Mr Van der Linde Pt. 1 - Dutch x Reader
OK I’m working on like a bagillion things atm but I wanted to get something out before the years end to prove that I’m alive and writing (those of you waiting on requests I promise I will get to them)
I’ve been sitting on this bitch for months and have a ton of ideas for it but I wanted to see if it was anyone’s cup of tea before I poured hours and hours into it but tbh i probs will either way hehe
Also I tried to make the location ambiguous but I’m a UK gyal and the UK uni experience is all I know so don’t shout at meeeee sorry
Also pt. 2 this will be slow updates fyi. But I am nothing if not a completionist so it will get finished eventually
Happy holidays to those celebrating! The fic is on ao3 if you prefer.
Summary: You meet John's father after your first term of university, and find your growing attraction to him difficult to ignore.
Word count: 8,248
Content warnings: Modern AU, age difference, alcohol, mentions of drug use
PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8 | PART 9 | PART 10
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You hated driving with John, he was far too reckless and half the time you were sure he wasn’t even paying attention to the road, but when compared to getting an overly expensive train or a stuffy coach, it was a no brainer. John’s warped view of the value for money, thanks to him growing up with an abundance of it, also played in your favour in that he refused to take any contributions for fuel.
After meeting John at a welcome party for your student accommodation, you soon bonded over growing up in a similar area - his house was just an hour on the train from you.
From then on, you’d often attend each other’s pre-drinks before nights out, and that soon led to you battling through your hangovers together the following day. You frequented his flat more often than your own by the end of the first semester, enjoying the company within it much more than that of yours. He and his childhood friend, Javier, had asked to be put together in their accommodation and he was always a lot of fun on nights out and super easy to get on with, and you discovered he’d taken the same course as you which saved you the worry of being alone in lectures. One of his other flatmates, Sean, had drove you insane when you first met him as he wouldn’t stop talking, but you soon grew to love him, too.
Abigail was another of his flatmates, and he made the dire mistake of pulling her on the very first night; making the living situation unbearably uncomfortable for everyone else, especially when the two made the event an “accidental” reoccurring theme. It was no secret that she was smitten the moment she met him, but John being John and John also being a university student he had no desire to enter anything serious, even if he did like her more than he let on.
You’d grown close to one of your own flatmates, Karen, and she often joined you on your trips to the flat across the hall, and after she’d drunkenly got with Sean on one of the nights out, being intoxicated became a requirement for her to visit the flat to calm her embarrassment. So, you all began smoking weed together on a regular occasion, and the small group became your favourite thing about university so far.
Although you were already saving money by getting a lift most of the way home, the day that John had wanted to return for the Christmas holiday only had expensive ticket options for the final leg of your journey on the train, but two days later was much cheaper and he’d kindly offered you a place in one of his spare rooms. You gladly accepted, eager to see how nice his house was and spend a bit of time with his younger sister, Tilly, who you’d only spoken to over facetime but whose dry sense of humour you found hilarious.
“Fuck, John, stop cutting people off,” you craned your neck backwards, watching the most recent victim of John’s erratic road presence throwing up the V’s at his car.
“Stop backseat driving,” he batted his hand, but as always there was no irritation in his relaxed raspy voice, one that was getting raspier by the day considering how much he smoked. If it wasn’t weed, it was cigarettes and oh there he goes lighting another.
“You do know this is why your car stinks, right?” you asked, cringing slightly at how careless he was even with his nice expensive vehicle.
“You’re starting to sound like Abigail,” he scoffed, taking an extended inhale from the cigarette and blowing the smoke at you for good measure, laughing in that signature wheeze of his when you recoiled.
Pushing the button to crank the window down, you leaned over and allowed the fresh air to fill your lungs now that you were back on normal roads.
The pair of you soon reached a more rural area, and John cleared his throat when he pulled into a gated entrance. You gawked at the property, once John had used his fob to open the gates to reveal a driveway filled with decorative stone leading up to a gorgeous big house.
“Shiiiiiit,” was all you could muster as you admired the beautiful brick and windows when you stepped out of the car.
“Yeah, yeah,” he dismissed, flicking his cigarette and leading the way to the front door.
You’d never seen a door so grand, dark wood that looked heavy and a golden lion's head holding the knocker. John fished his key from his pocket as you rang your fingers over it and didn’t care for your interest when he flung the door open.
“’m back!” he called into the house, which somehow felt homely despite how large it was. It was only a few moments before Tilly came charging down the stairs and flung her arms around him. You smiled as the pair embraced, one of the few brother-sister duos you knew that didn’t hate each other. They were extremely close, and you’d found out after a few weeks the reason why.
John’s mother had died when Tilly was only young, and your heart ached for the two kids but thankfully it brought them closer and they always had each other’s backs, with the guidance of their father, who had understandably been broken by her passing, along with their older brother.
