strange gentleness. "Place like this ain't fit for resting." He carried you out of the cramped bedroom, through the stale apartment, and onto the landing without a sound. The cool night air hit your face as he descended the creaking stairs. Outside, a sleek, obsidian-black carriage waited, horses unnervingly still. He settled you onto plush velvet seats inside, the scent of beeswax and something faintly metallic replacing your apartment’s staleness.
The carriage moved with unnatural silence, gliding through the sleeping town. Dutch sat opposite, watching you, his expression unreadable in the dim interior light. "Where are we going?" you managed, the exhaustion warring with a rising current of bewildered adrenaline.
"My home," he stated simply. The carriage turned onto a long, tree-lined drive, climbing steadily. Ahead, silhouetted against the star-strewn sky, loomed the imposing bulk of a gothic mansion, its windows dark except for a single, flickering light high in a turret. "Someplace quiet. Someplace… civilised." He leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes catching a stray gleam of moonlight. "You look like you could use a proper drink. Among other things."
The carriage rolled to a silent stop before massive oak doors. Dutch stepped out first, extending a hand to help you down. His grip was cool and firm. The night air was crisp, smelling of pine needles and damp earth. He guided you up the wide stone steps; the doors swung open soundlessly before he even touched them, revealing a cavernous entrance hall. Polished marble floors reflected the dim light from a single, monstrous chandelier overhead, casting long, dancing shadows. The air inside was cool, scented faintly of beeswax, leather, and something ancient – like stone and forgotten libraries. It was unnervingly quiet.
"This way," Dutch murmured, his hand resting lightly on the small of your back, steering you deeper into the mansion. His touch, though cool, sent a different kind of shiver through you now – anticipation mixed with lingering fatigue. He led you through echoing corridors lined with portraits whose eyes seemed to follow you, past closed doors hinting at unseen rooms. The sheer scale was dizzying after your cramped apartment. Finally, he pushed open a heavy, dark wood door.
His bedroom was vast, dominated by a colossal four-poster bed draped in deep crimson velvet. A fire crackled low in a massive stone hearth, casting the only light and painting the room in warm, flickering hues. Rich tapestries hung on the walls, and thick Persian rugs muffled all sound. It felt like stepping into another century. Dutch closed the door softly behind you. The silence pressed in, thick and intimate now.
He turned to you, removing his hat and placing it carefully on a nearby chair. The firelight played across his face – the sharp cheekbones, the grey-streaked mustache and stubble, the fathomless black eyes that held yours captive. "Twelve hours," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in your bones. "Twelve hours of servitude to fools." He took a deliberate step closer. The scent of him – tobacco, cedar, and something uniquely, intensely *him* – filled your senses. "Let me offer you something far more… rewarding." His cool fingers brushed your jawline, tilting your face up towards his. The exhaustion was still there, but beneath it, a current of raw, undeniable need surged. His gaze dropped to the pulse point fluttering wildly in your throat. "A taste," he murmured, his lips hovering dangerously close. "And then… oblivion."
The first press of his lips against your throat was shockingly cold, then instantly flooded with a heat that seared through your fatigue. You gasped, arching instinctively towards him as his arm snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid frame. The sharp sting came a heartbeat later – a brief, piercing pain that melted instantly into a wave of dizzying euphoria. Your knees buckled, but he held you effortlessly. The sensation wasn't just the drawing of blood; it felt like he was pulling the exhaustion, the frustration, the *weight* of the day right out of you. A low moan escaped your lips, half protest, half surrender, as your fingers tangled in the fabric of his vest.
He drank deeply, a soft growl vibrating against your skin. The world narrowed to the feel of his mouth, the strength of his arms holding you upright, the intoxicating rush flooding your veins. Just as the dizziness threatened to crest, he withdrew, licking a stray drop of crimson from his lips. His eyes, darker than the shadows in the room, burned with a predatory hunger that sent a fresh thrill through you. "Better?" he rasped, his voice thick. Without waiting for an answer, his hands shifted, one sliding down to grip your thigh, the other tangling in your hair as he claimed your mouth in a fierce, possessive kiss that tasted faintly of copper and smoke.
The kiss broke only long enough for him to lift you bodily. You wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively as he carried you the few steps to the massive bed. He laid you down onto the impossibly soft crimson velvet, his body following yours, pinning you beneath him with a weight that was both demanding and thrilling. His calloused hands pushed aside your worn diner uniform with surprising efficiency. Cool air kissed your skin, followed immediately by the heat of his mouth trailing down your neck, over your collarbone. "Forget the drudges," he commanded against your skin, his Southern drawl thick with desire. "Forget the grease and the noise." His teeth grazed your nipple, making you cry out. "Tonight, darlin'," he growled, his hand sliding between your thighs, finding you already wet and ready, "you belong to me."
His fingers plunged deep, curling expertly, stealing your breath. You arched off the bed, gasping his name. "Dutch—!" The sound was swallowed by his mouth crashing back onto yours, fierce and possessive. The dual sensations – his fingers working inside you, his tongue tangling with yours, the lingering metallic tang of your own blood on his lips – were overwhelming. He withdrew his hand only to fumble urgently with his own belt and trousers, the rasp of leather and fabric loud in the firelit silence. You caught a glimpse of his hardened length before he surged forward again, settling himself between your thighs. The thick head pressed against your entrance, hot and insistent. He paused, his black eyes locked onto yours, filled with a raw, predatory intensity. "Say it," he demanded, voice rough.
