Warning: Contains forced cannibalism
The atmosphere in La Gueule de Saturne was thick with a palpable tension, a silence that pressed down on Rody like a heavy weight. He sat stiffly at one of the tables, the candlelight flickering softly, casting eerie shadows on the restaurant’s polished walls. There was something off, something sinister lurking beneath the surface. Vincent, as always, moved silently, his presence almost ghostly as he emerged from the kitchen. In his hands, he carried a plate, its contents concealed beneath a gleaming silver cloche.
Rody’s mouth felt dry as Vincent approached, his gaze locked onto Rody with an intensity that made his skin crawl. He had never been able to read Vincent-his boss was always an enigma, his true thoughts hidden behind those dark, impenetrable eyes. But tonight, there was something different, something unhinged in the way Vincent looked at him.
Vincent placed the plate before Rody, his movements precise, almost reverent. He lifted the cloche, revealing the dish-a perfectly grilled hanger steak, its juices glistening under the soft light. The smell was intoxicating, a rich, savory aroma that made Rody’s stomach twist with a confusing mix of hunger and nausea.
“A special creation,” Vincent murmured, his voice low and intimate, as if sharing a secret meant only for the two of them. “I’ve put a lot of effort in this dish. For you, Rody.”
Rody managed a weak smile, trying to ignore the unease coiling in his gut. He picked up his fork and knife, cutting into the steak with slow, deliberate movements. The meat was tender, practically melting under the blade. When he brought the first bite to his mouth, the flavor exploded across his tongue-rich, succulent, with a strange, almost metallic undertone that he couldn’t place.
It was good-almost too good. But there was something else there, something that didn’t belong. He forced the bite down, suppressing the urge to gag as the taste lingered on his palate, heavy and oppressive.
“It’s… different,” Rody said carefully, struggling to find the right words. His voice wavered slightly, betraying the growing dread that was building inside him.
Vincent’s eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of disappointment crossing his face before it was replaced by something colder. “Different how?” he asked, his tone deceptively calm, though there was an edge to it that made Rody’s heart skip a beat.
Rody hesitated, his mind racing for an answer that wouldn’t set Vincent off. “It’s just… not what I expected,” he admitted, choosing his words cautiously. “I’m not sure it’s for me.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. Vincent stared at him, his gaze intense, almost predatory. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he stepped back, his expression unreadable.
“I see,” Vincent said softly, though there was no warmth in his voice. He stood there for a moment, simply watching Rody, as if weighing something in his mind. “Perhaps I misjudged your tastes.”
Rody opened his mouth to respond, to say something-anything-to diffuse the tension, but Vincent spoke again before he could.
“Come to my apartment tonight,” Vincent said, his voice a low murmur. “I have something special planned for you.”
Rody’s heart skipped a beat, a cold sweat breaking out along his brow. There was something in Vincent’s tone that left no room for refusal, something that made Rody’s blood run cold. He nodded, forcing another strained smile.
“Sure, Vince,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I’ll be there.”
—
Vincent’s apartment was as pristine and meticulously arranged as Rody had expected, but tonight, the atmosphere was oppressive, the air thick with an undercurrent of something dark and dangerous. Rody sat uneasily at the small dining table, his eyes drawn to the kitchen where Vincent was already at work, his back turned as he prepared something out of sight.
The sounds of chopping, sizzling, and the clinking of utensils filled the air, but Rody couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that had been growing since he stepped into the apartment. Vincent had always been intense, but tonight, there was something different-something deeply unsettling in his demeanor.
“What are you making?” Rody asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though the fear was starting to creep in.
Vincent didn’t turn around. He was focused, his movements precise and methodical, almost ritualistic. “A dish that’s truly personal,” he replied, his voice soft, almost reverent. “One that I’ve been working on for a very long time.”
There was a cold finality in his words that sent a shiver down Rody’s spine. This wasn’t just about food-this was something far more sinister. Rody could feel it in the air, in the way Vincent moved, in the way he spoke.
Vincent’s hand moved to the cutting board, his fingers splayed out as he held the chef’s knife in his other hand. Rody’s breath hitched as he realized what was about to happen, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak, to stop what was about to unfold.
Without hesitation, Vincent brought the knife down, slicing cleanly through the flesh of his left hand. The movement was precise, almost graceful, as if he had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his mind. Blood welled up, dark and thick, pooling on the cutting board as Vincent methodically cut deeper, carving out a piece of his own flesh with practiced ease.
