#thomas doherty

You’d felt the eyes on you for days now, even though you weren’t sure where they came from. Everywhere you went, you felt stalked, watched, hunted.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing, that it was just paranoia creeping in after too many late nights. But the feeling never faded. If anything, it grew stronger with each passing day.

Now, as you walk down the dimly lit street, you feel the eyes again. The city around you has calmed, the usual distant sound of traffic and people seeming quieter than usual—an eerie silence. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, resisting the urge to look over your shoulder.

But then you hear it. A footstep.

It is soft, almost unnoticeable, but it is definitely there. And worse, it is in time with yours.

Your pace quickens.

So do the steps behind you.

A shiver runs down your spine. Your breath hitches as you try to keep your movements natural, to convince yourself that it is just a coincidence, that someone else is merely walking in the same direction as you. After all, you are walking down a street.

Then, you hear something else—quieter this time, but closer. It is not just following. It is closing the distance. You start to run, your feet colliding with the cobbled road, footsteps echoing off the walls.

All of a sudden, from somewhere behind you comes a sharp whistle through the air, too fast, too precise, and then it is gone.

And so are the steps.

You slow, looking behind you, but there is nothing. Or at least, nothing you can see.

Then comes the sound.

A gasp. A struggle, brief and frantic. A choked-off noise, cut short like a thread being severed. And then nothing. Silence envelops the street again.

Your chest heaves, your heart pounding with every shallow breath. The only sound is the thumping of your own blood, but you can feel it. Something looming in the shadows.

You turn and come face to face with a man, so close your nose nearly brushes against his chest. He’s tall, so impossibly tall, and cold, like the night itself. His eyes are dark but steady, watching you with an unsettling calm, a sort of curiosity.

"Are you alright?" He places his hands on your shoulders to steady your trembling body.

His voice is softer than you expect, like he’s trying not to startle you. It cuts through the air, smoother than silk, but there’s something underneath it, something sharp. Your breath is still uneven as your gaze flickers over him, drawn—despite yourself—to the glint of his teeth. His canines catch the light, just a little too sharp.

You’re still breathing hard, too overwhelmed to process. "You... You were chasing me."

His eyes flicker, just for a moment, like he's trying to measure your reaction. "I wasn’t chasing you." His gaze sharpens. "I was keeping you safe."

Your mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The man's presence settled like a weight in the pit of your stomach.

"Safe?" You barely recognise your own voice, it’s so shaky, so small, “From who?”

"From him." His hand gestures behind him, toward the empty space behind them. "I’m afraid he's no longer a concern."

You don’t know what to say. Part of you wants to run, to question everything about this night, but you can’t move. You can only stand there, trembling, wondering if you’re even safe at all.

"I'm sorry, I'm being terribly rude" he takes a step back. "My name is Walter, Walter De Ville."

"I think," he continues, his tone softer now, but no less intense, "you’ll find comfort inside. You’ve had enough excitement for one evening."

You feel conflicted, you don't know this man, he's a stranger. "Okay..." your voice shaky. "I live about 5 minutes away." You start walking down the street, your legs feel as if they might give out, but Walter makes no move to follow you. Instead, before you can take two steps, his hand grasps your wrist, harshly.

"I know, but I am not sure I would forgive myself if I let you go home and spend the night alone. Someone could still be out there." His eyes look into yours, icy and blue. "Please, stay at mine tonight, there's plenty of space."

You stand there, you know you shouldn't agree, there is no rational reason for you to go to his house. Yet, at the same time, you feel safe. Safe in a way you cannot explain. His presence comforts you, it feels strong and sturdy. So when your voice comes out quiet, almost silent you, decide just to go with it.

"Are you sure? I really wouldn't want to impose or-."

"I insist."

Walter smiles down at you, placing a strong hand on the small of your back, leading you down the street. "I've called a car, should just be around the corner."

As you round the corner, you see the car, you can tell its expensive, with its sleek and black exterior. The man standing beside it nods at you as you approach.

"That's Mr Field, the butler," Walter explains. "We'll take very good care of you. You mustn't worry about anything."

But before you reach the car, your eyes find a huddled shape in the alleyway, and you recognise it as the same alley you ran through mere minutes ago. As you step closer, the shape becomes clear. A body. A pool of blood spreading around it.

Walter follows your gaze, his voice as even as ever. "As I told you," he says, "the man who was following you is no longer of any concern."

He leaves no room for conversation, opening the car door and ushering you inside. You follow him with your gaze as he rounds the car, sliding in next to you and leaning forward to Mr Field. "Home, thank you."

