Warning: Dark humor, implied homicide
It was Wednesday evening, and Rody had just settled down with a beer and his usual, fervent wish for an *absolutely normal night.* A night with no mysterious stains to scrub off his couch, no awkward questions for the neighbors, and definitely no stray body parts to wrap in the dead of night. Just a regular evening with his loving, if rather… *unique* boyfriend.
So, naturally, the door flew open, and there was Vincent: grinning like a kid on Christmas, drenched in blood from head to toe, and hauling in what looked suspiciously like his latest “culinary experiment.”
“Vincent,” Rody groaned, rubbing his temples. He could feel his peaceful evening dissolving before his eyes. “Please, please tell me that’s *not* what I think it is.”
Vincent gave him a dazzling smile, as if he hadn’t just carted in a person who was now bound and gagged, whimpering pathetically. “Mon cherie!” Vincent chirped, and he strolled over to Rody, sidestepping the still-kicking “ingredient” on the floor to wrap Rody in a warm, if… slightly bloody, hug.
Rody sighed, feeling Vincent nuzzle into his shoulder. “Vinny,” he murmured, voice half exasperated, half affectionate. “What did we say about bringing ‘takeout’ home?”
Vincent pulled back, giving him the most *outraged* look, hands on his hips like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You told me to cook more! So, here I am, cooking up something *special.*” He jabbed a thumb at the bound person, who had somehow managed to shuffle a few feet toward the door and was inching, like a caterpillar, for freedom.
“Yeah, that’s great and all,” Rody deadpanned, glancing over. “But I meant something we could both actually enjoy. Like pasta, or, you know—literally anything that didn’t start out as a person with a birth certificate.”
Vincent let out a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like he’d just been stabbed. “Rody,” he pouted, eyes shimmering with what was clearly *fake* offense. “Are you saying you don’t love my cooking?”
“Well,” Rody muttered, trying to avoid Vincent’s puppy-dog eyes, “there’s a reason I’m not usually the one doing the eating around here…”
Vincent ignored him, sauntering over with an exaggerated sway in his step, slipping his arms around Rody’s neck with a flirtatious grin. “Rodyyyy,” he drawled, voice dropping into a sultry whisper. “Do you *really* want to punish me for this?” He punctuated the question with a slow blink of his long lashes, giving Rody his best “innocent boyfriend” face, though it was hard to look angelic with blood spattered across his cheeks.
Rody arched an eyebrow, biting back a grin. “Punish you, huh? What did you have in mind?”
Vincent’s eyes lit up with glee. “Weeell,” he purred, twirling a lock of Rody’s hair between his fingers, “I could make us a delicious dinner, then maybe we could have a *romantic* evening together. Just us,” he paused dramatically, glancing back at the person on the floor, “and, well… the leftovers.”
The bound person groaned louder, clearly horrified, but Rody held up a hand to shush them, not taking his eyes off Vincent. “You mean to tell me this poor sap was part of your plans for our *romantic evening*?”
“Of course!” Vincent said, looking affronted. “I thought you’d appreciate the gesture. *I picked out the best one just for you!*” He gestured to the wriggling person on the floor, as though this was the most thoughtful gift a boyfriend could bring home.
“Vinny, sweetheart, I love that you want to spoil me, really,” Rody began, pulling Vincent close, his face serious. “But don’t you think it’d be a little easier if you, I don’t know, didn’t pick up dinner on your way home from work like it’s some kind of serial killer Costco?”
Vincent rolled his eyes and clicked his tongue, like Rody was the one being difficult. “Rody, cherie, *anyone* can bring home boring groceries. But me?” He gave a smug little shrug. “I like to keep things… exciting.”
“Exciting?” Rody snorted. “Vincent, you once brought home a guy who begged me to call the police before you even made it through the front door.”
Vincent looked positively indignant. “That was one time!” he argued, stamping his foot like a child. “And you know he was asking for it, making a scene in my restaurant like that.”
Rody just raised his eyebrows, arms crossed. “Uh-huh. You’ve got a very loose definition of ‘asking for it,’ you know.”
Vincent folded his arms, huffing dramatically. “Fine. Maybe he wasn’t asking for it,” he conceded, then immediately brightened up. “But you have to admit, he really livened up date night!”
The person on the floor tried once again to crawl toward the door, muttering something incoherent through the gag, but Rody and Vincent were too absorbed in their playful back-and-forth to notice.
Finally, Rody sighed, ruffling Vincent’s hair in a way that somehow always made him go all mushy. “Alright, alright. One night, just not tonight” he relented. “And only if you promise to help me clean up *all* the evidence afterwards. No more ‘mysterious’ stains under the rug, got it?”
Vincent perked up immediately, eyes bright. “Yes, yes, of course! Anything for you!” he beamed, snuggling into Rody with a contented sigh.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Rody added, giving him a stern look. “No getting pouty when I make you toss the leftovers. I’m serious.”
Vincent let out a tiny whimper, giving him a wide-eyed, pitiful stare that was as practiced as any stage actor’s. “But cherie,” he whined, bottom lip jutting out, “I work *so* hard to find the perfect ingredients for you…”
“Ingredients?!” Rody barked, stifling a laugh. “Vinny, you’re talking about actual people! With jobs, and lives, and families. How is it that you can have a heart-to-heart with me, but can’t get through a grocery list without committing a felony?”
Vincent gave a dainty shrug, winking up at him. “What can I say?” He leaned up, pressing a kiss to Rody’s jaw. “I’m a *man of many tastes.*”
Rody sighed, allowing himself a laugh as he kissed Vincent back, brushing a bit of blood from Vincent’s cheek. “Well, next time, let’s aim for less ‘questionably sourced’ tastes, yeah?”
Vincent giggled, nodding eagerly, before turning back to the person on the floor with a wicked grin. “You’re *lucky* my Rody has a soft spot for you tonight,” he said, tapping his chin thoughtfully.
The person groaned, clearly relieved but still absolutely terrified.
“Come on, Vincent,” Rody said, patting Vincent on the back as he stood up. “Let’s go figure out dinner that doesn’t involve traumatizing the neighbors, alright?”
Vincent huffed but followed, reluctantly letting Rody guide him into the kitchen, where they ended up cooking pasta together—something far safer and significantly less legally questionable. As they stirred the sauce and argued over the right amount of garlic, Rody glanced over, watching the man he loved playfully hum to himself, utterly relaxed.
For all the drama, Vincent was *his*, and though he was undoubtedly certifiable, there was no one Rody would rather spend his life with—bloody messes and all.