Rody’s stomach lurched, bile rising in his throat as the metallic scent of blood filled the room. He wanted to scream, to run, to do anything to escape the nightmare unfolding before him, but he was frozen in place, paralyzed by the horror of what he was witnessing.
Vincent moved with eerie calm, his face a mask of serene detachment as he set the knife aside and reached for a small cast-iron pan. The sound of the flesh hitting the hot surface was accompanied by a sickening sizzle, the scent of cooking meat mingling with the iron tang of fresh blood. He added herbs, garlic, and a splash of red wine, the rich aromas filling the air, masking the darker undertones.
This was no ordinary cooking-it was an act of devotion, a twisted offering born from the depths of Vincent’s obsession. He plated the dish with meticulous care, every element arranged with precision, his blood-slicked hands moving with an unsettling grace.
When Vincent finally turned to face Rody, the plate in hand, his eyes were filled with a feverish intensity, a madness that had been carefully hidden until now. He carried the dish to the table, his movements deliberate, almost reverent, as if he were presenting a sacred ritual.
“Eat,” Vincent commanded, his voice low and filled with a dark, desperate hunger.
Rody recoiled, every instinct screaming at him to get away, to flee from the nightmare that Vincent had become. “Vince, I… I can’t eat this,” Rody stammered, his voice trembling with fear and revulsion.
Vincent’s expression darkened, his eyes narrowing as a flicker of anger passed through them. “You will,” he said, his voice a dangerous whisper. “You said you didn’t like the steak I made before. Maybe this… maybe this will be more to your taste.”
Rody shook his head, tears stinging his eyes as he tried to stand, but Vincent was faster. He was on Rody in an instant, grabbing him by the wrist with a grip like iron, forcing him back into the chair. There was no escape, no way out of the horror that had become his reality.
Vincent’s gaze bore into Rody’s, his eyes wild, desperate, his obsession laid bare for the first time. “I’ve given you everything,” Vincent hissed, his voice trembling with barely restrained emotion. “Everything I have, everything I am. I thought if you tasted me, really tasted me, you’d finally understand how much I care. How much I need you.”
Rody’s heart pounded in his chest, the realization of the depths of Vincent’s obsession hitting him like a physical blow. This wasn’t just about food-this was about control, about possession, about Vincent’s twisted need to become a part of Rody, to fuse their identities in the most grotesque way imaginable.
With trembling hands, Rody picked up the fork, the metal cold and heavy in his grip. He knew what Vincent wanted, what he expected, and the thought of it made him sick to his core. But there was no way out-no way to escape the madness that had taken hold of Vincent.
Slowly, Rody cut into the meat, the knife sliding through the tender flesh with ease. He lifted the bite to his mouth, his hand shaking so badly that he nearly dropped the fork. The taste was overwhelming, rich and savory, with the unmistakable tang of blood. But there was something more, something deeper-a bitterness that lingered on his tongue, a reminder of the horror of what he was consuming.
Tears streamed down Rody’s face as he swallowed, the taste of Vincent’s flesh lingering on his tongue like a curse. Vincent watched him with an intensity that bordered on madness, his eyes fixed on Rody’s every movement, waiting for a sign of approval, of acceptance.
But all Rody could feel was revulsion, a deep, soul-crushing horror at what he had been forced to do. He dropped the fork, his hands trembling uncontrollably as he looked up at Vincent, his vision blurred by tears.
“Please, Vince… don’t make me do this,” Rody whispered, his voice breaking.
Vincent’s eyes were wild, his expression a twisted mix of desperation and obsession. He stepped closer to Rody, his fingers brushing against Rody’s cheek, leaving smears of blood on his skin. There was a madness in his gaze, a darkness that had been festering, growing stronger with each passing moment.
“I’ve already done it,” Vincent whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve already given myself to you, Rody. There’s nothing left but this.”
Rody flinched at the touch, his heart racing as panic set in. He felt trapped, like a caged animal with no way out. Vincent’s obsession was suffocating, consuming him, and there was no escape from the nightmare that had become his life.
Vincent leaned in closer, his breath hot against Rody’s ear as he spoke. “I love you, Rody,” he confessed, his voice breaking. “I’ve always loved you. And now… now you’ll carry a part of me inside you forever.”
The weight of Vincent’s words hit Rody like a tidal wave, the full extent of Vincent’s madness crashing down on him. This wasn’t love-this was something darker, more twisted. A need to possess, to control, to make Rody his in the most grotesque way imaginable.
Rody’s breath came in shallow gasps, his mind racing as he tried to think of a way out. He couldn’t do this-he couldn’t keep playing along with Vincent’s sick game. But he also knew that defying Vincent, pushing him any further, could end in something far worse than what he had already endured.