You feel the car start to pull away.

You must have fallen asleep, because you wake to the sensation of movement beneath you. A slow, steady rise and fall. Your head is resting against something firm.

Then the realisation sets in.

Your eyes open just enough to take in the dim, leather interior of the car. It’s no longer moving, and you can make out the shape of Mr Field walking away. Walter’s dark, rich, scent surrounds you, and as your mind clears, you become painfully aware that you’re not just leaning against him. You’re curled against him, tucked neatly into his side.

Your body stiffens slightly, and before you can pull away, his voice breaks the silence.

"Comfortable?" There’s a hint of amusement in his tone, making you want to disappear. You've known this man for maybe an hour and you're sleeping on him.

Heat creeps up your neck as you shift, sitting up far too quickly. "I wasn’t—"

Walter chuckles softly, turning to look at you. "You were," he corrects smoothly. "Quite soundly, in fact. It was... endearing." His gaze flickers over you.

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already reaching over, unbuckling your seatbelt effortlessly. Before you can process what’s happening, his arms slide beneath you, lifting you bridal style as if you weigh nothing at all.

"Walter—"

"Please, call me Walt."

"Ok, Walt—"

"You’re exhausted," he states simply, stepping out of the car taking you with him. "And I did promise to take care of you, didn't I?"

You exhale, relaxing just enough to let yourself slowly doze off in his arms. Trusting him just enough.

Just a little.

You wake up slowly, wrapped in the warmth of the duvet. For a moment, you forget where you are, until your eyes flutter open, taking in the grand bedroom, the heavy drapes filtering in only the softest traces of light.

Right.

You sit up, stretching the stiffness from your limbs. On the bedside table, you see a note, folded neatly beside a dress he's laid out for you.

I’ll return by evening. Make yourself comfortable. Mrs Swift will be there if you need anything.

There’s no signature, but he doesn’t need one. Your eyes drift to the clothes he’s left for you.

You reach for the dress, your fingers brushing over the fabric, so soft it barely feels real. It’s delicate, impossibly so, as if it belongs to another era entirely. The bodice is fitted, the sheer lace hugs your skin just right. The sleeves, if they can even be called that, are wisps of mesh and the skirt flows over your body like liquid, pooling in gentle waves around your feet.

It’s the kind of dress meant to be admired rather than simply worn. And somehow, you have no doubt that was exactly his intention. Another quiet reminder that, despite everything that feels wrong, he intends to take care of you.

And yet, beneath that, there’s the lingering truth you’re trying not to think about too hard.

Walter isn’t normal.

And whether you admit it or not, you’re about to spend the day in the home of a man who you're pretty sure isn't quite human.

You decide to explore, if you're to be alone until Walter returns, you may as well familiarise yourself with the estate. The mansion is eerily quiet as you wander through its corridors. The architecture is stunning. The dark wood, the intricate carvings, the bookshelves that seem to stretch endlessly.

What captures your attention though is the lack of any personal touches. No photographs. No clutter, no sign of life beyond the perfectly arranged furniture and candlelight, even in the middle of the day.

Pushing open a door to what looks like a study, your eyes scan over the neatly stacked papers, the antique desk, the massive fireplace. And then, you notice something.

A wine glass, still half-full.

You step closer, expecting to find deep red wine, but the liquid is thicker, darker. Your stomach twists.

"Ah, you’re awake."

The voice startles you, and you turn quickly to find a woman standing in the doorway, her expression warm. She’s older, dressed neatly, with sharp eyes that seem to assess you in a single glance, despite that, you feel no threat from her.

"You must be Mrs. Swift," you say, remembering the name Walter had mentioned in the note.

She nods, stepping inside. "And you must be her," she muses, as if that alone explains something. She glances at the glass on the desk but says nothing about it. Instead, she smiles, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "I imagine you have questions."

You swallow. You should be afraid. You should. But the fear doesn’t settle, not fully. Instead, there’s a strange sort of inevitability to it. You already know the answers, even if you haven’t spoken them aloud.

Still, you meet her gaze and say, "He’s not human, is he?"

Mrs. Swift exhales, her smile tilting just slightly. "Do I really need to answer that miss?." You look at her, slowly shaking your head.

"No."

The admission should terrify you, but somehow, it doesn’t. Maybe because you’ve felt it all along.

Maybe because, despite everything, you’re still here.

She smiles, turning to leave. "Do wear the dress," she muses, a knowing glint in her eyes. "It’s a favorite of his, and I’m sure he’d love to see you in it."