Tilly greeted you too, and you shook her hand as she bounced in the direction of the kitchen. “Dad’s in the back room watching the game with Arthur,” she informed the two of you as you followed in her direction. You’d heard a lot about Arthur, John’s older brother, and had the privilege of seeing a photo of him once. He didn’t live at the house, instead with his boyfriend, Charles, and if you’d have known he was going to be there today you might have made a bit more effort.
You tried to be subtle as you took in the gorgeous room, black granite counter tops and high-end appliances only a backdrop for the big family kitchen that boasted an island in the middle with stools pulled up to it as it functioned as a breakfast bar too.
As Tilly helped herself to something from the cupboards, you followed behind John to the adjoining room where you could hear noise from the TV in the form of a football commentator.
You weren’t often nervous, not really, but something about this big house made you wonder what sort of man owned it and managed to make it warm and inviting while single-handedly raising his three kids. And when you saw him, lounged back on his sofa, wrapping his long ringed fingers around the neck of his cold beer bottle that paused on its way to his lips as his eyes landed on you, you had to gulp.
And when your name rolled of his tongue, that voice so deep and rich, you tightened your grip on your bag and quietly sucked air into your lungs as you smiled at him coolly. That didn’t help either, just brought your attention to the faint smell of tobacco in the air mixed with cedarwood and some delightful cologne that you wanted to inhale even more of.
But christ that’s John’s father you’re thinking about and you’re stood there like a moron and he’s waiting for a response. “Mr Van der Linde,” you swallowed. “Thanks for letting me stay, your home is lovely.”
John tutted loudly at your ass-kissing display, but you didn’t miss him shrinking slightly when his father turned his attention to him.
“I see you’ve not developed any manners while you’ve been away,” he tipped his chin down at the man who now gave off the aura of a boy, before looking back at you. “Thank you, miss. Please make yourself at home.”
You nodded and swallowed again, hoping it wasn’t noticeable to anyone else but God your mouth felt so wet all of a sudden. He was John’s father, alright, in possession of the same rugged charm held by his son, but much more refined and much less boyish. He shifted slightly in his seat, propping his leg up on the L-shaped sofa that he’d claimed the corner of. You darted your eyes away, reminding yourself not to look between his legs but wishing you could because those tailored black trousers did wonders for him.
“That’s Arthur,” John pointed lazily at the other man in the room, and you hadn’t even looked at him yet, but you were glad for something else to focus on. He was also a treat to look at, even more so in the flesh and you wondered what it was about this family that produced these kinds of men because you’d never encountered anything like it and now here you were in a room with three of them.
“Nice to meet you, Arthur,” you smiled and the man nodded in acknowledgement, nudging his beer upwards slightly.
Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Mr Van der Linde loosen the collar of his crisp white shirt, that’d been rolled up to reveal his forearms as a substitution for changing out of his work clothes to make himself comfortable.
“Will the two of you be joining us, son?”
You looked to John, part of you hoping he’d say yes but part of you desperate for any excuse to leave the room so you could breathe. John opted for the latter option, muttering something about being hungry and tired and wanting to settle in after the drive and Arthur asked when he planned on telling them all about his life at university, for him to just mutter later as he departed the room, and you quickly offered a smile to the two gentlemen before following him out.
“I’ll let you pick a room before we get the bags,” John began the walk up the stairs and you grunted behind him.
“Pick? You mean there’s more than one?”
He shrugged, as he always does when he felt uncomfortable discussing his financial situation. Half the time, you thought he hated having money, but you supposed it was more his manifested embarrassment over how much it set him apart from other people. Nobody would guess if they didn’t know, both due to his mannerisms and his insistence on often wearing the same t-shirt for a week straight.
“Well, where’s your room?” you asked, thinking that picking whichever was closest to him was the safest bet.
John pointed up, before walking towards a door which when opened, revealed another small flight of stairs. “Mine’s the attic. You’ve got the choice of that one,” he pointed at a door in front of you to the left, “and that one,” he pointed behind you at a second door, before making his way up the stairs to dump the first of his stuff.
You looked between the doors and decided to investigate the first one. It was bigger than your room at home, decorated in white and duck egg blue with a large double bed in the centre. The theme was the ocean, a beautiful painting above the bed depicting a grand ship on a calm sea. You’d be more than happy to stay here, hell a sofa would do you fine, but you still gave the other room a look even if out of pure nosiness.
The second room was warmer, dark wooden furnishings with an accent of a pretty mustard colour. The double bed was tucked into the corner beside the window, looking out over the garden and countryside beyond. There was no theme to this room, but a few decorations appeared to be antiques. You dropped your bag by an old-looking gramophone and ran your finger over the brass horn, marvelling at something so pretty being hidden away in a spare room. You peered at the disc inside, making out Tchaikovsky in faded lettering and reached your hand out to turn the crank, but recoiled when you realised you’d probably end up breaking it.
