Prompt: Love can encounter many obstacles, some more serious than others but all of them are there to be dealt with. Now imagine you or rather your character is the obstacle. The stalker who plots his next move, the ghost who scares all the suitors away, or the creepy thing under your bed which doesn't let you leave. Write us a story from the love obstacle's point of view.

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A breeze rustles the tall grass in a deserted meadow on a warm summer day.

"I never want to hurt you," I hear her whisper to her lover. His eyes are closed as she lets me caress his face. I run my small fingers gently over the delicate skin of his eyelids, down his strong jaw, and over his soft lips. I entrance him. Then she moves me aside and kisses those lips, practically breathing the words into his lungs, "so you should leave me now."

"Never," he groans nearly inaudibly as he pulls her down on top of him. I'm entwined in his curly brown hair as they make love in the late afternoon sun. I love him too now, but unlike hers, mine is a dark, obsessive, sinister love. 

Her beauty captivates him like it has so many others. Her long black hair hangs in loose curls around high cheekbones, a perfect nose, and big, bright, green, albeit wisened, eyes–eyes that have witnessed too much. Darkness, my darkness, hangs in the air around her, like an erotic tincture. He doesn't understand it and he doesn't care. He is in ecstasy. 

Theirs is a fantasy world where time expands and contracts. Marble seas rise and consume gods at war. Stars and moons collide giving birth to firey dragons. But in her kingdom, they eat ripe berries and laugh while the juice dribbles down their chins, dance to the wind, and pleasure one another until they fall into a deep dreamless slumber every night. He knows he is a fool is helpless to run from her. I smile to myself and wait patiently.

They sleep atop white down that softens the large four-poster bed in her castle on the hill. The night is alive and moves freely in and out of the large open arched windows, a witness to the beauty's evil. They hover in the bubble, the bewitched hours after midnight and before dawn. It is always then when she cries out in pain and wraps me in a towel. When he tries to help or offer solace she pushes him away. This only makes his wanting stronger. He ignores the mounting evidence the danger, a mortal danger, growing stronger each night. There is no doubt as to the outcome anymore.

On the eve of solstice, the moonlight disappears in a cloudless sky. A marked man, he wakes with a start. He turns and gazes at her beautiful face–heavenly in slumber–for the last time. A single tear treks down his cheek.  Turning, he looks up at the bats and moths dancing among the rafters above, fully accepting his fate. He feels me inch toward him and delicately wrap my fingers around his throat. And squeeze. Slowly at first. He doesn't struggle and, because I belong to her, I arouse his desire. I grip harder until he takes only little gasping breaths. I keep him on the edge, giving him just enough air to live a little longer. His sight is getting dim. Squeezing with full force I puncture the skin of his neck he bleeds out quickly. He dies euphoric, knowing she will wake and weep for his death while cradling her bloody hand.