“Vince,” Rody began, his voice shaking, “I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. This isn’t love. This is-“
Vincent’s hand shot out, gripping Rody’s jaw with a bruising force. His eyes blazed with a fury that sent a chill down Rody’s spine. “Don’t you dare say it’s not love!” Vincent snarled, his voice raw with pain and anger. “I’ve given everything for you! I’ve sacrificed everything, and you-“
He stopped himself, his breathing ragged as he struggled to regain control. He released Rody, stepping back, his hands trembling. For a moment, there was a flicker of something human in his eyes-regret, maybe, or the realization of what he had become. But it was quickly swallowed up by the darkness that had taken hold of him.
Vincent turned away, moving back to the kitchen, where a sharp butcher’s knife lay gleaming under the light. He picked it up, running his fingers along the edge as if considering his next move.
“I won’t let you leave,” Vincent said quietly, almost to himself. “Not after everything. You’re mine, Rody. You always have been.”
Rody’s blood ran cold as he watched Vincent, the knife in his hand a chilling reminder of how far Vincent was willing to go. He had to do something, anything, to break free before it was too late.
“Vince, please,” Rody pleaded, his voice shaking with fear. “We can… we can get you help. We don’t have to keep doing this. You don’t have to do this.”
Vincent didn’t respond. He simply stared at the knife, his expression blank, as if lost in thought. Then, without warning, he turned back to Rody, his eyes filled with a twisted resolve.
“You don’t understand, Rody,” Vincent said, his voice eerily calm. “There is no help for me. There’s only you. Only us.”
He stepped forward, the knife glinting ominously in his hand as he advanced on Rody. Rody’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind screaming at him to run, to fight, to do something before Vincent did the unthinkable.
In a desperate move, Rody lunged from his chair, grabbing the edge of the table and flipping it over in Vincent’s direction. The plate shattered on the floor, and Vincent staggered back, momentarily thrown off balance.
Rody didn’t wait-he bolted for the door, his adrenaline-fueled fear giving him the strength to shove past Vincent and make a break for freedom. But just as he reached the door, he felt a sharp pain in his side, a burning sensation that took his breath away.
He looked down, his vision blurring, and saw the handle of the knife protruding from his side. Vincent’s knife. He could barely process it, the shock and pain overwhelming his senses as he stumbled, his hand grasping at the doorframe.
Vincent was there in an instant, his arms wrapping around Rody, catching him before he could fall. “No, no, no…” Vincent murmured, his voice choked with anguish as he cradled Rody against him. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Rody. I never wanted to hurt you.”
But it was too late. The darkness was closing in, and Rody’s strength was fading fast. He could barely keep his eyes open, his body growing weaker with each passing second. The last thing he saw before everything went black was Vincent’s tear-streaked face, his expression twisted in a mix of horror and love.
And then there was nothing.
—
When Rody came to, the pain was a distant memory, dulled by whatever Vincent had done to keep him alive. He was lying on a bed in a darkened room, the walls bare and cold, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic. His hands were bound to the bedposts, the restraints tight enough to prevent any movement, but not enough to cut off circulation.
His vision was still blurry, but he could make out Vincent sitting at the edge of the bed, his back to Rody, his head bowed. There was an eerie calmness in the room, a silence that felt more oppressive than comforting.
“Vince…” Rody’s voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “What are you doing…?”
Vincent didn’t respond immediately. When he finally did, his voice was flat, devoid of the emotion that had consumed him earlier. “I had to stop the bleeding,” he said simply. “Had to make sure you wouldn’t leave me.”
Rody’s heart sank as he realized the full extent of Vincent’s madness. There would be no reasoning with him, no escape from the twisted world Vincent had created. He was completely at Vincent’s mercy.
Vincent turned to face him, his eyes dark and empty, as if all the life had drained from them. “I’m going to make sure you’re never alone,” he said softly, almost gently, as he reached out to caress Rody’s cheek. “I’m going to take care of you, Rody. Forever.”
Rody closed his eyes, fighting back tears as the weight of his fate pressed down on him. He was trapped, bound to Vincent by more than just the restraints on his wrists. Vincent’s obsession had become his prison, and there was no way out.
Vincent leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Rody’s forehead, his touch tender, almost loving. “We’ll be together, Rody,” he whispered. “I’ll make sure of it. I’ll take care of everything.”
And as the darkness closed in once more, Rody knew that there was no escape from Vincent’s love-no escape from the nightmare that had become his reality.
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