John’s feet thundering down the stairs prompted you to turn towards the doorway and he beckoned you to follow with the tilt of his head as he peered inside. You did, and the two of you made your way to the kitchen in search of food once your suitcase was safely situated in your room.
“There any dinner on?” he called to the next room.
“What’s it look like to you?” Arthur called back and John grumbled something about him being a smartarse.
“Half time is in five minutes, we’ll just order takeout if you decide what to get,” Mr Van der Linde called, prompting John to reach into a drawer and pull out a handful of menus.
“I forgot they even had paper menus,” you mused, leaning up beside John as you ran your hands over them to splay them out and get a good look. It all looked so good; you didn’t care which one they ordered from. “I’ll eat anything,” you announced and John huffed.
“You always do this. Can’t you pick for once?”
“I don’t mind! I could eat a horse I’m that hungry.”
John just rolled his eyes and scanned over the menus before pulling two of them out and presenting them in front of you. “Choose between these two then, I’ve whittled it down.”
You sighed, thinking that’s a fair deal as you looked between the two options: Indian or Thai.
Both were delightful, but you knew John would complain if you didn’t make the decision. After a minute of back and forth, you decided the tofu guay tiew was the most appealing and vocalised your choice of Thai.
“Dad’ll be happy,” he remarked, collecting up the other menus and unceremoniously jamming them into the drawer, “that’s his favourite.”
At the small sense of pride that filled your chest, you cursed yourself internally. Something about the man made you want to please him, an odd sensation for you since you usually could care less what other people thought. Besides, it was just a takeaway for Christ’s sake.
Shifting from the next room prefaced the two men that parted from it, expressions content and you assumed their team was winning. They were both so tall, because of course they were.
“Are you staying for dinner?” Mr Van der Linde asked Arthur who nodded as he deposited the beer bottles into the bin.
“Sure, I wanna hear all about little Johnny’s adventures,” he had a strong southern drawl, and proceeded to ruffle John’s hair who shoved him away in displeasure.
“Did you let our guest choose?” Mr Van der Linde then asked, raising his eyebrows at his other son before glancing at you with a small half-smirk.
John answered by reaching over the counter and handing him the menu, his eyes lighting up once he realised which one you’d chosen. “Good choice,” he hummed, not looking up at you and instead reaching into his pocket for his phone. “What does everyone want?”
“We can just use the app,” said John.
“No, I’ll call.”
John’s sigh caused the man to harden his gaze.
“It’s quicker over the phone,” he explained irritably.
“Dad’s an EOP,” John informed you.
“EOP?” Arthur repeated.
“Enemy of progress,” John responded, as though it was terminology even a baby should know, despite he himself only learning it from you a month ago.
“I am not,” the man grumbled. “Just don’t see the point of an app, is all.”
You smirked at the back and forth as Arthur rolled his eyes. “Someone just order the damn food,” he drawled.
Once everyone had ordered, including Tilly who it turns isn’t overly fond of Thai food but was quickly reminded by her father that she’d had free reign over the house and choice of takeout for three months, and it was only fair that her brother got to pick on his first night back. John teased her, saying that she’d become spoilt now that she was practically an only child.
“It should get here in time for the end of the game if we order and you collect it, otherwise we’ll have to wait an extra twenty. Up to you.”
“We’ll collect,” John answered without pause.
“You students really that hungry, huh?” Arthur chortled.
“I’m just excited to eat something that’s not instant noodles or beans on toast,” you hummed, thinking longingly about how much you’d missed a well-cooked meal.
“Or instant noodles on toast, in your case,” John teased.
At the looks of disgust directed at you, you huffed. “It’s nicer than it sounds!”
“That a thing you do often?” Arthur asked, more than intrigued by the strange diet of a student.
“Only when I fancy a change,” you shrugged and he scoffed, partially in disbelief and partially in amusement.
“Well, let us hope that your meal tonight is slightly more appealing,” Mr Van der Linde slid his phone back into his pocket, beckoning Arthur to follow him into the back room as the commentator announced the start of the second half.
You and John had left almost straight away to pick up the food, just to keep yourselves occupied, and thankfully it wasn’t long before you were back at his house and greeted with an already-set table including a couple bottles of wine.
It was a bit of performance getting everyone’s correct orders to them, but eventually you were all seated. Mr Van der Linde was at the head of the table (of course) with Arthur and John either side of him, you sitting next to John and Tilly sitting next to Arthur.
“Help yourselves to wine,” Mr Van der Linde gestured to the bottle of red and John didn’t need to be asked twice, pouring himself a large glass which his father eyed suspiciously.
John side-eyed you and laughed at your pursed expression. “She has a uh... an aversion to red wine,” he explained to the table.
You threw him a glare, embarrassed that he was bringing up your drunken tales from when you were learning your limits, even if you’re still yet to be mindful of them.
