Dead Plate Oneshots Love Me Even If It’s Pretend

Warning: Kidnapping, Self-mutilation, implied rape, depression, self-loathing, self-harm, suicide

I’m having a blue day lol. I just wanna lay down and cry for no reason.

The dim, cold light of the basement filtered in, casting faint shadows across the concrete floor. Rody sat hunched on the thin mattress that Vincent had lovingly set up for him, his eyes weary and haunted. It had been two years since he’d felt the warmth of sunlight, two years of seeing only Vincent’s face, hearing only Vincent’s voice. His will had worn thin, but he held onto the last scraps of his defiance, clutching them like lifelines.

The door opened with a slow, creaking sound, and there was Vincent, beaming like a child with a gift in his hands. He stood in the doorway, his dark eyes glinting as he clutched a tray laden with food. “I made something special for you,” he announced, his tone buoyant and tinged with something else, something that hovered on the edge of desperation.

Rody barely glanced up, but Vincent didn’t seem to mind. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, and moved to kneel in front of Rody, placing the tray carefully between them.

“Look,” he said, pointing to the intricately plated dish. “It’s your favorite… isn’t it? I made it just the way you liked.” Vincent’s smile trembled as he searched Rody’s face for any hint of affection, any sign of appreciation. But Rody only stared, his face blank.

Vincent’s smile faltered. “Don’t you like it?” His voice had taken on a faint, wounded edge. “I spent all day working on it… for you.”

Rody sighed, his gaze dropping. “Vincent… please. Let me go. I don’t… I can’t live like this.”

That broke something in Vincent. His hands trembled, and a strange, pained smile stretched across his face. He laughed—a brittle, hollow sound. “Oh, Rody… after everything I’ve done for you? I’ve been the perfect lover! I cook, I take care of you, I give you everything you need… everything!” His voice cracked, and he leaned closer, his face inches from Rody’s. “What am I doing wrong?”

Rody’s voice shook. “You… you can’t keep me here. This isn’t love, Vincent. This is…” His words failed him, his throat tightening.

“No,” Vincent cut in, his voice shrill with panic. “You don’t understand. I love you, Rody. I *love* you! No one has ever made me feel the way you do. And I know… I know you feel something too. You just… you just don’t see it yet.” His hands reached out, caressing Rody’s cheek, his touch cold and possessive.

Rody flinched away, but Vincent held his face firmly, fingers digging into his skin. “I know I’m not good enough for you. I know… I’m… broken. But I can change, Rody. I can be better for you.” His voice softened, his eyes wide and shimmering with tears. “Please. Just… just tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

When Rody stayed silent, Vincent’s mood shifted again. He pulled back, his hands trembling as he ran them through his hair. “Maybe… maybe it’s because I’m not pretty enough. Is that it?” His eyes were wide and pleading, and his mouth twisted into a crooked smile, his laugh brittle.

“Vincent…” Rody murmured, horrified. “That’s not… that’s not what this is about.”

“No, no, I get it.” Vincent’s tone turned disturbingly chipper, his gaze distant as he seemed to talk more to himself than to Rody. “I’ll make myself prettier. I’ll dress up, I’ll wear makeup. I’ll be everything you want. You’ll see.” His smile stretched, a fragile, trembling thing that barely held back his anguish. “You’ll love me then. I just… I have to try harder. That’s all.”

He reached out and took Rody’s hand, gripping it tightly. “You’re all I have, Rody. No one else… no one else has ever been this kind to me. You smiled at me… you told me I looked nice. No one ever said that to me before. You made me feel like… like maybe I was worth something.”

Rody swallowed, struggling against the tears stinging his eyes. “Vincent… please, just let me go. This isn’t what you think it is. Love doesn’t… it doesn’t look like this.”

Vincent’s face twisted, his eyes filling with tears. He dropped Rody’s hand and collapsed back onto his knees, burying his face in his hands. “Why… why don’t you understand?” His voice broke into a soft, heart-wrenching sob. “I’ve given you everything. My love, my time, my body… I even gave you my first time. I’ve never done that for anyone else.”

Rody shivered, turning his face away, but Vincent’s voice rose, pleading and frantic. “I thought that… that if I gave you everything, if I did everything right, you’d… you’d see how much I love you. You’d realize that you don’t need anyone else.”

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and wild. “You don’t, Rody. You don’t need anyone else. I’m enough. I’m more than enough!”

Rody’s voice was barely a whisper. “Vincent, you’re scaring me.”

For a moment, Vincent’s face softened, as if realizing what he had done. He crawled closer, reaching out to cup Rody’s face, his touch gentler now, his voice a whisper. “I’m sorry… I’m sorry if I scared you. I don’t want to hurt you. I just… I just want you to be happy here, with me.”

Rody’s lips parted, and he struggled to find his voice. “Vincent, if you really loved me… if you truly wanted me to be happy, you’d… you’d let me go.”

Vincent’s face hardened, his hands dropping. He looked at Rody as if he’d been slapped, a bitter, resentful smile twisting his lips. “So that’s it, then? I’m not good enough. I give you everything, and still, you… you look at me like I’m some kind of… of monster.” His voice cracked, and he began to laugh, the sound jagged and hollow.