The dining room is ridiculously grand, the candles flickering around you and reflecting off the polished silver. The place setting before you is pristine, the cutlery and plates are set out perfectly. It’s clear that everything has been prepared for you.

Walter sits across from you, watching with an easy, unreadable expression. He picks up his glass, the deep red liquid swirls inside, catching the glow of the candlelight in a way that makes your stomach twist.

"You’ve barely touched your food," he says, voice smooth as ever. There’s no teasing in it, he's simply observing you.

You shift slightly, pushing a bite around with your fork before finally taking it. He watches, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips, clearly satisfied.

"I still can't really believe this is happening," you admit. "Last night, I thought I was going to die. And now I’m having dinner in a mansion with—” You stop yourself, not sure how to finish that sentence.

His lips curve just slightly. "With a monster?"

You hesitate, your fork hovering over your plate. "I was going to say ‘a man I don’t know.’"

Walter chuckles, the sound low, quiet, and undeniably amused.

"Ah, but that would be a lie, wouldn’t it? You know me, at least you do now. You know what I am. What I’m capable of." He tilts his head slightly, studying you intently.

"And yet, here you are."

For a moment the room goes silent. He’s right. You could have left. You could have run. And yet, for some reason, you stayed.

"I suppose I should be thanking you," you say, nearly whispering, finally meeting his gaze fully. "For last night, I mean."

Walter lifts his glass in a slow, almost theatrical motion. "It was my pleasure," he says. "I do try to keep my guests from harm."

It should be unsettling, the way he says it, so smooth, so undeniably charming, but it isn’t. Not to you anyways.

Walter watches as you take another sip of wine. The rich taste lingers on your tongue, though you’re not sure if it’s the drink or the way he’s looking at you that’s making your head feel so light.

"You don’t seem as afraid of me anymore," he muses, leaning forward slightly. His voice is still flawlessly smooth, but there’s something else in it now, something that makes your cheeks heat up.

"Should I be?" you counter.

His lips twitch, amusement flickering across his face. "Well, that depends, darling," he murmurs, the nickname rolling off his tongue, sending a shiver down your spine. "Are you the kind of person who enjoys a little danger?"

You roll your eyes, but the increasing warmth creeping up your neck betrays you. "That sounds like something a very dangerous man would say."

He exhales a soft chuckle, tilting his head. "And here you are, dining with him. What does that say about you?"

The air shifts. This time though, it's not fear. It’s something else entirely, something that tightens in your stomach when he slowly traces his finger along the rim of his glass, his icy blue eyes never leaving yours.

"You stayed," he says after a moment, his voice quieter now, more intimate. "Even after understanding what I am. I find that... intriguing."

You swallow, pulse quickening. "Maybe I just wanted dinner."

His smile turns sharper, darker. "Mm. Or maybe," he says, his voice like velvet wrapping around you, he stands up from his chair, slowly rounding the table. You tense as he stops just behind you, the space between you vanishing in an instant. He leans down, you feel his breath ghosting against your skin, lips grazing the shell of your ear.

"You wanted something else."

The words linger between you. You should say something quick, something dismissive. But you don’t.

Because maybe he’s right.

"It's getting late," he whispers, hand reaching out to tilt your head towards his. "Perhaps it's time to retire for the night?"

His thumb brushes over your lower lip before you can answer. His touch warm despite the unsettling coolness of his skin. His eyes flicker down, watching the way you react.

He moves, placing a hand on the table beside your plate, caging you in. He's close enough now that you can feel the heat of his body, the way his breath fans over your cheek.

He picks up the delicate wine glass, turning it lazily in his fingers before taking a slow sip. His gaze never leaves yours as he lowers it again, the faintest hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Instead of setting the glass down, he lifts it toward you.

Your fingers brush against his as you take it, and for a moment, you think that’s all it is. But then, just as you bring it to your lips, his other hand moves to your waist, steadying you as he leans in even closer. The sensation of him pressing against your side has you in a trance, his fingers tightening just slightly.

"Good?" he asks, his voice low.

You nod, though you're not entirely sure whether it’s in response to the wine or the way his lips have begun to ghost down the line of your jaw, barely touching, just enough to make your breath hitch.

All of a sudden you feel the air whoosh around you, and the next thing you know, your back meets the smooth surface of the table.

His weight hovers over you before his mouth finally claims yours. The kiss starts slow, teasing, but it deepens in an instant, his fingers gripping your waist, pulling you flush against his firm body. You run your hand over his chest, feeling the muscles working beneath his shirt.