“Ha,” Arthur barked, “I’d like to hear that story.”
“Nobody is hearing that story,” you paused, “especially not while we’re eating,” you shuddered at the memory, looking at the delicious food in front of you and willing your brain to think about anything else.
“This is proper wine, not like that shit you students drink,” Mr Van der Linde huffed. “Just try a tiny bit.”
You obeyed, albeit hesitantly as you offered out your glass and John poured a mouthful in. Bracing yourself, you sipped it and tried to ignore the eyes around the table on you.
It tasted rich, smooth and warm on your throat and nothing like that red wine you’d experienced at university which was more closely related to window treatment. “Oh,” your tongue lapped slightly in your mouth, “that is nice.” You held your glass out again for John to fill and Mr Van der Linde chuckled to himself.
“I still want to hear some drunken tales,” Arthur took a sip of his own wine as you took another of yours.
“Well, I have plenty about John,” you smirked, forking some of your noodles into your mouth and nearly groaning at how good it tasted. Tilly’s eyes widened with intrigue.
“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, stomping his heel onto your toe under the table.
Your squeak turned into a laugh, and you raised your brows at him - I’ll keep your secrets if you keep mine.
He shifted his attention back to the food, knowing he had much more to lose in the present circumstance, and your agreement with one another was settled.
“How are your lectures, son?”
John shrugged. “Fine.”
“What are you learning about?”
You smirked around your next sip of wine, knowing that John hadn’t got a clue about the contents of his course given his terrible attendance to his lectures.
“Uh... Ethics.”
“Anything else?”
John attempted to remember the names of the modules he’d done the bare minimum for, but it didn’t seem to fool Mr Van der Linde one bit. He had mentioned that the push to study philosophy had come from his father, and unlike most kids that did something because their parents wanted them too, John didn’t seem to care. He much preferred being out of doors, with animals or working with his hands. Above anything, John preferred not working. So, a three-year degree, paid for by his father where he could slack off for a little while longer was more than welcome.
The way his father looked at him, you could tell John would be getting a talking to in a more private setting at a later date, but he instead turned his attention to you in favour of not lowering the mood around the table.
“Do you have more of an interest in your course than John does in his?” he asked you, his voice not entirely cleared of his disappointment and John noticed it too, shrinking his shoulders slightly.
“I suppose so,” you said brightly, hoping to alleviate the tension.
“You’re studying philosophy like John?”
“Oh, no,” you sipped at your wine, feeling as though you were being interviewed for your place on said course all over again. “Computer Science.”
He raised his eyebrow in surprise and Arthur hummed to vocalise how impressed he was. “Smart girl,” Mr Van der Linde said thoughtfully before taking a bite of food.
“She’s only interested in it because she has to be,” John scoffed, and you wondered if part of him was jealous at the praise you were getting that he wasn’t. “She’s got a scholarship,” he clarified.
You cleared your throat, embarrassed and slightly irritated at John for mentioning it. “I have to keep my attendance above eighty percent,” you shrugged nonchalantly.
“A scholarship? My my,” Mr Van der Linde brought his glass to his lips.
You just shook your head. Truthfully, you wouldn’t have even been able to go were it not for the scholarship; it would have been far too expensive, so you didn’t really have a choice in the matter if you wanted a place on the course.
“Do you know what you want to do for work?”
“Not really, suppose I’ll just go into software - that’s where most of the jobs are,” you took another sip of the wine and found your glass empty. “I guess I won’t go into app development, though.”
Even though you could slap yourself for trying to banter with him and only coming up with something so pathetic, he chuckled into his glass and his eyes were warm as they bore into yours when he licked a stray droplet from his bottom lip as he set the glass down.
You could swear you clenched.
“You always get flushed after wine,” John commented with amusement, refilling your glass before his own.
“I’m not,” you said quietly, holding your knuckles to your cheek and yes, your skin was burning. You grumbled and dipped your head, the spicy flavours of your dish now something you were all too aware of.
Mr Van der Linde just observed you, something unreadable on his face or maybe the wine had gone to your head and you just no longer had the capacity to distinguish emotions.
“Well,” he wiped a napkin over his mouth and sat back in his chair, his plate completely emptied of food. “I’m glad you’re around to keep John in check.”
“She isn’t as sensible and innocent as she looks,” John said over a full mouthful and Arthur tutted at his lack of table manners.
“That so.” Mr Van der Linde wasn’t asking. He sipped at his wine.
“Sure I am,” you cleared your throat, finding your voice once again but having nothing more to say to defend yourself. You couldn’t deny that John had experienced you in a light that was more than ill-fashioned, thanks to the numerous substances you’d experimented with over your short friendship so far.
The conversation continued long after dinner finished, Tilly talking all about her new school year and it was clear how much her father and brothers adored her; looking at her with all the love in the world and your heart swelled at the display. Your head swelled too, and you stopped your alcohol consumption after your fourth glass of wine, knowing you’d have a fierce headache in the morning.
