Dead Plate Oneshots Your Prisoner

6774 words (Yes I’m going crazy)

All Vincent remembers is the darkness of the basement and the chains around his neck. He doesn’t remember his life before the basement. Did he even have a life outside the basement? Even his earliest memories revolve around the basement. The only people he’s ever come in contact with are his master Rody who comes to give him food,water and to sleep with him and his master’s wife who he only knows by her name Manon and her voice. He sometimes hears her ask master why she’s not allowed in the basement and what’s down there

The darkness was thick, almost suffocating, and Vincent had grown used to it. The basement was his world, a place where time blurred and memories felt like whispers on the wind—elusive and indistinct. He didn’t know when he’d arrived here or if he’d ever known anything outside these walls. It didn’t matter. His life was defined by the cold stone beneath his feet, the heavy chains around his neck, and the faint light that occasionally spilled down from the door above.

Vincent sat on the floor, his back against the damp wall, the metal links clinking softly as he shifted. There was nothing to do but wait. Wait for the sound of footsteps that meant his master was coming. Rody. That name was all Vincent had to cling to, the only person who had any meaning in his dark world.

The door creaked open, and a sliver of dim light cut through the gloom. Vincent’s breath caught in his throat, anticipation and dread swirling in his chest. He tried to sit up straighter, to appear attentive, though his body was weary.

Rody descended the stairs, each step deliberate, almost lazy. He was a tall man with a sturdy build, his auburn hair disheveled, casting shadows over his face. Vincent couldn’t see his eyes clearly, but he felt their weight on him, like a force that held him down as much as the chains did.

In Rody’s hands was a small tray with food and water. He set it down near Vincent’s feet, his movements calm and methodical. Vincent waited, not daring to move until he was told.

“Eat,” Rody ordered, his voice low and firm, without a trace of warmth.

Vincent hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his hands trembling slightly as he picked up the piece of bread. The food was always simple, just enough to keep him alive, to sustain him for another day in the darkness. He ate quietly, every bite methodical, though it brought him no pleasure. The taste of the food barely registered, and he sometimes wondered if he had ever truly tasted anything at all.

Rody watched him, silent, as Vincent finished the meal. Once he was done, Rody took the tray and set it aside, his eyes never leaving Vincent.

“You’ve been good,” Rody said after a long pause, his tone softer now, almost approving. He reached out, his hand brushing against Vincent’s cheek, fingers cold against his skin. Vincent leaned into the touch, craving the contact, the only semblance of affection he ever received.

The touch lingered, then Rody’s hand moved down to the collar around Vincent’s neck. He undid the clasp, and the heavy chain fell away with a clatter, the sound echoing in the small space.

“Come here,” Rody whispered, and Vincent obeyed, crawling closer until he was at Rody’s feet, his head resting against Rody’s thigh. It was a ritual, this closeness. It was the only time Vincent felt like he existed, like he was more than just a shadow in the dark.

Rody’s fingers tangled in Vincent’s hair, his touch rough but not unkind. He didn’t speak, just stroked Vincent’s hair as if he were a pet, something to be kept and cared for, but never truly loved.

“Master…” Vincent’s voice was hoarse from disuse, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

Rody’s hand stilled, and for a moment, Vincent feared he had crossed a line, that he had spoken out of turn. But then Rody tilted his head down, his eyes piercing through the gloom, searching Vincent’s face.

“What is it?” Rody asked, his voice quiet, almost curious.

Vincent hesitated, the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to ask about the world outside, about the life he couldn’t remember, about whether he had ever been anything other than this. But the questions died in his mouth, swallowed by the fear of what the answers might be.

“Nothing, Master,” Vincent finally whispered, lowering his gaze to the floor.

Rody’s fingers resumed their motion, though the touch was heavier now, more deliberate. “Good,” he murmured, his tone carrying a hint of satisfaction. “Don’t think too much. It’s better this way.”

Vincent nodded, though he wasn’t sure if Rody even noticed. He closed his eyes, letting the rhythm of Rody’s hand lull him into a sense of calm, a fleeting moment of peace.

Above them, the sound of a door opening echoed faintly down the stairs. Vincent tensed as he heard a voice—feminine, sharp—cut through the stillness.

“Rody? What are you doing down there again?”