A soft sound escapes you, and his restraint snaps. His hand slides down, fingertips pressing into your thigh as he shifts against you, lips trailing lower, over your throat, as if worshipping every inch of skin he can reach.

Just when you think he might push you further, he suddenly pulls back, breathing heavier than before. His eyes are darker now, the blue nearly completely hidden behind his blown pupils, but his lips curve with satisfaction at the way you lie beneath him, breathless.

"Not here," he murmurs, his voice rough. "I have far better places to ruin you."

Before you can respond, his arms slide beneath you, lifting you from the table. You barely have a moment to catch your breath before he carries you toward the grand staircase.

Walter’s grip is firm as he carries you. His pace is unhurried, teasing in itself, as if he’s savoring the anticipation.

The flickering candlelight barely reaches the long, shadowed hall he strides through, but you don’t need to see anything, you can feel the shift in the air, the quiet hush of the mansion pressing in around you. Then, with a slow creak, he pushes open a door, stepping inside.

The room is dark. Luxuriously so. Heavy velvet drapes block out the world beyond, and the vast bed made up with black silks dominates the space. Everything about it feels indulgent.

Walter doesn’t stop until your back meets the bed. He sets you down with deliberate care, but the moment his hands leave you, a shiver rolls through you at the loss of his touch.

He notices.

Well, of course he does, and a smirk finds its way to his face.

You raise yourself on your elbows, studying his features in the limited light. His face seems sharper now, the lines of his cheekbones and jawline more defined.

“Lie back,” he murmurs.

You hesitate for a moment before obeying, your pulse hammering in your throat, not wanting to provoke him. He watches, eyes dark with hunger.

Then he leans over you, bracing one hand beside your head while the other ghosts down your arm, fingertips barely skimming your skin.

“Keep your hands to yourself love,” he orders you and his free hand continues down the length of your torso.

It’s a test. One you already know you’re going to fail.

His lips trail over your jaw, nipping at the skin from time to time. His fingers trace the curve of your waist, his touch teasing and light, keeping you on edge. He takes his time, working his way down, his mouth grazing your throat, his hand slipping lower, and lower and lower.

You shift beneath him, body aching for more, for anything, for something to ground you. But when your fingers twitch, reaching for him, he’s faster.

His hand catches your wrists in an instant, pinning them above your head against the sheets.

Your breath hitches. You test his grip, but it’s useless. He doesn’t even strain to keep you still, it’s effortless, a quiet display of strength, of his unnatural power. The realisation sends a shudder through you, heat pooling deep in your stomach.

He chuckles, no doubt because it took you about two minutes before you failed your one simple instruction. “Impatient are we?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to answer. His lips return to your throat, trailing lower, slow and torturous. His fingers slip beneath the fabric of your dress and move your flimsy underwear to the side. When he finally touches you where you need him the most, it’s agonizingly slow, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips.

Walter watches, savoring the way you react to him.

“Let’s see how long you last, darling.”

Walter’s grip tightens just slightly around your wrists, his thumb tracing lazy circles over your skin. He doesn’t need to restrain you, you don't stand a chance against him, but he does it anyway. He loves the way your eyes beg for more, relishing in the way your pulse flutters against his lips when he places open-mouthed kisses to your neck.

His fingers work against you, and every touch sends sparks up your back. Every time you get too close to that release you've been craving, he pulls back to leave you aching for more.

When you finally whimper his name, "Walt please—" it happens.

His restraint snaps.

You barely have a moment to react before he releases your wrists, his hands shifting lower, gripping the delicate fabric of your dress.

And then—rip.

The sound of tearing fabric splits through the air.

Your breath catches as the ruined dress falls away in shreds, his hands trailing over the newly bared skin, entranced by the way the light reflects off you.

“Beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. Then his gaze flickers back up, dark and ravenous, a smirk tugging at his lips.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” he says, voice dripping with amusement. “I never planned on being gentle.”

He pulls away, his gaze fixed on you like a predator watches its prey. His hands, still resting on your skin, now move to the buttons of his shirt.

One by one, they come undone.

He never breaks eye contact, and you feel every inch of his control and dominance; it's suffocating, as he slowly exposes more of his chest.

The moment the shirt hits the floor, his muscles seem to shift in the dim light, the strength beneath the surface no longer hidden.

He’s flawless.

His body is smooth, sculpted, you can’t look away. Every inch of him seems designed to make you need him more.

His fingers brush over your skin again, a fleeting touch, before he reaches for his belt. The buckle clinks in the quiet room, the sound sharp, making your heart race with anticipation.

He pauses, just for a moment, like he’s savouring this, savouring the power he has over you, the way you’re looking up at him with wide eyes.