“Fine,” he spat, his eyes glistening with fresh tears. “Maybe I *am* a monster. But that’s just what I am for you. I’d be anything for you, Rody. I’d tear myself apart if it meant you’d love me, even for a moment.”

Vincent stood, his form trembling, every emotion warring across his face—anger, despair, desperation, and above all, a fierce, unrelenting love. “You don’t understand, Rody. I don’t… I don’t have anyone else. And I don’t want anyone else. I want *you.*”

He took a shaky breath, composing himself, his expression softening once more. “I’ll make myself prettier,” he promised, his voice eerily calm. “I’ll do whatever it takes. You’ll see. I’ll be… the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen.” He gave a brittle, tear-streaked smile, his eyes glistening with manic determination. “And then… then you’ll love me.”

Rody watched, horror-stricken, as Vincent turned and left the room, the lock clicking shut behind him. His voice echoed through the silence, a desperate, broken whisper.

“Then you’ll love me.”

——————

Days bled into each other in the cold, dark room, and Vincent’s desperation grew with each passing hour. He spent every waking moment trying to perfect himself, to become the person he believed Rody could love. He wore fine clothes he hadn’t touched in years, styled his hair differently each day, meticulously applied makeup to his face—soft shades, dark shades, anything he thought might catch Rody’s eye. But every time he returned, he found Rody still hollow, still unmoved, the same look of quiet, aching dread in his eyes.

One evening, Vincent entered the room dressed in an ornate coat with embroidered cuffs, his hair swept back and his skin powdered to a deathly, porcelain smoothness. He stood in front of Rody, face lit with a desperate, brittle smile.

“Do you like it?” he asked, his voice soft, almost shy. “Do you think… I look beautiful?”

Rody only looked away, jaw tense, his hands gripping the thin blanket around him. He didn’t respond, and Vincent’s face crumpled, his fingers clenching at his sides.

“I don’t understand,” Vincent whispered, his voice breaking. “Why don’t you love me yet? I’ve done everything right… I’ve given you everything. What… what do I have to do?”

He slumped down in front of Rody, his face inches from his captive’s, his expression raw with heartbreak. Rody kept his gaze firmly averted, and that rejection—silent and unyielding—struck Vincent harder than any insult. But then, in the murk of his mind, an idea sparked—a memory. A flash of warmth. He remembered, almost like a dream, the day Rody had first smiled at him and told him he had beautiful eyes. The memory filled him with a twisted sense of hope.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “You… you always liked my eyes, didn’t you?”

Rody looked at him with cautious confusion, as if he sensed the desperation brewing in Vincent’s gaze but couldn’t understand what it meant. Vincent stood, his face split in a strange, manic grin. Without another word, he left the room, leaving Rody alone with his fears.

The following night, Vincent returned, clutching a handkerchief stained with fresh blood. He was grinning, the right side of his face smeared with dried tears, his left eye hidden under a mess of bandages, hastily and messily wrapped.

Rody’s stomach twisted as he stared at Vincent, his pulse quickening with horror. “Vincent… what did you do?”

Vincent smiled, his mouth trembling with a manic, hopeful light. He extended his trembling hand, opening the blood-streaked handkerchief to reveal his left eye, still glistening wet, dark and lifeless.

“I wanted to give you something beautiful,” he whispered, his voice both tender and fractured. “You said my eyes were beautiful, so… I thought… if I gave you one of them, maybe you’d finally understand.” He reached out, his hand unsteady, pressing the bloodied eye into Rody’s hand.

Rody recoiled, dropping it onto the floor, horror and disgust rippling across his face. “Vincent… no… this isn’t… This is sick, Vincent!”

Vincent’s expression faltered, his face crumbling as he stared at the discarded eye on the floor, his mouth twisting into a wounded, trembling line. His breathing grew shallow, and he began to shake, the bright flame of hope extinguished, leaving only a black, bottomless ache.

“I thought…” he whispered, choking on his words. “I thought you’d… that you’d at least… say thank you.”

Rody was silent, his face pale, unable to look Vincent in the eye—or rather, the eye he still had.

Vincent’s shoulders sagged, his voice weak, stripped of all pretense. “Why don’t you love me, Rody?” he asked, his tone no longer manic but lost, hollow. “I’ve… I’ve given you everything I am. I’ve bled for you, cried for you. I’ve torn myself apart trying to be the person you want.”

Rody’s throat was tight, but he forced himself to speak, his voice barely a whisper. “Vincent… love isn’t… it’s not something you can force. You can’t… make someone love you by… by doing things like this.”

Vincent nodded slowly, tears streaking down his face. “Then… then what do you want me to do?” He laughed bitterly, his voice growing frantic again. “Do you want me to disappear? Would that make you happy?”

He collapsed to his knees, crawling toward Rody, reaching out with trembling hands. “Please, Rody… if you won’t love me… can’t you at least pretend? Just for a little while?”

Rody’s chest tightened, caught between pity and terror as Vincent’s bloody fingers gripped his shirt, clinging to him with the desperation of a drowning man.