It was her. Manon. Rody’s wife. Vincent knew her name, her voice, but nothing else. She had never set foot in the basement, and Rody’s hand stilled, and a shadow crossed his face. He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on the door at the top of the stairs. Vincent remained still, barely daring to breathe.

“Just taking care of some things,” Rody finally called back, his voice cold, distant. There was a tension in his tone that Vincent hadn’t noticed before, a crack in the usual calm.

Manon’s voice softened, almost pleading. “You spend so much time down there. What’s so important that you can’t tell me?”

Rody’s hand gripped Vincent’s hair a little too tightly, making him wince. Vincent could feel the shift in Rody’s mood, the anger simmering just beneath the surface. He curled in on himself, hoping to avoid being the target of that anger.

“Manon,” Rody’s voice was dangerously low, each word carefully measured. “Go back upstairs. I’ll be up soon.”

There was a long silence, and for a moment, Vincent thought she might push further, demand answers that Rody wasn’t willing to give. But then the door above closed with a soft click, and the tension in the room eased slightly.

Rody exhaled sharply, his hand releasing its grip on Vincent’s hair. He stood up, turning his back to Vincent, staring at the door as if he could see through it.

“She doesn’t understand,” Rody muttered, almost to himself. “She never will.”

Vincent remained silent, knowing better than to interrupt when Rody was in this kind of mood. He waited, watched, and tried to make himself small.

Rody turned back to him, his expression hard, his eyes cold. “You’re mine,” he said, his voice laced with a possessiveness that made Vincent shiver. “Not hers. Never hers.”

Vincent nodded obediently, but inside, a flicker of something unfamiliar stirred—a question, a doubt. It was quickly smothered by the overwhelming need to please Rody, to avoid his wrath.

Rody seemed satisfied with Vincent’s silent submission. He reached down, pulling Vincent up by the arm, dragging him toward the old, worn-out mattress in the corner. Vincent didn’t resist, following Rody’s lead as he had so many times before.

The darkness closed in around them again, the chains forgotten, the outside world a distant memory. All that mattered was the here and now, the rituals that kept Vincent bound to Rody, the small moments of contact that made him feel like he existed, even if only for a short while.

As Vincent lay there, Rody’s weight pressing down on him, he pushed away the lingering thoughts, the memories that tried to resurface. This was his life. The basement. The darkness. The chains. Rody.

He couldn’t imagine anything else.

Vincent’s mind drifted as Rody’s breath warmed the back of his neck, his movements almost mechanical in their rhythm. The darkness pressed in from all sides, a familiar cloak that shielded Vincent from thoughts he couldn’t afford to entertain. The basement was all he knew, and as long as he stayed here, as long as Rody was with him, he could keep the world outside at bay.

But something was different tonight. The flicker of doubt that had sparked earlier refused to be snuffed out. Questions, vague and formless, tugged at the edges of Vincent’s consciousness. Who was he before this? What had brought him to this place, to this existence? The chains around his neck had become so familiar, yet they felt heavier now, as if the weight of his forgotten past was suddenly pressing down on him.

Vincent’s breath hitched, and he tensed beneath Rody. Noticing the change, Rody slowed his movements, his hand pausing on Vincent’s side. “What’s wrong?” he murmured, his voice a mix of concern and possessiveness.

“Nothing, Master,” Vincent whispered, trying to steady his breathing, to push the questions back into the darkness where they belonged. But his mind was racing, fragments of thoughts and images flashing before him—shadows of a life he couldn’t quite grasp.

Rody’s grip tightened, his fingers digging into Vincent’s skin. “Don’t lie to me, Vincent. I can feel when something’s off.”

Vincent swallowed hard, his throat dry. “I just… I don’t know… I keep thinking…”

“About what?” Rody’s voice was sharper now, his patience thinning.

Vincent hesitated, unsure of how to put his thoughts into words. “About who I was… before the basement. If I even was anyone.”

Rody was silent for a long moment, his hand still resting on Vincent’s side. Then, with a heavy sigh, he rolled off of Vincent and sat up, leaving Vincent lying on the mattress, staring up at the ceiling he couldn’t see.

“You’re thinking too much,” Rody muttered, his tone carrying a hint of frustration. “I told you, it’s better not to dwell on that. This—” he gestured vaguely around the basement, “—is all that matters now. You’re here with me. That’s all you need to know.”

