Warning: NonCon, Necrophilia (kinda)
The soft hum of fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as Rody stepped into the room. The hospital floor was silent, save for the occasional beep of machines keeping patients in their delicate state of survival. It was just past midnight, the hour when the world outside felt like a distant dream. The hour when Rody’s heart raced the most.
Vincent’s room was no different from the others-sterile, white, and cold. Yet to Rody, it was the warmest place in the hospital. He felt it every time he walked in, seeing Vincent’s still form on the bed, hooked to tubes and wires that monitored a life barely hanging on. Vincent’s body was a shell now-his mind long gone after the accident that had left him in this state. Almost brain dead, they said.
But to Rody, Vincent was so much more.
Rody had been Vincent’s caretaker for the past few months, assigned to watch over the man after his last remaining relative stopped visiting. That was when everything started to change for Rody. It wasn’t the first time he had taken care of patients like Vincent, but something about this one-about *him*-was different. There was an allure in his silence, in the vulnerability of his body, utterly dependent on Rody for every need. The stillness of his face, the way his skin felt against Rody’s hand during routine checks. Rody had never known love like this before-intense, consuming, and maddening.
He liked it.
Rody slowly approached the bed, his fingers brushing against Vincent’s pale arm. “You’re safe with me,” he whispered, as if Vincent could hear him. He imagined that, deep down, Vincent could feel everything-the care, the attention, the affection. Rody had become obsessed with the idea that he was the only one who could provide it. The only one who cared.
Vincent’s life had been reduced to this-a series of machines keeping him alive. But Rody saw life in him, even when no one else did. He loved the way Vincent’s body felt under his hands, loved tending to him, feeding him, changing him. It gave Rody a sense of purpose he hadn’t felt in years.
It was late one night when the news finally came. Vincent’s last living relative had passed away. Rody had found out through a hushed conversation between the doctors, who mentioned that with no one left to pay for his care, Vincent’s life support would be turned off in a matter of weeks.
The idea of losing Vincent was unbearable. Rody couldn’t let it happen. He wouldn’t.
As he stood over Vincent that night, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, Rody knew what he had to do. He would take Vincent home. It was the only way to keep him forever-away from the hospital, away from prying eyes. It didn’t matter that Vincent couldn’t give consent. Rody didn’t care. In his twisted mind, he convinced himself that this was love. A love so pure and all-consuming that it didn’t matter what Vincent wanted.
He brushed a strand of hair from Vincent’s forehead, leaning down to kiss his cold lips. “You’re coming with me,” Rody whispered. “I’ll take care of you… forever.”
It wasn’t difficult to arrange. He worked late shifts, and security in the hospital was lax. On the night of his plan, Rody brought a wheelchair, gently easing Vincent into it, wrapping him in a blanket like a precious treasure. His heart raced as he rolled Vincent out of the hospital and into the night, adrenaline and obsession flooding his veins. No one stopped him. No one cared.
When they finally arrived at Rody’s apartment, he carried Vincent inside, laying him on the bed that had once been so empty. Now, it felt complete. Rody’s hands trembled as he hooked up the small, portable machines he’d taken from the hospital, ensuring Vincent’s body would remain alive. That was all that mattered.
In the following days, Rody devoted himself to caring for Vincent. He dressed him in clean clothes, washed him, held him in his arms. At night, he would crawl into bed beside him, wrapping himself around Vincent’s unresponsive body, whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
But it wasn’t enough. Rody wanted more.
The first time it happened, it was slow, hesitant. Rody’s hands roamed Vincent’s still form, feeling the contours of his body under his fingertips. He whispered apologies, promises of love, as he kissed Vincent’s neck, his chest, his lips. There was no resistance. There never would be. And in that absence of rejection, Rody found twisted solace.
He loved Vincent with a desperation that consumed him entirely. The man in his bed was his now-forever.
And in Rody’s mind, Vincent loved him too.
The nights blurred together in a haze of routine and obsession. Rody’s life had shrunk to the confines of his small apartment, with Vincent at the center of his world. He no longer cared about anything else. His phone had long since stopped buzzing with concerned messages from friends or work, but none of that mattered anymore. Rody had Vincent now, and that was all he needed.