“Just hold me,” Vincent whispered, his voice thick with tears. “Hold me… and pretend that you love me. You don’t even have to mean it.” He looked up, his face streaked with blood and tears, his single eye shimmering with a desperate, fragile hope. “Just… hold me… and pretend. And then… if you really want to… you can… you can kill me.”

Rody’s breath caught in his throat, and for a moment, he was paralyzed, torn between the familiar flicker of compassion he once felt for Vincent and the revulsion that now consumed him. But Vincent’s broken, tear-streaked face, his raw, unfiltered pain, was too much to ignore.

Slowly, reluctantly, Rody wrapped his arms around him, feeling Vincent’s whole body shudder as he sank into the embrace, clinging to him with a fierce, childlike desperation. Vincent buried his face in Rody’s shoulder, his body trembling as he sobbed, his voice broken and pleading.

“Just… just a little while longer,” Vincent whispered. “Just… let me believe, even if it’s a lie…”

Rody held him, his heart pounding with both fear and pity, knowing that for all of Vincent’s madness, for all the horror he had endured, he could feel the sincerity in Vincent’s broken plea. In that moment, as he held Vincent, he felt the weight of his captor’s shattered soul, trapped in a spiral of longing and despair, a person so far gone that he would give anything—even his life—just to feel loved for a fleeting, impossible moment.

They stayed like that for a long time, Vincent’s sobs filling the silence, until his cries softened into quiet, hollow breaths. Finally, he looked up at Rody, his eye red and puffy, his mouth opening as if to speak. But he said nothing, only smiled—a fragile, broken smile that held the last remnants of his fading hope.

And then, softly, Vincent spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you.”

Vincent shifted in Rody’s arms, his trembling fingers trailing up to Rody’s hands, clasped tightly around his own shoulders. He lifted them, guiding them to his throat, his eye pleading as he looked up through the mess of bandages and smudged makeup, face smeared with drying tears.

“Do it,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. “Please… if I can’t make you happy, if I’ll never be enough for you… then at least let me do this. Let me give you… my life.”

Rody froze, his fingers resting against Vincent’s neck. He could feel Vincent’s pulse, rapid and erratic beneath his touch, could feel the weight of Vincent’s desperation. It would be so easy, his mind whispered, to close his hands just a little tighter, to press down, to watch as the life drained from his tormentor’s eye. A twisted part of him ached for it, for the release, for the freedom he’d been denied for so long. He could end it all here—end Vincent, end the nightmare that had swallowed his life whole.

But something held him back. Some silent, invisible chain, binding him to the very man he longed to be free of. He couldn’t bring himself to press down, to give Vincent what he so desperately wanted. And he could see the moment Vincent realized it, see the despair that bloomed in his one visible eye.

Vincent’s face crumpled, his body folding in on itself as he let out a choked, broken sob. “You… you won’t even give me that?” His voice was a hollow whisper, filled with a pain so deep it felt like it might shatter him. “Am I… am I that worthless to you?”

Rody opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. He wanted to scream at Vincent, to tell him that none of this—*none of it*—was out of love. But Vincent was already pulling away, his shoulders slumping, his gaze empty as he staggered to his feet. Rody watched, speechless, as Vincent walked over to the kitchen counter, retrieving a small, sharp knife from the drawer. He turned back, his movements slow, exhausted, as though the weight of his own existence was more than he could bear.

With a trembling hand, Vincent took the ring of keys from his pocket, his fingers lingering on them before he held them out to Rody. “Here,” he said, his voice raw, cracking with every syllable. “Take them… take your freedom. It’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

Rody stared at the keys, too stunned to move, too stunned to breathe. He watched Vincent’s face, the faint glimmer of something resigned in his expression, the last flicker of hope snuffed out.

“I… I love you,” Vincent whispered, his voice barely audible, as if speaking it aloud was a final, bitter surrender. He held Rody’s gaze one last time, the weight of everything he had done, everything he had destroyed, laid bare in his single, remaining eye.

Then, with a slow, steady motion, Vincent brought the knife to his own chest.

“Vincent—” Rody’s voice cracked as he lunged forward, but it was too late. The blade plunged in, and Vincent staggered, his body slumping forward as the blood began to bloom, dark and heavy, against his clothes. He collapsed to his knees, clutching the knife, his breath ragged and weak as he looked up at Rody with a broken smile.

“I… I wanted you… to love me,” he whispered, his voice trembling, barely a breath. “I… I wanted… to be enough.”

Rody knelt beside him, frozen, staring at the blood that stained Vincent’s hands, the life slipping away from his face. Vincent’s eye was wet, glistening with tears, his breath growing weaker with each passing moment.

“You were… all I ever wanted,” he murmured, his gaze unfocused, distant. “But… I was never… good enough… was I?”

Rody’s throat tightened, his heart pounding with a strange, bitter ache, but he said nothing. What could he say? What words could ease the pain of a man who had torn himself apart for a love that was never his?

Vincent’s hand slipped, his fingers going limp, his last breath escaping in a faint, broken whisper.