Vincent turned his head toward Rody, searching his shadowed face for something—reassurance, perhaps, or a sign that his master understood the turmoil churning inside him. But Rody’s expression was closed off, his features hardened into a mask of control.

“But… did I have a life before this?” Vincent’s voice was small, almost childlike in its uncertainty. “Did I have… dreams? A family?”

Rody’s jaw clenched, and for a moment, Vincent thought he saw something flash in his master’s eyes—regret, maybe, or guilt. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by the cold detachment that Vincent had come to know so well.

“Those things don’t matter,” Rody said firmly, his voice brooking no argument. “Whatever you were before, it’s gone now. You belong to me. This is your life, Vincent. Accept it.”

Vincent’s heart sank, but he nodded, knowing it was useless to press further. Rody was his world now, the only anchor he had in the endless sea of darkness that threatened to swallow him whole. If this was all there was, then he had no choice but to cling to it, to let go of the questions that only brought pain and confusion.

Rody leaned down, pressing a rough kiss to Vincent’s forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment longer than usual. “You’re mine,” he repeated, softer this time, almost tender. “And I’ll take care of you. You don’t need anything else.”

Vincent closed his eyes, letting the words wash over him, trying to draw comfort from them. But the flicker of doubt remained, buried deep within him, a small, stubborn ember that refused to be extinguished.

As Rody settled back beside him, his arm draped possessively over Vincent’s chest, Vincent forced himself to relax, to focus on the warmth of Rody’s body against his. He wouldn’t think about the questions anymore. He couldn’t.

But as he drifted into a restless sleep, his dreams were filled with flashes of light and sound, fragments of memories that didn’t belong in the basement. And in those dreams, he was free.

—

Vincent woke to the sound of distant voices, muffled by the thick walls of the basement. The darkness was still complete, wrapping around him like a second skin, but the voices were new—an intrusion in the familiar silence that surrounded him.

He strained to listen, his heart pounding in his chest as he tried to make out the words. It was Rody, of course, but there was someone else, too—someone with a softer, more feminine voice. Manon.

Vincent had never seen her, but he had heard her voice before, faint and far away, always questioning, always curious. She was Rody’s wife, and that knowledge gnawed at something deep inside him, a jealousy he couldn’t quite understand. Why did Rody have someone else? Why wasn’t Vincent enough?

He shifted on the mattress, the chains around his neck clinking softly. The sound brought his mind back to the present, grounding him in the reality of the basement. It was a familiar sensation, the cool metal against his skin, the weight of it a constant reminder of his place. But tonight, it felt different—heavier, more suffocating. The questions from before had settled deep in his mind, refusing to be ignored.

He couldn’t remember how long he had been in the basement. Days, weeks, months—it all blurred together in the unchanging darkness. And yet, there was a growing sense that something was wrong, that something was missing.

Vincent forced himself to sit up, the chains tugging at his neck as he did. He was alone; Rody had left some time during the night, and the tray of food from the evening before still sat untouched on the floor. The bread had gone stale, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t hungry.

The voices upstairs grew louder, more insistent, and Vincent could hear the faint sound of footsteps pacing back and forth. He strained to catch snippets of the conversation, but the words were too muffled, too distorted by the thick stone walls.

But one word cut through the noise, sharp and clear.

“Basement.”

Vincent’s heart skipped a beat. The word sent a jolt of fear through him, a cold dread that settled in the pit of his stomach. He wasn’t supposed to exist outside these walls. No one was supposed to know he was here, not even Manon.

The voices grew louder, and Vincent could make out Rody’s voice, deep and firm, trying to placate her. But there was an edge to his tone, a hint of desperation that hadn’t been there before.

Manon wasn’t backing down. She was pushing, demanding to know more, to understand why she wasn’t allowed in the basement, why Rody always disappeared down there for hours at a time. Her voice grew sharper, more insistent, and Vincent could hear the tension building between them.

He curled in on himself, pulling his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them, trying to make himself as small as possible. His thoughts were racing, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to happen, something that would shatter the fragile equilibrium of his existence.

The door to the basement creaked open, and Vincent froze, his breath catching in his throat. The light from the hallway spilled down the stairs, harsh and blinding after the darkness he had grown so used to. He squinted against it, trying to make out the figure that stood at the top of the stairs.