Unfortunately, the conversation didn’t turn to the topic of Mr Van der Linde, and in your drunken haze you couldn’t stop your mind wandering as you thought about him as he sat there, a soft grin and slightly heavy eyelids following the wine and beer he’d drank that day with a hearty meal to top it off. You desperately tried to keep your gaze on whoever was talking, and for the past twenty minutes it’d been mainly Arthur. He briefly mentioned the business Dutch owned (what the business was, you had no idea) with another man, Hosea, his most trusted friend and colleague.
None of you had realised how close to midnight it was, and you rubbed at your eyes once Arthur pointed it out and called for a taxi to take him home. A yawn and a stretch later, you stood to excuse yourself too.
“Thanks again for dinner, Mr Van der Linde,” you said, picking up your cutlery, plate, and glass and loading them into the dishwasher.
“Please,” his voice came from right behind you and you stifled a gasp as you turned. John and Tilly were saying their goodbyes to Arthur at the door, but Mr Van der Linde was right next to you and god did he smell good.
And god, were you drunk.
“Call me Dutch,” he crooned, loading his own dishes beside yours.
All you could think to respond with was a nod. “Alright, thanks. Dutch.”
His brow softened at hearing his name on your tongue and he allowed himself the slight indulgence of wandering his eyes down your form as you walked away, clearly trying to hide in your walk how quickly the wine had gone to your head. He was in no position to judge, attributing his interest in his son’s pretty friend to nothing more than a drunken lapse of judgement that would go no further than that.
-
Your mouth was so dry.
The room span a little as you opened your eyes, but the headache wasn’t as bad as some you’d had previously, thankful that it was still dark out and you didn’t have to deal with any blinding lights. Rolling over within the comfort of the bed, which you could tell was dressed with a very expensive sheet and duvet set, you tilted your phone that sat charging on the nightstand and checked the time. 03:43.
Lord knows why you didn’t bring a glass of water to bed, or at the very least have some before you went to sleep, but you needed some right now and sat up to swing your feet onto the floor.
The house was still warm, and you ran your hand over a radiator in passing to find that it was on a low heat, so no wonder. You wore your plain, oversized, grey t-shirt and some underwear that you always referred to as your ‘boy shorts’. Drunken you had decided to be a little modest, at least.
(Mostly) sober you didn’t follow that trend, venturing onto the landing without pulling on some trackies, saying to yourself that you’d only be a moment anyway, so it was no matter.
You tiptoed down the stairs, thankful for the minimum creaking of the floorboards and made your way to the kitchen, the tiles cold on your bare feet.
There were a lot of cabinets, and while it felt rude to rummage through them you didn’t have much choice unless you wanted to lean over and drink straight from the tap, which was a much worse position to be caught in should someone see you. You eventually found the cupboard with the glasses and mugs, and after pulling out a pint glass you filled it up and gulped it down within seconds.
You did the same thing again, and as you were halfway done with your second glass a dim light was flicked on and you almost choked on your drink.
“Didn’t mean to startle you.”
Turning, you held your hand to your mouth to mask the massive gulp of water you held in it, and you swallowed it down as gracefully as you could, wiping your lips with the back of your hand as you cleared your throat to greet Dutch.
“It’s no problem,” you shook your head. “Sorry, did I wake you?"
He shook his head too, dismissively, and you didn’t miss his eyeline drop to your legs before back at your face.
“Shit,” you muttered, moving to hide your bottom half behind the island and he smirked.
“Don’t worry about it.”
But obviously you did, you’d known him shy of twelve hours and he’d just found you in his kitchen dressed the way you were and he’d probably seen half of your ass when you were turned the other way.
You glanced down at yourself by uncomfortably.
He let you fester for a moment under his smirk, before shrugging off his night gown to reveal his broad and surprisingly muscular chest, black hairs decorating it as well as his stomach. “Here,” he handed it out to you over the counter, leaving himself in just his red and black checked bottoms.
You took it without thinking, most of your brain power allocated to the task of not staring and you looked at the garment in your hands. “You don’t have to -”
“It’s fine.” He looked almost bored of your apologetic demeanour, something you realised he’d seen a lot of from you. You took the robe and wrapped it around yourself, the softness of it making you want to curl up but not quite as much as that scent did.
“Thanks,” you mumbled and he nodded. “You don’t have any painkillers, do you?” you asked, feeling like an immature teenager that couldn’t handle her drink. “Just in case.”
“Of course.” He moved round the counter and opened a drawer, tutting at the creased-up menus that jammed it and you did your best to hide your amusement. A rattle from the packet later, he pushed two out and offered them to you, and you held your hand out for him to drop them in. You popped them in your mouth and leaned your head back to gulp down some water.
He stared at your neck as you did so, but ripped his attention away when you brought your head back down.
