frankly, i'm tired of feeling like i have to preface every post / conversation i have about owen with "I KNOW HE'S A HORRIBLE EVIL MURDERER" as if we don't already know that. i'm tired of having to go "of course he sucks, of course he's awful." i can't stop thinking about him. i miss him. i adore him. this eternal walking wound, this terror of endless teeth. i love his big bug eyes and his flat affect and those little glittering moments where he laughs or jokes or offers kindness. i love that he is constantly pulling his punches despite all his hissing and spitting and i love when he is clever and biting and quick and cruel. i love that he is sharper in social situations than he gives himself credit for and i love that he is angry and scared and grief-struck and hurting and i love that none of this is separate from the damage he has done, like a meteor which blazes brilliant and untouchable through the sky and scars the earth forever with its impact. when i was in high school, i would go on long walks during which i daydreamed about entering a room and finding my younger self there. i'd think about hugging her for as long as she wanted.
i have a playlist on my phone called "hey owen :]" and i know how it got there in the sense that i remember making that playlist and i guess why it's there is "because i wanted to" but it's four songs about love and care and trying again and i don't know why i... i don't know.
(from chilicheesecake0 on tumblr)
to quote directly from my discord messages from jan 26, 2026, 19:17:
the thing about v!owen is i think about him and i don't even know what i want to DO with him. usually treating a character as an instrument is EASY there is no attachment -- but can i even call this attachment, what IS THIS -- but i try to think about him and i just. i want to grab at him. fistfuls of his cowl. i want to gently wash his hair. i want to sit shoulder-to-shoulder with him in front of a roaring hearth. i think about him knee-deep in snow. i see him walking away. i don't know.
this would actively be easier if what i wanted was to fuck him. someone once described thinking of oakhurst and getting this incredible sense of homesickness and i have . whatever that is for owen
i will not save him. he refuses to be saved, and to suggest otherwise would only make me an object of ridicule. but i want to take his hand and squeeze it, just for a moment, before he goes.
(from ringtiledlemurder on tumblr)
this is primarily prompted by scott and owen's weird conversation in episode 1 in which owen says "i lived here when i was just a boy" and scott replies "you were a boy... and now you're a man?" they banter a little about owen's Extremely Manly Features and then i thought about owen being transfem + the implied self-actualization that would have to come with her realizing + the themes of queerness and transformation that come with vampires + the fact of louis being word-of-god trans and what that does the the owen-louis relationship and . well for a time i was very good at taking this as an angle for writing character/relationship studies. and now when i think about girl owen for too long i feel... SOMETHING so intensely i wish i could burst into tears just to experience some kind of catharsis.
i know i'm not going to save him/her. i can fix her, we've learned by now, is the chant of fools. he would despise me, probably, for my softness, for my easy little life, for thinking i could ever measure up to him by any metric. well. suppose i could see him anyway. suppose i could go to him. ask to speak a moment and say: hey. i called the thing i felt love because i didn't know what else it could possibly be, and in its aftermath i am terrible. i, too, play the game where i am sweet and open, and i think i do it badly. i, too, am selfish and unrepentant and never opening my hands to any world beyond my own. like you, i want to be ruinous.
burning makes room for things to grow again. and i don't think i care. i'm chasing immolation, not aftermath. the future is a bad dream.
after haemalhart's unwinding threads
i was turned in the final days of summer. what was ahead of me was change, the leaves, the weather, all the rhythms of life. the world would sink into its own mulch and sleep a while, come back to colours it had forgotten, a fresh throat from which we could pull songs like well-water. i was turned and what was coming was winter. i ached, deliriously at times, all through that summer, and he was cool stones, he was deep sleep. he promised me snowfall, and the two of us, us pair of clever rabbits huddled together somewhere so warm the blizzard would seem a dream. he promised me, lavishly, as many blankets as i wanted, a laughing amendment to as many as you can carry. autumn, then winter, then spring, and i dared not even dream of a whole year; it would be riches beyond any i had ever known. so i thought of the coming cold. i would not hurt again. the birds would go. the fields would lie fallow. he would be just down the hall or, if i asked it, in my bed with me, sharing in my kingdom of blankets.