It was Rody. But behind him, Vincent could see a shadow—a silhouette that could only belong to Manon.

Vincent’s heart pounded in his chest, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. He was never supposed to be seen. He was a secret, a hidden part of Rody’s life that didn’t belong in the light of day.

Rody descended the stairs, his movements quick and agitated. He didn’t look at Vincent as he approached, his focus entirely on the door behind him.

“Stay here,” Rody ordered, his voice low and commanding. There was no room for argument, no softness in his tone. “Don’t make a sound.”

Vincent nodded, too terrified to do anything else. He watched as Rody ascended the stairs again, his broad back blocking Manon from view. There was a brief, hushed exchange at the top of the stairs, and then the door slammed shut, plunging Vincent back into darkness.

But this time, the darkness wasn’t comforting. It was suffocating, oppressive, pressing down on him from all sides. The walls felt like they were closing in, the chains around his neck tighter than before.

Vincent’s thoughts spiraled, a chaotic whirl of fear and confusion. What would happen if Manon found out? What would she do if she saw him, chained and broken in the basement of the man she loved?

He tried to calm himself, to focus on the rhythm of his breathing, but the panic was too strong, too overwhelming. The darkness that had once been his refuge now felt like a prison, and he couldn’t escape the feeling that the walls were closing in.

He didn’t know how much time passed before the door opened again. It could have been minutes, or it could have been hours. But when the light flooded the basement once more, Vincent’s heart leaped into his throat.

Rody was alone. Manon was gone, and the tension in the air had dissipated, replaced by something colder, more controlled.

Vincent’s breath hitched as Rody approached him, the familiar clink of chains filling the silence. Rody’s expression was unreadable, his eyes dark and unreadable as he knelt in front of Vincent.

“You’re mine,” Rody said, his voice low and dangerous. He reached out, his hand gripping Vincent’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Do you understand that?”

Vincent nodded, his eyes wide with fear. He could see the storm brewing behind Rody’s eyes, a dark, twisted possessiveness that sent shivers down his spine.

“You belong to me,” Rody continued, his grip tightening. “No one else. Not her, not anyone. Just me.”

Vincent swallowed hard, his throat dry and tight. “Yes, Master,” he whispered, the words barely audible.

Rody’s expression softened, just for a moment, and he released Vincent’s chin, his hand sliding down to rest on Vincent’s shoulder. “Good,” he murmured, his voice returning to its usual calm. “As long as you remember that, everything will be fine.”

Vincent nodded again, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together. He wanted to believe Rody’s words, to take comfort in the familiar routine, but something had shifted, something he couldn’t ignore.

As Rody stood and turned away, Vincent was left alone in the darkness once more, the questions gnawing at him like a festering wound. He belonged to Rody, that much was clear. But what did that really mean? And how much longer could he keep pretending that the basement was all there was?

The flicker of doubt that had been growing inside him was no longer a faint ember. It was a flame, small but steady, and it was only a matter of time before it consumed him completely.

—

Vincent remained kneeling on the cold stone floor, the darkness settling around him like a familiar blanket. But it wasn’t as comforting as it once had been. Rody’s words echoed in his mind, heavy with an authority that was impossible to ignore.

“You’re mine.”

Vincent knew that. He had always known that. The chains around his neck were a constant reminder of his place, his purpose. He belonged to Rody, body and soul. There was no room for defiance, no space for questioning. His thoughts of doubt and confusion were mere wisps, easily brushed away by the ironclad certainty of his submission.

He swallowed hard, his throat dry. Rody’s touch still lingered on his skin, and Vincent found himself craving it again, desperate for that brief moment of connection, however twisted it might be. It was the only thing that anchored him in the swirling sea of darkness, the only thing that made sense.

The door to the basement creaked open once more, and Vincent’s heart leaped. The sound of Rody’s footsteps on the stairs was steady, measured, each step a reassurance that Rody was there, that he hadn’t been abandoned.

Rody descended slowly, carrying something with him—Vincent couldn’t quite see what it was until he reached the bottom of the stairs. A tray, laden with food. It was fresh, unlike the untouched bread that had gone stale. Vincent’s stomach tightened at the sight of it, but not out of hunger. No, this was different.