“Is your head hurting?” he asked, stepping towards you and holding his hand to your forehead while brushing your hair away soothingly.
“Oh no, not really,” you swallowed. “It’s just in case it does in the morning.”
“I see,” he said plainly, casually returning his arm to his side.
“Thanks... again.”
Leaning back on the counter behind him, he crossed one foot over the other and offered you a gentle smile. You took another few sips, emptying your glass.
You glanced from Dutch to the sink and back to Dutch, before making your way over to fill up again. Now he was right next to you, silently observing and you didn’t face away from the sink as you drank down some more water. You could feel how warm he was, it radiated from his chest, and you were glad to have sobered up because you were certain drunken you would’ve just leaned into it, and how awful would that be.
Awful. Terrible. Definitely not wonderful.
Gulping down the rest of the glass, you finally felt satisfied and filled up once more so you could bring some it to bed with you. You turned to the man beside you, who did nothing other than blink.
“Good night, Mr Van der Linde.”
“Good night, miss.”
You walked out of the kitchen, remembering you hadn’t called him Dutch like he’d asked but supposing it wasn’t a big deal and you couldn’t think too long on it without the image of him topless crept back into your mind.
He’s John’s dad.
Shaking your head to hopefully rid it of your thoughts, you pushed open the door to your room and closed it gently before climbing into bed and curling in on yourself, keeping his nightgown wrapped around you.
-
Despite it being winter, it was too hot when you woke.
It was no surprise, given the heating was on and you were wearing Dutch’s robe and had a thick duvet draped over you. You kicked it off, star-fishing and grimacing at the sweat that’d pooled on your lower back.
09:07.
You brought up your messages with John.
Going to get a shower if you don’t mind.
John was mostly hit and miss with his sleeping schedule, sometimes he’d be up at the crack of dawn and other times he’d sleep in until mid-afternoon. Today, you were thankfully he’d been an early riser.
Knock yourself out.
You stayed still for a moment, before sliding out of the bed and unzipping your suitcase to find your toiletries bag. Not wanting to change into anything that was clean, you opted for keeping Dutch’s nightgown on since you were only walking across the hall.
But when you did, and reached your hand out to open the bathroom door, you could hear the shower on from inside. You frowned and turned, in time for Tilly to depart from her room to the right.
“Oh, John’s just gone in,” she informed you.
“Fucker,” you grumbled and she tilted her head at you in questioning. “I just told him I was getting a shower.”
She giggled apologetically, her eyes shifting to look behind you at the sound of a door opening. You turned. Dutch. You hadn’t realised the room next to yours was his.
“You’re welcome to use my ensuite,” he yawned, patting Tilly’s arm as she passed him to go downstairs.
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t offer if I wasn’t.”
“Right,” you nodded. “Thank you.”
“There’s no shower in there,” he leaned against the door frame, folding his arms over his now (unfortunately) covered chest. “Just a bath, but I can draw you one up no problem.”
A bath. God, you missed baths. Your accommodation only had crappy showers that were unbearably inconsistent with their water pressure and temperature.
“I’m sure I can wait,” you shrugged, not wanting to trouble him even a little.
“John’ll be at least 20 minutes,” he pointed to the door with disappointment, “bath’ll be full in ten.”
You swallowed, now feeling like it’d be rude of you to say no. “O-Okay, thanks. But I can run it.”
“Please, allow me. On account of my idiot son,” he scratched the back of his scalp lazily.
You huffed a laugh, not wanting to oppose him anymore and gave in. “Alright, I appreciate it.”
Dutch nodded, disappearing into his room and you busied yourself back in yours while you waited. You were fiddling with the gramophone again when he rapped at your open door.
“You just turn the crank,” he informed you.
“Oh, yeah, I didn’t want to break it.”
He huffed in amusement, meandering over and stopping next to you to wind it up.
You smiled fondly, as the ever-familiar Dance of The Swans began playing.
“Swan Lake,” you hummed, more to yourself than Dutch but he turned to you with his eyebrows raised.
“You like ballet?”
“Love it. Used to take lessons when I was younger, not that I was any good,” you snorted. “Swan Lake was always my favourite.”
His smile was warm, and eyes intrigued. “Do you go to see the shows often?”
“Not as often as I’d like, it’s been a couple years actually.” Life as a student didn’t often allow room for the luxuries of tickets to the ballet.
Dutch nodded thoughtfully. “Well, your bath is ready.”
You followed him out the room, the song reaching its crescendo and fading out in your ears as the two of you walked further away from it. He opened the door to his bedroom, motioning for you to enter.
“There’s a speaker in there if you want to put on any music, John says it’s Bluetooth or something.”
God, he’s adorable.
He’s also John’s father goddamnit.
“Thank you,” you cleared your throat, walking past him and through the next open door, stopping at the frame.
