Dead Plate Oneshots To Sting,To Bruise

Warning:Abuse, unhealthy relationship, abusive relationship

Rody’s cigarette glowed faintly in the dark as he leaned against the railing of his apartment’s small balcony, his eyes narrowing as he watched Vincent from afar. Inside, Vincent moved around the kitchen, looking every bit the picture of domestic contentment as he chopped vegetables, that lovesick smile plastered across his face as he prepped their dinner. The sight was enough to make Rody’s jaw clench.

There it was—that soft, adoring look that Vincent always wore, eyes sparkling in a way that should’ve seemed fake but didn’t. Vincent would probably look at him like that even if Rody insulted him to his face. And oh, he had. He’d thrown words that would’ve cut anyone else to pieces. Words designed to hurt, to sting, to bruise. But Vincent never fought back, never even flinched. He just kept looking at Rody with that damn smile, taking it all like he’d take anything Rody threw his way.

Rody hated it.

He hated the quiet acceptance Vincent offered, like he’d resigned himself to anything Rody dished out. There was something wrong with it—wrong with the way Vincent surrendered to him, wrong with the way he let Rody hurt him and kissed him afterward as if nothing had happened. And yet, Rody couldn’t get enough of it. The sheer power, the undeniable thrill, the knowledge that he could do whatever he wanted to Vincent—and that Vincent would still be there, still look at him like he was something worth worshipping.

Rody stubbed out his cigarette and stepped back inside. The smell of whatever Vincent was cooking had filled the apartment, rich and savory, with a faint hint of herbs and garlic. Vincent noticed him immediately, glancing up with that smile, the smile that always ignited something dark in Rody.

“Dinner’s almost ready,” Vincent said in that quiet, gentle tone that grated on Rody’s nerves.

Rody didn’t respond. Instead, he closed the distance between them and stood over Vincent, watching his hands work with deft, practiced movements, slicing and dicing with precision. There was an elegance to Vincent’s every move, a natural grace that attracted people to him, that made him desirable to everyone who looked his way. Rody hated it.

“Had a good day?” Vincent asked, oblivious to the anger simmering in Rody’s chest.

“Who’d you see today?” Rody asked instead, ignoring the question. His tone was casual, but there was a razor-sharp edge to it.

Vincent glanced up, momentarily confused, before smiling again. “Just some friends. We had coffee at that café you like.”

Rody’s fingers twitched with irritation. Friends. Always those friends who tried to pry Vincent away from him, tried to tell him he deserved someone better. Someone who treated him with the kindness they thought he deserved. They didn’t understand that Vincent didn’t want better—didn’t need better. He belonged to Rody. To Rody’s words, Rody’s touch, Rody’s wrath and love alike.

“What did they say this time?” Rody asked, voice low, dangerous.

Vincent sighed, knowing where this conversation was heading, but he didn’t argue. He set down the knife and turned to face Rody, those soft eyes meeting his without a hint of defensiveness. “They just asked if I was happy.”

Rody’s hands balled into fists. He stepped closer, cornering Vincent against the counter, his body crowding Vincent’s, trapping him. “And what did you say?”

“I said yes.” Vincent didn’t hesitate, didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. There was a steady calm in his gaze, a complete surrender that only stoked Rody’s fire.

“Of course you did,” Rody murmured, his voice a low, possessive growl. He leaned in, one hand wrapping around Vincent’s waist, pulling him close, too close. “You wouldn’t say anything else. You wouldn’t dare.”

Vincent’s breath hitched, but he held Rody’s gaze, his eyes soft, unwavering. Rody could feel the warmth of his body, could feel Vincent’s heartbeat, calm and steady. And he hated that, too. Hated how Vincent never feared him, never pulled away, never even wavered when Rody’s anger surfaced.

“You don’t need them,” Rody said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t need anyone but me. I’m all you’ve got. I’m all you want.”

Vincent nodded, his hand reaching up to rest against Rody’s chest, a gentle touch that made Rody’s skin prickle with irritation—and something else he refused to name.

“You know I’m yours,” Vincent whispered, and there was something so earnest in his tone that it almost cut through the fog of Rody’s resentment.

“Damn right you are,” Rody said, his hand tightening possessively on Vincent’s hip. He leaned down, pressing his lips against Vincent’s with a bruising force, feeling Vincent yield beneath him, feeling the way Vincent’s body softened, melted, surrendered. Vincent’s hands found their way to Rody’s back, clinging to him with a desperation that only made Rody want to push further, to push until Vincent broke.

But Vincent never broke. No matter how hard Rody pushed, no matter how rough he was, Vincent took it all, his lips parting, his body arching, his breath coming in soft, pleading gasps that only made Rody’s blood burn hotter.

Rody’s hands slid down Vincent’s hips, gripping him hard enough to bruise, pulling him closer until there was no space between them, until he could feel every inch of Vincent’s body pressed against his own. The softness, the warmth, the acceptance—it all drove him mad. He wanted to destroy it, to see something other than that adoration in Vincent’s eyes. He wanted to see fear, anger, resistance. Anything but that damn, unwavering love.

But Vincent never gave him that. He gave him everything else. He kissed back, just as desperate, just as needy, letting Rody take whatever he wanted, letting him be as rough, as possessive, as cruel as he wanted.

Rody’s mouth moved to Vincent’s neck, biting down hard, leaving a mark that would take days to fade. Vincent gasped, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t push him back. He just wrapped his arms around Rody tighter, pressing himself closer, giving himself over entirely.

Rody hated it.

He hated how much he wanted this, how much he needed Vincent’s softness, his surrender, his adoration. He hated how no matter how much he despised Vincent, he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else looking at him, touching him, taking him away. Vincent was his, his to hate, his to hurt, his to love. And he’d keep him, keep him close, keep him right where he wanted him, no matter what.

In the end, it didn’t matter how much he hated Vincent’s friends, didn’t matter how much he hated Vincent’s smile or his love. Because Vincent would always be his, and Rody would make sure of that, over and over, with every kiss, every bruise, every whispered word.