"You," you gasped, the word ripped from you. "I belong to you." It wasn't just submission; it was a desperate affirmation, a shedding of the day's grime and exhaustion. A low, satisfied rumble escaped his chest. He pushed forward slowly, deliberately, filling you inch by glorious inch. The stretch was exquisite, a sharp burn melting instantly into a deep, aching fullness that chased away all lingering fatigue. He groaned, deep and guttural, burying his face in the curve of your neck as he seated himself fully inside you. "Yes," he hissed against your skin. "Feel it."
He began to move, a slow, powerful rhythm that rocked you deep into the velvet. Each deliberate thrust drove the breath from your lungs, each withdrawal left you aching for more. His hips snapped forward again, harder this time, drawing a sharp cry from you. He pinned your wrists above your head, his grip firm but not bruising, forcing you to take the full force of his possession. The firelight danced on his sweat-slicked brow, on the grey-streaked stubble of his jaw clenched in fierce concentration. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice strained. You forced your eyes open, meeting his bottomless black gaze. In them, you saw hunger, control, and a terrifying, exhilarating possessiveness. He drove into you again, deeper still, and the world dissolved into sensation – the velvet beneath you, the scent of leather and smoke and sex, the relentless, consuming rhythm of his body claiming yours. The coil of pleasure tightened unbearably low in your belly. His thrusts grew frantic, losing their measured control. "Mine," he snarled, a declaration ripped from the depths of him. The word echoed in the cavernous room as the tension snapped, sending you both hurtling into a shattering oblivion.
For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged symphony of your shared breaths. Dutch collapsed beside you, his weight heavy and solid against your side. His arm draped possessively across your waist, pulling you flush against the cool expanse of his chest. The euphoria slowly ebbed, replaced by a profound, bone-deep lethargy that felt like sinking into warm honey. The exhaustion of the diner was gone, utterly erased. In its place was a strange, buzzing contentment, mingled with the lingering ache of his claiming. You felt drained, yet utterly alive. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare shoulder, the callouses catching softly on your skin. The silence wasn't oppressive now; it felt thick, intimate, charged with the aftermath.
You turned your head slightly on the velvet pillow. Firelight danced across Dutch's face, softening the harsh lines etched by years and whatever darkness fueled his existence. The grey in his mustache and stubble seemed less stark, more distinguished. His eyes were closed, lashes dark against his cheekbones, the predatory intensity momentarily banked. An unfamiliar tenderness welled up within you, surprising in its intensity. It wasn't just gratitude for the oblivion he offered, nor the fierce pleasure he'd wrung from you. It felt deeper, more dangerous. Hesitantly, you lifted a hand, your fingers trembling slightly. You brushed them against the rough grain of his cheek, tracing the sharp line of his jaw. His eyelids flickered but didn't open.
"Dutch, I love you," you murmured, the words rolling off your tongue. They hung in the firelit air, fragile as spun sugar. Your fingers froze against his jaw.
Dutch’s slowly open. Black pools, staring lovingly into yours. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, a slow, deliberate smile curved his lips, transforming the stern lines of his face into something softer, warmer. "Love," he repeated, the word rolling deep in his chest, tasting it like unfamiliar wine. "A word tossed about cheaply in the world you come from." His hand lifted, capturing yours where it rested against his jaw, his cool fingers interlacing with yours. "But on your lips, darlin'... it sounds like truth." He brought your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss that lingered, surprisingly gentle. "A rare treasure. One I intend to keep."
He shifted, rolling onto his side to face you fully, the crimson velvet cool beneath his bare torso. The firelight traced the lean muscle of his arms, the faint scars etched across his chest – silent testaments to a long, hidden life. His thumb traced the faint puncture marks on your throat, a possessive caress. "You feel it, don't you?" he murmured, his voice a low rumble against the crackle of the hearth. "The quiet. The stillness inside. That diner noise... it’s gone. Replaced by something... deeper." His gaze held yours, intense and searching. "This peace? This strength humming in your veins? That’s *mine*. Given freely. A gift."
A flicker of something ancient and fierce surfaced in his eyes. "But understand this," he continued, his tone hardening slightly, though his touch remained tender. "Love, for me, ain't a gentle thing. It’s possession. Protection. A vow etched in blood." He leaned closer, his breath ghosting over your lips. "You walk into my world now. It’s dark, darlin’. Dangerous. Full of things that would devour you whole." His hand slid possessively down your spine, pulling you tighter against him. "My enemies become yours. My burdens, yours to share. Is that the future you want? Tied to a creature like me?"
You didn’t hesitate. The buzzing contentment, the profound stillness he spoke of, the fierce tenderness he showed – it was a lifeline thrown into the abyss of your old life. "Yes," you breathed, meeting his dark gaze without flinching. "The diner... the grease, the noise... that wasn't living. This..." You pressed closer, feeling the cool strength of him. "This feels like waking up."
Dutch’s answering smile was sharp, triumphant. "Then wake up fully," he commanded softly. His lips descended again, not to drink, but to claim your mouth in a kiss that tasted of iron, smoke, and a terrifying, exhilarating promise. Outside the thick walls of the mansion, dawn was a faint smear on the horizon, but inside Dutch Van Der Linde’s crimson sanctuary, wrapped in velvet and ancient power, your old life truly ended. A new, perilous, intoxicating eternity had just begun. His hand slid lower, possessively cupping your hip. "Rest now," he murmured against your lips. "Tomorrow, darlin', we hunt."
Bleh.