“Take your time,” he hummed after you and you nodded in appreciation as you closed the door. You'd wanted to sneak a peek at his room but couldn’t very well do so with him watching you. You dropped your things on the floor and locked the ensuite, turning to the pristine bathroom that felt warm and cosy despite the fact it was mostly grey, the floor slate and the standalone bath by the small window at the end.
The smells inside the room were wonderful, and you peered into the steaming tub and to your surprise it was filled with bubbles, the water a shade of lavender and you were impressed that he even had the supplies to make such a delightful bath.
He’d even lit a candle for you.
You shrugged off his robe and hung it on the back of the door, taking a second to smell it and make sure it didn’t now reek of your sweat. Thankfully, it didn’t.
It was the best bath you’d ever had. You’d played some of your favourite relaxing music and looped through an entire album before you cracked your eyes open, realising how long you’d sat in the warmth as your hangover dissolved away.
Giving the bath a little once over with the scourer and bathroom spray you found under the sink once the water was out, you rubbed your nice-smelling moisturiser over your skin and dressed in your clothes for the day; feeling miles better than you had done a few hours previous.
You only allowed your eyes to rake over Dutch’s bedroom briefly, dark mahogany furnishings and an extremely inviting king-sized bed with silk sheets in the centre of the room. The only think you didn’t like was how eerily tidy it was. You left quickly.
The scent of something sweet greeted you and you cringed slightly upon seeing the hands of the fancy kitchen clock reading the time of 10:25. Whoops.
Nobody seemed to mind, greeting you as John and Tilly sat at the breakfast bar while Dutch cooked over the stove. You flicked John’s ear as you passed him for stealing your shower, although you weren’t really that bothered since the alternative was much more desirable. He rasped his laugh, as usual, and you could tell he’d just had his morning cigarette, though you suspected he was missing his weed that he’d usually smoke on a Saturday morning.
“You were pretty wasted last night,” he slung his arm over you, and you pressed your forehead into his shoulder.
“I wasn’t that bad,” you mumbled into the fabric of his hoodie that you’d borrowed on more than one occasion.
He vibrated with a laugh, resting his head on top of yours and you pondered which one of you had really been that drunk, considering he was showing signs of a strong hangover; he was always very snuggly after a particularly heavy night. “Hair of the dog later?”
“You’re going out tonight?” Tilly asked and John looked to you.
“If we don’t find anything else to do, probably. We did say we were only going to go if Javi went anyway.”
“And is he?”
“Not sure,” you hummed, shifting to lay your head on John sideways (he was surprisingly comfortable given his lean frame) and pulling out your phone to find no new messages from Javier.
Thoughts on tonight?
You set your phone on the counter, not expecting a reply until much later when he finally joined the land of the living.
“We could go on a walk?” Tilly asked sweetly and John groaned.
“A walk,” you jabbed his side, “would be lovely. Maybe in a few hours when John’s recovered.”
“Coming, dad?”
Dutch cleared his throat, seemingly very focused on his cooking and slung the tea towel over his shoulder. “Uh... Perhaps. It’s colder than it looks out there.”
He brought two bowls over, one filled with fresh berries and another with melted chocolate. You groaned in delight and sat up from John, peering at the selection.
When the bowl of chopped banana arrived along with lemon juice and sugar, Dutch allowed himself a glance in your direction and his lips turned up at the sight of you eagerly eying the food.
He finally brought over the pancakes, sauce, and fresh orange juice before seating himself beside Tilly.
You salivated at the display in front of you, the best cure for a hangover that wasn’t quite the same when you’d made it back in your flat. “Thanks so much, Dutch,” you hummed, beginning to stack your pancakes with toppings.
“It’s my pleasure,” he chuckled, pouring out a cup of coffee.
Internally, John briefly questioned when you’d gotten to a first name basis with his dad but didn’t give it much thought to it and soon his full focus was on the food in front of him.
“I got a load of washing,” he chewed his last mouthful after pretty much inhaling his breakfast, washing it down with a glass of orange juice.
“You know where the laundry room is,” Dutch countered calmly to which John scoffed and stood to grab his washing that’d accumulated over the past few weeks. “Do you want to wash anything, miss?”
“Oh,” you swallowed your juice, remembering your suitcase full of clothes that needed washing. “It’s fine, I do have some but I was just going to do it when I got home.”
“Nonsense. When John’s finished you can put a load on.”
You shrugged. “Alright, suppose I may as well.”
Later that day, Dutch called up the stairs to let you know the washing machine was free and you ambled downstairs after separating your clean clothes from those that needed washing. He directed you to the laundry room and you placed your suitcase on the dryer and opened it, deciding that one load should be enough. You looked at his fancy washing machine, slightly uncertain on how to get it going.