He spent his days fussing over him, making sure the machines ran smoothly and that Vincent looked presentable. He’d dress him in soft clothes, talk to him about nothing in particular, and even watch TV with him, imagining that Vincent was silently listening, understanding, and enjoying every moment they shared.
But the nights were the hardest, and where Rody’s obsession grew darkest.
He couldn’t stop touching Vincent, couldn’t stop feeling the smooth skin beneath his fingertips, the cold lifelessness of his lover’s body. Vincent was completely his, a blank canvas for Rody’s desires. His hands would trace patterns across Vincent’s chest as he lay beside him in bed, whispering things he used to think were romantic.
“You’re so beautiful, Vincent. No one cares for you like I do,” Rody would murmur, pressing soft kisses against his jawline, down his neck. The stillness, the silence-it only made him want more. There were no protests, no struggles. Just the endless acceptance of his actions.
Rody began to imagine Vincent responding, imagined the tilt of his head, the slight parting of lips as if waiting for a kiss. He convinced himself that Vincent *wanted* this, that in his silence, he was communicating something deeper-something only Rody could hear. At night, as Rody held him closer, his fantasies grew bolder, crossing boundaries he never thought he’d dare. But once he crossed that line, there was no going back.
He’d whisper, “You’re mine now. No one else will ever touch you. No one else *can*.”
There was a sick comfort in that thought, the idea that Vincent belonged to him and him alone. In Rody’s twisted mind, their bond was perfect, and even though Vincent’s body remained unresponsive, Rody deluded himself into believing that this was love in its truest form.
But the delusion began to fester.
Rody found himself wanting more-needing more. Every day, it seemed like Vincent was slipping further away, even though his body was right there, immobile. No amount of touch or care would satisfy the hollow ache in Rody’s chest. He needed more than just to hold Vincent’s cold body. He wanted Vincent to need *him* the way Rody needed him.
It was on one of those sleepless nights that Rody crossed the line entirely. Lying in bed next to Vincent, he ran his hand across Vincent’s chest, pressing his body closer, whispering feverishly. His lips brushed against Vincent’s neck, his hands trailing lower, searching, wanting. He kissed Vincent deeply, ignoring the stiffness, the lifelessness of the man under him. This was love-*their* love. And Rody was willing to take it by any means necessary.
The following nights, Rody’s interactions with Vincent grew more intimate, more grotesque. He would lay beside Vincent, his hands exploring, his voice trembling with possessive devotion. “I’ll take care of you, Vincent. Forever. You’ll never leave me.”
He’d force his fantasies into reality, touching Vincent in ways he imagined a lover would, kissing him as though he could feel the same passion in return. But no matter how far Rody went, the truth haunted him-Vincent was gone. No matter how much he pretended otherwise, the man he loved would never respond. He would never be *alive* again.
Yet, even in the face of this truth, Rody didn’t stop. His obsession spiraled further, wrapping around him like a vice, and his delusions kept feeding the sick comfort that Vincent needed him.
One evening, after another day of caring for Vincent, Rody lay next to him, his heart pounding in his chest. The soft glow of the bedside lamp cast long shadows over the room. He turned towards Vincent, studying the contours of his face, the lifelessness in his eyes.
“I love you,” Rody whispered, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”
The silence that followed felt suffocating. His heart hammered in his chest as the weight of what he’d done began to press on him. But even then, he couldn’t stop. He needed Vincent. He needed to keep loving him, even if it was wrong.
Rody kissed Vincent again, slowly, deeply, losing himself in the sensation, in the idea of a love that was eternal and irrevocable. His hands moved down, and he held Vincent’s body tight, whispering into his skin, his voice trembling with desperation.
“I’ll never let you go, Vincent. Never.”
And in that moment, Rody knew there was no going back. He had crossed every line, abandoned every boundary of morality or reason. His obsession had consumed him fully, and he would spend the rest of his days devoted to the hollow shell that Vincent had become.
Because in Rody’s mind, *that* was love. Twisted, broken, and utterly irredeemable-but love nonetheless.
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