With a single fluid motion, the belt is gone. His pants follow quickly, sliding off his hips, revealing the tautness of his body. He steps out of them, his gaze still unwavering, watching you as he stands before you, tearing the boxers off his body, fully exposed to you now.

You swallow, mouth dry as you take him in. He doesn’t give you time to look away, stepping closer, his bare skin brushing against yours as he leans over you again. The heat of him is overwhelming, and you feel every inch of him pressing against you.

"You’re perfect," he whispers, low and full of hunger, just before his mouth claims yours again. His words linger in the air, the kiss hot, insistent, demanding.

The heat of him, the solid weight of his body pinning you down, only makes it worse, makes you needier. He knows it, too. The way he moves, the way he presses into you.

His hands skim over your skin, exploring, claiming, pressing into every inch of you as if he wants to memorise how you feel beneath him. He’s still taking his time, but there’s something different now. The patience and self-control he had before is slipping away with every gasp, every arch of your body against his.

You feel his breath at your throat before his lips follow, dragging over the sensitive skin there, his teeth grazing, threatening. He lingers at the pulse point, inhaling deeply, and for a moment, a moment that seems to drag on forever, he hesitates.

And then he bites.

A sharp gasp escapes you as his fangs sink into your neck, but the pain is fleeting, but it's drowned out almost instantly by a sudden, overwhelming rush of sensation. It crashes over you all at once, dizzying, intoxicating.

Your fingers dig into his arms, but you don’t push him away, you can’t. Even if you wanted to, there was no way you would be able to. If anything, you’re pulling him closer.

Walter groans against your skin, low and wrecked, his grip tightening on your waist. You can feel him shaking with the effort of holding back, of keeping himself from completely losing control.

He yanks you against him, pressing his thigh between yours, rolling his hips giving you some of that friction you'd been craving. His hands roam lower, gripping, kneading your body, setting fire to every inch of you he could reach.

When he finally pulls back to look at you, his lips are stained red, his pupils blown wide with hunger.

“You’re trembling,” he murmurs, brushing a thumb over your kiss-swollen lips. His voice is rougher now, raw with something dark and unrestrained. He shifts between your legs, lining himself up.

"You ready?" He asks, holding eye contact.

You nod, and you suddenly feel just how much he’s been holding back. The stretch is inevitable, his size enough to make you hesitate, and for the first time tonight, Walter softens, just ever so slightly.

His hand moves to your jaw, making you look at him.

“Breathe,” he murmurs, his voice a deep, soothing command. “You can take it.”

The burn is real, but so is the pleasure that chases it, growing with every slow, deliberate thrust.

He watches you, drinking in every reaction, every sound. He waits just long enough for you to adjust before he moves—a slow, rolling motion that has you arching beneath him.

And then he really lets go.

His grip tightens, his thrusts grow deeper, harder, his breath coming ragged against your ear. He presses your wrists above your head, pinning you effortlessly, and when you try to again test his strength, trying to shift, to move, you find that you still can’t.

A wicked smirk crosses his lips.

“Trying to fight me now, darling?” His voice is pure sin, teasing, taunting. “You’ll lose.”

And you do.

Walter sets a brutal, unrelenting pace, overwhelming in the way he takes you, like he wants to consume you completely.

And the worst part? You want him to.

Pleasure coils tight in your stomach, building to something devastating, something inevitable. Walter can feel it—he knows. His fingers slip between your legs, teasing, pushing you closer, dragging you over the edge slowly.

And then, just when you think you can’t take any more, he presses his mouth to your neck again, tongue flicking over the wound he left earlier—

And bites.

The sensation sends you spiraling, the pleasure shattering through you in waves so intense it leaves you shaking, gasping.

Walter follows moments later, his grip tightening almost painfully as he groans into your skin, burying himself deep one final time before he stills, his entire body rigid with pleasure.

For a long moment, neither of you move. The only sound in the room is your heavy breathing, the occasional aftershock still pulsing through your limp body.

He doesn’t move away, doesn’t give you a chance to drift too far. Instead, his body shifts just enough to wrap around you and cage you in beneath him.

You’re spent, but he stays pressed against you, arm draped over your waist, anchoring you in place. He’s not holding you down anymore, not pinning you with that unrelenting strength, but you can still feel it. The power. The possession. The quiet, unspoken claim on you.

And for some reason, you love it.

“I told you,” he exhales softly, pressing a final kiss to the pulse point on your neck, right where he bit you.

“You were always going to lose.”

And he's right, neither of you are going anywhere.