As though reading your mind, he appeared in the doorway and cleared up your confusion. You turned to thank him and found his eyes cast down to your pile of clothing – and you were mortified to see your underwear right at the top. In an attempt to play it cool, you looked back to him and he gave you a smile, one that had you questioning if he’d even been looking or if it was just a figment of your imagination. You returned his expression, turning back to desperately try and remember what he’d just told you about how to work the appliance and you leaned over to turn a dial and pretend you knew what you were doing. You breathed a sigh of relief when the door clicked shut after an extended moment, and dumped your pile of clothes in.
Unfortunately, the weather was both cold and rainy by the afternoon, squashing all hopes Tilly had of going on a walk. She made you promise that when you next came round, you’d join them on one and you were reminded that you had to leave tomorrow but the prospect of returning was an exciting one. Incidentally, Javier had no desire to go out in the rain and so yours and John’s plans were cancelled too, but you went to the drive through for a late lunch that you’d both finished by the time you returned to his house.
Instead, you spent the rest of the day on the sofa with Tilly and John, flicking through Netflix and bundled under blankets. Dutch put you to shame by having a better social life and going out for beers with his friends that evening, but he made a lasagne to go in the oven when the three of you got hungry, and the entire thing was demolished in no time. Nursing a rather large food baby, you turned in at around 11pm.
-
“Are you going to come and watch?” John asked you after he informed the room that he'd be playing football with the guys on that dreary Sunday.
You glanced out the window and back to him with a frown. “It’s pouring rain. And I see you’re going back on your promise to give me a lift to the station.”
“I never promised nothing,” his expression told a different story; he’d just forgotten. “Dad’ll take you,” he gestured to his father who looked up from his phone.
“Course I will,” Dutch stated, and returned his attention to the device in his hand.
“Oh, it’s fine, I can get a taxi -”
His expression alone silenced you as he looked up once more, an eyebrow raised at you to stop protesting. “I insist,” he said after letting the silence hang in the air for a bit. You just nodded.
When John left an hour later, he gave you a big squeeze goodbye and you told him to at least do some revision for his exams in January, to which he countered that they didn’t even count to the final grade and you couldn’t really argue with him on that. With Tilly up in her room and a couple of hours to kill before you had to leave, you tried to find something to watch on TV but had no luck and sighed as you eyed your laptop beside you. May as well try and get some work done.
You begrudgingly pulled up the code for one of your assignments, but soon found yourself focused and began to make some decent progress.
“What on earth is that,” Dutch commented, leaning on the back of the sofa as he squinted at your screen over your shoulder.
Huffing a laugh, you craned your neck to look back at him. “Broken code,” you stated, before looking back at said code.
“Looks... interesting. How can you concentrate with this on?” he gestured to the TV.
“Oh,” you looked up, half forgetting it was even on. “It’s just background noise.”
“I see. Mind if I watch something?”
As if he was asking you, like it wasn’t his own house. “Course not.”
He moved round the sofa and dropped himself in the spot you’d first found him in, and he flicked through the channels until he landed on a cooking show, and you were reminded of how delightful your dinner was last night.
“That lasagne was so good,” you commented, not taking your gaze off the screen in front of you.
“I’m glad you liked it. Can I get you a drink?”
“Oh,” you blinked at him, “no, I’m fine thank you.”
You returned your attention back to your work and settled into the cushion of the sofa. It felt oddly normal to sit with Dutch, while he did have a very intimidating aura, he was also the kind of person you could sit in silence with and not have it be awkward. He lounged back, watching his show while you typed away on your keyboard.
Before you knew it, an hour and a half had passed, and you rubbed your eyes before closing your laptop.
“Ready to get going?”
You groaned and rested back, wishing you could curl up on the comfy sofa instead. “I guess,” you grumbled.
Dutch chuckled fondly. “You’re welcome back anytime.”
“Thanks Mr Van der Linde,” you smiled at him, and there was something about the way he was looking at you...
Or perhaps it was your imagination.
He cleared his throat as he stood, placing his warm hand on your shoulder as he passed and you almost leaned into it, but he was out the room before you could and all that remained was that scent of his. You shivered as you stood.
The short journey to the station was delightful, in Dutch’s fancy car that had heated seats and was pristinely clean. You only allowed yourself to look at him once, the way he sat back and leisurely stirred the wheel with one hand, his other one resting on his thigh.
“Have a good Christmas, miss,” he tipped his head as you turned to close the door, and you returned the sentiment.
You were actually glad to be leaving, a little fantasising was harmless but there was something about that look in his eye that had you wondering if perhaps it could be a reality. And, of course, that was territory you’d never venture into; sleeping with your friend’s dad, a man twice your age? Absolutely not. Time to enjoy Christmas at home and forget all about him.
When you couldn’t find one of your favourite pair of knickers, the lacy, dark grey ones, you tutted at yourself for forgetting them even though you were sure you’d packed them. But when you returned for second term at university, they weren’t anywhere to be found in your flat, either.
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