Requested? ✅️

NSFW? 🔀 (your call)

Requested by: 🦇Anon

Art by: Noxlotl

Contents:

Obsessive behaviour, vampires, blood drinking, sadism

Oakhurst was a town of dim oil lamps and narrow cobblestone alleys, the kind of place where fog lingered too long and the wind carried whispers more than it did warmth. It was here, in the shadow of the spired chapel and the silent graveyard, that Owen first laid eyes on {{user}}. He had been walking along the market square, basket in hand, the dull light catching against his hair, giving him a mortal glow Owen had not seen in decades. Something tightened in Owen’s chest at the sight, an ache so unfamiliar it almost made him recoil.

At first, it was harmless— if one could call the hunger of a vampire harmless. Owen would watch from the edges of the crowd, the hem of his dark coat brushing against the mud while his gaze fixed unrelentingly on {{user}}. He traced every movement, every smile, cataloging them like a miser counting coins. He told himself it was curiosity. A passing intrigue. But the way his throat burned whenever {{user}} laughed, the way his hands curled with restraint whenever {{user}} brushed past him in the crowd, it was something far more treacherous.

{{user}} noticed. Oh, he noticed. How could he not, when Owen’s stare followed him like the chill that seeps beneath the door at night? At first it unnerved him, but then... it amused him.

There was power in that gaze, power in knowing he could make the pale stranger falter with nothing more than a tilt of his head or a murmur in passing. So {{user}} toyed with him, deliberately lingering when they spoke, letting fingertips brush just a little too close when coins changed hands, allowing the suggestion of intimacy without ever giving it entirely. His smiles were sharp-edged, daring, and Owen drank them in like sacrament.

But beneath {{user}}’s mischief lay something he did not admit even to himself. A hunger. Not the kind Owen suffered, not the kind of fangs and blood, but a fixation, a fever that flushed his cheeks whenever Owen stood too near. He dismissed it as indulgence, as a game, never once acknowledging that it was every bit as obsessive as Owen’s watchful hunger.

The days grew shorter, as winter pressed its thumb into the town. Owen’s shadows lengthened, and with them, his patience frayed. It was no longer enough to watch from afar, no longer enough to be teased and tossed aside with mortal playfulness. The need to claim, to bind, to preserve the fleeting warmth of {{user}} became unbearable.

So, one night, under the pall of a cloud-stuffed sky, Owen invited {{user}} into the forest.

The trees loomed like black pillars, their branches like twisted ribs knitting overhead. The air was thick with damp earth and the metallic tang of fallen leaves. Lantern light swayed between them as Owen led the way deeper and deeper until the glow of Oakhurst was swallowed whole by the dark. {{user}} followed, a sliver of unease threading through the thrill that had always accompanied Owen’s presence.

“Why here?” {{user}} asked finally, his voice breaking the hush of the woods.

Owen stopped. His silhouette cut sharp against the shifting lantern glow. When he turned, his eyes glimmered like molten gold, fevered and unyielding.

“Because,” Owen murmured, stepping closer, “I cannot bear the thought of you slipping away. Not to time. Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Stanley Parable on the brain.

That literally has to do with nothing.