Rody set the tray down carefully, his movements calm and deliberate, and then knelt in front of Vincent again. There was something almost tender in the way he reached out, brushing a strand of Vincent’s hair away from his face.

“You didn’t eat,” Rody observed quietly, his voice devoid of accusation, but still carrying the weight of his expectations.

Vincent shook his head slowly, eyes cast downward. He couldn’t find the words to explain why. How could he? The food didn’t matter, not when his mind was consumed with the swirling storm of emotions that he couldn’t understand.

Rody’s hand moved to cup Vincent’s cheek, tilting his head up to meet his gaze. The touch was gentle, almost comforting, and Vincent leaned into it without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbed the warmth.

“Why didn’t you eat?” Rody asked again, his tone softer now, coaxing.

“I… I wasn’t hungry,” Vincent whispered, the words coming out haltingly.

Rody’s thumb brushed over his cheek, and Vincent could feel the tension slowly seeping out of him, replaced by that familiar sense of belonging, of being cared for. Rody was here, and that was enough.

But the tension in the air hadn’t fully dissipated. There was still that lingering sense of something unspoken, something Rody wasn’t telling him. Vincent could feel it in the way Rody’s eyes searched his, as if looking for answers that Vincent didn’t know he had.

“I spoke with Manon,” Rody said after a long pause, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Vincent’s eyes snapped open, his heart skipping a beat. He searched Rody’s face, trying to read his expression, but it was guarded, unreadable. The mention of Manon felt like a jolt to his system, a reminder of the world beyond the basement, beyond the darkness.

“She… she’s curious,” Rody continued, his tone carefully controlled. “She asked about the basement. About you.”

Vincent’s breath caught in his throat, his mind racing. He had always been a secret, hidden away from the world, from everyone except Rody. The idea of someone else knowing about him, of Manon knowing about him, filled him with a mix of fear and… something else. Something he couldn’t quite name.

Rody’s hand moved to the back of Vincent’s neck, his fingers curling around the chain that bound him. “You’re mine, Vincent,” Rody said again, the words firm, possessive. “No one else’s. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” Vincent breathed, the words coming easily, instinctively. They were the only truth he knew, the only truth he needed.

But even as he spoke, a flicker of something—something like doubt—burned in the back of his mind. It was small, barely noticeable, but it was there, and it scared him.

Rody seemed satisfied with Vincent’s response. He released the chain and reached for the tray of food, picking up a piece of bread. “Eat,” he commanded, holding it out to Vincent.

Vincent hesitated for only a moment before leaning forward, taking the bread from Rody’s hand. He chewed slowly, methodically, the taste of it dull and lifeless in his mouth. But he ate because Rody told him to, because that was his purpose.

Rody watched him closely, his eyes never leaving Vincent’s face. There was a strange intensity in his gaze, a quiet contemplation that made Vincent’s heart race. It was as if Rody was searching for something in him, something Vincent couldn’t quite grasp.

When Vincent finished, Rody set the tray aside and stood, the chains clinking softly as he moved. “I have to go back up,” he said, his voice distant, as if his thoughts were elsewhere. “I’ll be back later.”

Vincent nodded, his gaze dropping to the floor as Rody turned and ascended the stairs. The door clicked shut behind him, and once again, Vincent was left alone in the darkness.

He swallowed hard, his mind spinning with a thousand thoughts. The food sat heavy in his stomach, but it wasn’t the food that bothered him. It was the growing sense that something was changing, that the world outside the basement was creeping in, threatening the delicate balance of his existence.

He curled up on the mattress, the chains around his neck pulling tight as he tried to find some semblance of comfort. But comfort eluded him, and the darkness felt more oppressive than ever.

Vincent closed his eyes, trying to block out the thoughts that wouldn’t stop swirling in his mind. He didn’t want to think about Manon, about what she knew, about what she might do. He didn’t want to think about Rody’s words, the possessiveness in his tone, the way his gaze lingered a little too long.

But the thoughts were relentless, gnawing at him like a festering wound. And no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that the world he had known for so long was slipping away, and he was powerless to stop it.

—

The basement was all Vincent knew. The cold, the darkness, the chains—they were his world, and had been for as long as he could remember. It was a small, suffocating place, but it was familiar. It was the only place he had ever known, and sometimes he wondered if it was the only place he was meant to be.

