Dead Plate Oneshots Scraps

Warning: Unhealthy relationships, Abuse, self-esteem issues, self-hate, cheating, sexual content, depression

The sun was setting, casting a warm, golden glow through the window of their small apartment. Vincent sat on the couch, half-heartedly reading the last few pages of a book he’d lost interest in hours ago. His mind kept wandering, as it always did on nights like this, listening for the inevitable jangle of Rody’s keys in the lock. He knew what that sound would mean.

He’d heard Rody arguing with Manon on the phone earlier, the usual cycle starting up again. It was always the same — the raised voices, the muffled shouts, the slamming doors. Each time, Rody would storm off to a bar, drinking until he couldn’t remember what he was upset about, and eventually stumble back here, to Vincent. And Vincent? He was always waiting, never asking why or expecting anything in return.

Around midnight, Vincent heard the door slam open, and there he was — Rody, his eyes glazed over, his mouth tight, shoulders tense with all the frustration and anger he hadn’t been able to let out. The smell of whiskey wafted through the small apartment as Rody shut the door behind him with a hard shove, barely noticing Vincent sitting on the couch.

Rody’s eyes landed on him, something dangerous flickering in their depths. “Vince,” he slurred, voice low and harsh. The sound sent an electric shiver down Vincent’s spine, an old, familiar ache settling in his chest.

Vincent only nodded. There was no need for words. He already knew why Rody was here, what he’d want. It was always the same.

Without another word, Rody strode over, grabbed Vincent’s wrist, and pulled him to his feet. Vincent stumbled slightly, but he didn’t resist, letting Rody’s rough, unsteady movements guide him down the hall toward his bedroom. Rody’s grip was iron-tight, his fingers digging into Vincent’s skin. He barely felt it, used to the way Rody’s anger always translated into bruises, marks he’d wear for weeks after, hidden under sleeves and scarves.

When they reached the bedroom, Rody shoved Vincent against the wall, his hands finding Vincent’s shoulders, pinning him there. He could smell the alcohol on Rody’s breath, feel the heat radiating from him, the way his fingers clenched, trembling with restrained force. Rody’s mouth was on him in an instant, hungry and punishing, his teeth grazing Vincent’s lower lip hard enough to draw blood. Vincent barely flinched. This was their ritual — the only way Rody ever came to him. The way Vincent had learned to take whatever he could get, even if it left him shattered by morning.

Rody’s hands slid down to his shirt, yanking it up with such impatience that it tore at the collar. Vincent raised his arms, letting him pull it off without a word. He’d given up on trying to hold back, on trying to protect himself from this twisted pattern they’d fallen into. If this was all he could have, he’d take it — the raw, burning intimacy of Rody’s hands on his skin, even if it left him broken every time.

He let out a quiet gasp as Rody’s teeth found his collarbone, biting down hard enough to bruise. Vincent’s fingers dug into Rody’s shoulders, his body tense with pain and a sick kind of pleasure that made him despise himself. He didn’t care how much it hurt, didn’t care about the marks he’d have to hide tomorrow. He was used to it, knew he could bear it, knew he’d have to. It was the only thing he had left to offer Rody, and maybe the only thing he was good for.

When Rody finally pushed him down onto the bed, Vincent went willingly, his breathing shallow, his heart pounding. Rody’s movements were rough, almost angry, his fingers bruising as they gripped Vincent’s hips. Vincent bit his lip to keep quiet, to hide the sound of his own pain and need, because he knew Rody didn’t want to hear it. This was never about him, never about what he wanted. It was only ever about Rody, about giving him some release, some comfort, even if it hurt.

Afterward, Rody collapsed beside him, breathing heavily, eyes already half-lidded with exhaustion. Vincent lay still, his body aching, covered in fresh bruises and raw, red marks. He didn’t mind. This was what he was for, wasn’t it? To be used and discarded, to give Rody whatever he needed, no matter the cost.

When morning came, Rody would be gone, slipping out before Vincent woke, avoiding his gaze in the rare moments they crossed paths in the apartment. He’d pretend nothing had happened, would go back to Manon, patch things up until the next fight, the next inevitable breakdown. And Vincent? He’d be waiting, always waiting, no matter how many times it happened, no matter how much it broke him inside.

Because he loved Rody. Loved him enough to take whatever scraps he was given, to accept the pain and the loneliness, because he believed — no, he knew — that he was unlovable, that this was all he deserved. His body was the only thing he had to offer, the only thing he could give. And if Rody needed it, he’d keep giving it, over and over, until there was nothing left of him.

Vincent turned on his side, staring at the empty space beside him, already aching with the familiar loneliness. He traced a finger over the fresh bruises, the red, aching marks that would take weeks to fade. He knew he’d hide them, as he always did, wrapping scarves around his neck, tugging his sleeves down low. He didn’t want Rody to know, didn’t want him to feel guilty, to pity him. That would be worse than anything else.

With a shaky breath, he closed his eyes, trying to ignore the ache in his chest, the knowledge that he’d keep doing this, no matter how much it hurt. Because Rody was all he had, the only light in his otherwise empty, dark life. And if this was the price he had to pay to keep that light close, he’d pay it willingly, again and again.

He whispered into the silence, a barely audible confession meant for no one but himself.

“I love you, Rody.”

And then, like always, he lay there, letting the empty room swallow the words whole.