Rody’s footsteps echoed down the stairs, and Vincent felt the now-familiar flutter of relief in his chest. It was irrational, he knew—Rody was the reason he was down here, the reason he was chained and kept in the dark. But Rody was also the only person who ever came to see him, the only person who touched him, spoke to him, made him feel like he existed at all.

He hated the basement. He hated the endless darkness, the cold that seeped into his bones, the gnawing emptiness that filled the hours when Rody wasn’t there. But even more than that, he feared what his life would be without Rody. The idea of being completely alone, with nothing and no one, was more terrifying than any chain or dark room.

Vincent sat up as Rody appeared, his heart racing. He kept his gaze down, waiting for Rody to say something, to give him a command, to touch him. Anything that would break the suffocating silence that had filled the basement in Rody’s absence.

Rody didn’t speak right away. Instead, he moved closer, his presence heavy, filling the small space. Vincent could feel the warmth radiating off him, a stark contrast to the cold stone surrounding them. He wanted to move closer, to feel more of that warmth, but he didn’t dare. Not until Rody allowed it.

After what felt like an eternity, Rody reached out, his hand cupping Vincent’s chin, lifting his head so that their eyes met. Vincent’s breath caught. Rody’s touch was firm but not rough, and for a moment, Vincent let himself lean into it, closing his eyes as he felt Rody’s fingers against his skin.

“You’ve been waiting for me,” Rody said softly, more a statement than a question.

Vincent nodded, his throat tight. “Yes, Master.”

Rody’s thumb brushed over Vincent’s cheek, a gesture that was almost tender. Vincent’s chest tightened with something that felt like longing. He knew this was wrong, knew that Rody was the one keeping him here, but he couldn’t help it. Rody was the only source of comfort he had, the only thing that made the darkness bearable.

“Good,” Rody murmured, his voice low and soothing. He let his hand slide down to Vincent’s neck, his fingers grazing the metal collar that still hung loosely there. “You know I always come back, don’t you?”

“Yes, Master,” Vincent whispered. He did know. No matter how long Rody was gone, no matter how much Vincent feared being left alone in the dark, Rody always returned. It was the only certainty in Vincent’s life.

Rody seemed pleased by the answer, his hand lingering on Vincent’s neck for a moment before he let it fall. He moved to sit beside Vincent, pulling him close, and Vincent instinctively curled into the warmth, resting his head against Rody’s shoulder.

The proximity brought Vincent a sense of calm that he couldn’t find on his own. Rody’s presence was like a balm to the constant ache of loneliness that filled the basement. He felt Rody’s hand in his hair, fingers threading through the strands in a way that was almost gentle.

Vincent’s world was small, defined by the walls of the basement and the chains that kept him there. But in Rody’s arms, he found something that resembled safety, a fleeting comfort that he clung to with everything he had. He didn’t know how to live without it, didn’t know how to exist without Rody’s touch, Rody’s voice guiding him.

“I’ll always take care of you, Vincent,” Rody whispered, his breath warm against Vincent’s ear.

Vincent nodded, his eyes fluttering shut. He wanted to believe that. He wanted to believe that this was care, that this was love. Because if it wasn’t, then what did he have? What was left for him in the darkness?

Rody’s hand tightened slightly in his hair, and Vincent felt the familiar pull of submission, the instinct to please, to do whatever it took to keep Rody close. The thought of displeasing Rody, of being left alone, was too much to bear.

“I know, Master,” Vincent whispered back, his voice barely audible. “I know.”

And in that moment, as Rody held him close, Vincent allowed himself to believe it. Because in the darkness of the basement, Rody’s affection—twisted as it might be—was the only light he had.

Understood. Here’s a continuation with implied intimacy:

—

Vincent’s breathing grew steady as he settled against Rody, the warmth of his body a stark contrast to the cold, oppressive darkness. The moments of silence stretched, punctuated only by the soft rustle of Rody’s clothes as he shifted.

Rody’s fingers continued their gentle caress through Vincent’s hair, and Vincent found himself pressing closer, seeking the contact with a quiet desperation. There was something soothing in the way Rody’s touch seemed to erase the weight of the darkness, if only temporarily.

“Do you ever wonder what it’s like outside?” Rody’s voice broke the silence, a soft murmur that seemed to vibrate through Vincent’s bones.

Vincent shook his head slightly, though he knew it wasn’t entirely true. He wondered constantly, but the thought of asking questions felt dangerous, like stepping too close to the edge of an unknown precipice.

“No, Master,” Vincent replied, his voice muffled against Rody’s shoulder. “I only know this place.”

Rody’s hand traveled from Vincent’s hair to his back, his fingers pressing lightly, almost possessively. The touch was firm, but there was an underlying gentleness in the way Rody traced patterns across his skin.

“There’s a lot you don’t know,” Rody said, his tone almost contemplative. “But you don’t need to know. Not as long as you’re with me.”

Vincent shivered slightly at the possessiveness in Rody’s voice, a mix of comfort and unease stirring within him. He didn’t entirely understand why the closeness felt so essential, but he accepted it without question.

Rody’s hand moved lower, sliding over Vincent’s waist, drawing him even closer. The contact, though indirect, stirred something deep inside Vincent—a yearning that he didn’t fully comprehend but couldn’t deny. He felt Rody’s warmth seeping into him, a constant reminder of the man who controlled his world.

Rody’s breathing grew slightly uneven, and Vincent felt the subtle shift as Rody’s hand grazed over his hip, lingering there with a possessive touch. Vincent’s own breath quickened in response, the intimacy of the moment making his heart race.

The touch was intimate, the kind that spoke of unspoken promises and shared secrets. Vincent’s body responded instinctively, leaning into Rody’s touch, seeking more of the warmth and closeness that he was so desperately craving.

Rody’s hand continued its exploration, moving with a slow, deliberate pace. His fingers lingered over Vincent’s skin, brushing against him in a way that was both commanding and comforting. The air between them was charged, thick with an intensity that Vincent couldn’t quite place but felt deeply.

“Let yourself be mine,” Rody whispered, his voice low and almost pleading. “You’re all I have, Vincent.”

The words, though possessive, were also strangely comforting. Vincent nodded, though he didn’t fully understand the depth of what was being asked of him. He knew only that in Rody’s presence, there was a sense of completeness, a fleeting moment of peace in an otherwise dark and uncertain world.

Rody’s hands moved to cup Vincent’s face, tilting his chin up slightly. The gesture was intimate, the warmth of Rody’s fingers a stark contrast to the cold, unfeeling chains around Vincent’s neck. Their faces were close, and Vincent could feel Rody’s breath on his skin, a tantalizing warmth that made his pulse quicken.

“Be mine,” Rody repeated softly, his gaze intense and searching.

Vincent closed his eyes, leaning into Rody’s touch, the intensity of the moment enveloping him. He didn’t need to understand everything—he only needed to feel the connection, the intimacy that came with Rody’s presence.

In that dark basement, with the chains that bound him and the silence that enveloped him, Vincent allowed himself to surrender to the closeness, to the warmth that Rody offered. It was the only light in his world, the only sense of belonging he had, and he clung to it with everything he had.

The moments stretched on, each touch, each caress, a testament to the unspoken bond between them. Vincent’s world was small, defined by the chains and the darkness, but in Rody’s presence, he found a fleeting sense of peace and belonging that made the suffocating darkness a little more bearable.

—

As the weight of Rody’s possessive touch pressed down on him, Vincent’s mind began to unravel further. The warmth, once a beacon of comfort, had become a twisted symbol of his captivity. The more Rody’s hands roamed his body, the more Vincent’s sense of self seemed to erode, replaced by a desperate need to please and endure.

Rody’s fingers continued their exploration, moving with an almost predatory calmness. Each touch, though intended to be soothing, felt increasingly invasive to Vincent. Yet, he found himself yearning for more, caught in a cycle of craving Rody’s affection while knowing it came with a harsh price.

“Master,” Vincent’s voice was barely more than a breathless murmur, his eyes glazed with a mix of fear and fervent longing. “Do whatever you want”

Rody’s eyes flickered with a dark satisfaction as he leaned in, his breath hot against Vincent’s ear. Vincent’s surrender was palpable, and his master’s grip tightened with an almost predatory satisfaction.

“Is that so?” Rody’s voice was a low growl, tinged with a chilling calm. “You’re mine, in every way.”

Vincent’s response was a shiver, his body arching towards Rody’s touch as if drawn by an irresistible force. The chains around his neck clinked softly, a haunting reminder of his submission. He no longer cared about the pain or the abuse; the only thing that mattered was the way Rody’s touch made him feel—desired, even if it was in the cruelest sense.

Rody’s hands roamed Vincent’s body with an almost casual cruelty. He was deliberate in his movements, savoring the control he had over Vincent. Each touch, each caress, was a reminder of the power dynamics at play, and Vincent reveled in it. His mind had long since given up on resisting the reality of his situation.

Vincent’s eyes were distant, his gaze fixed on a point in the darkness. The basement, once a symbol of his isolation, now seemed like a cocoon, one he was hopelessly tangled in. He felt disconnected from his own body, as if it were merely a vessel to carry out Rody’s desires. The warmth of Rody’s touch was a fleeting comfort, a stark contrast to the cold, unfeeling walls around him.

Rody’s fingers gripped Vincent’s collar tightly, pulling him closer with a possessive strength. The pressure was both a physical and psychological anchor, a constant reminder of Vincent’s place in Rody’s world.

“You’re so eager to please,” Rody said, his voice dripping with dark amusement. “It’s almost pathetic. But I like it.”

Vincent’s mind was a whirlwind of fragmented thoughts and emotions. He felt a twisted sense of fulfillment in his submission, a perverse pleasure in being used and abused. His sense of self had diminished to a mere shadow, subsumed entirely by his need to appease Rody.

“Do what you want,” Vincent whispered again, his voice hoarse. “I’m yours. I don’t care.”

Rody’s hand moved with a deliberation that bordered on cruelty, exploring Vincent’s body with a mixture of harshness and control. Vincent’s responses were automatic, a series of involuntary shivers and gasps that betrayed the depth of his submission.

As the moments dragged on, Vincent’s detachment from reality deepened. He had long ceased to care about the consequences of Rody’s actions, his focus entirely on the sensations that his master’s touch evoked. The basement, with its dark, oppressive atmosphere, was his world now—a world where pain and pleasure merged into a single, indistinguishable experience.

Rody’s actions grew more intense, more demanding, pushing Vincent to his limits. Yet, Vincent’s only response was a desperate eagerness to comply, his body moving in time with Rody’s commands. The basement echoed with the sounds of their interactions, a dark symphony of control and submission.

As the night wore on, Vincent’s sanity seemed to fray further. The once-clear line between his sense of self and his role as Rody’s plaything had blurred almost entirely. The chains around his neck felt like an extension of his own being, the weight of his submission a constant, inescapable presence.

In the dim light of the basement, with the shadows growing long and oppressive, Vincent clung to the fleeting moments of contact with Rody. The warmth of his master’s touch was both a comfort and a torment, a cruel reminder of the world he was bound to. The intimacy they shared was a dark mirror, reflecting the depth of Vincent’s despair and his complete surrender to Rody’s will.

As the darkness deepened around them, Vincent’s mind grew increasingly erratic, his thoughts a chaotic jumble of longing and resignation. He was trapped in a cycle of dependence, his identity slowly dissolving into the shadows of the basement—a place where the only reality was the unrelenting grip of Rody’s control.

Rody’s final touch, devoid of tenderness, was a stark reminder of Vincent’s place in this hellish world. The intimacy they shared had long ceased to be a comfort; it had become a twisted form of control, a psychological straitjacket tightening with every passing moment.

As Rody withdrew, Vincent remained on the floor, his body shivering not just from the cold but from a deeper, gnawing fear. His mind was a fractured shell, a broken record of desperate pleas and hollow submission. The remnants of his sanity flickered like a dying flame, extinguished by the relentless darkness that engulfed him.

In the oppressive silence, Vincent’s gaze was vacant, his eyes reflecting the abyss that had become his world. The basement was no longer just a physical space; it was his entire existence, a place where escape was an illusion and hope was a distant memory.

Rody’s footsteps echoed faintly as he ascended the stairs, leaving Vincent alone in the crushing darkness. The sound of the door closing was a final, cold judgment—an irreversible sentence to a lifetime of despair. Vincent’s mind succumbed to the void, his identity dissolving into the shadows, leaving behind nothing but an empty shell bound to the chains of his master’s cruel design.

In that final, unending silence, Vincent was utterly forsaken, consumed by the darkness that had claimed him.