Matthew reappeared, his presence filling the room with a sudden, icy tension. He didn't speak; his jaw was set, and a dark energy coiled around him.
Before Vinny could even form a question, Matthew closed the distance between them. He grabbed Vinny's chin, his grip hard and unforgiving, tilting his head back. The kiss was forceful, almost bruising, tasting of unspoken anger and a desperate, raw possession. It wasn't tender; it was a demand, a silencing, an overwhelming claim that left no room for air or protest.
The intensity of it consumed everything, pulling them under into a long, tumultuous night.
The harsh morning light felt like an intrusion. Vinny ached in places he didn't know could ache, a profound exhaustion settled deep in his bones. He felt utterly wrecked, drained dry.
He shifted painfully, groaning as his muscles protested. Matthew was already awake, dressed, standing by the window with his back to the bed. The silence in the room was heavy and brittle. Despite the long night, the anger hadn't dissipated. Vinny could see it in the rigid set of Matthew's shoulders, in the tense line of his neck. He wasn't just tired; he was still completely, furiously pissed.
Make it longer with more details
The click of the lock turning wasn't a gentle sound; it was sharp, metallic, and final. Vinny looked up from the sofa, his stomach tightening. Matthew was back.
He didn't just walk into the room; he stalked in, radiating a silent, volatile energy that sucked the warmth from the air. His shoulders were bunched, his coat still on, and his keys hit the entryway table with a harsh clatter. He looked like he'd spent the last few hours walking through a storm, and had brought the very worst of it back with him.
"Matt?" Vinny started, his voice cautious. "Are you okay? I was getting worried..."
Matthew's head snapped toward him. His eyes, usually a soft, warm brown, were dark and hard, like chips of obsidian. He didn't speak. The silence was louder than a shout, thick with unspoken accusations and a simmering rage that made the hair on Vinny's arms stand on end.
Before Vinny could say another word, Matthew crossed the room in two long, predatory strides. Vinny instinctively flinched back, but there was nowhere to go. Matthew's hand shot out, not gently, but with a bruising force, his fingers seizing Vinny's chin. He jerked his head up, forcing their eyes to meet. Vinny gasped, a sound of surprise and pain.
Then, Matthew's mouth was on his.
It wasn't a kiss. It was an invasion. It was brutal, forceful, and punishing, a raw expression of everything he wasn't saying. There was no tenderness, no affection, only a desperate, angry possession. Matthew's other hand fisted in Vinny's shirt, hauling him forward, off the couch, and backing him against the nearest wall. The impact sent a dull thud through the plaster. The kiss was deep, suffocating, tasting of the cold night air and a bitter, scorching fury.
It was the start of a long, grueling campaign. Matthew didn't let him go, dragging him from the living room to the bedroom, clothes shed with angry, impatient movements, buttons popping, fabric tearing.
The night was a blur, a relentless storm of raw friction and demanding, desperate energy. Matthew was on a mission, as if trying to erase something, or perhaps brand Vinny so deeply he could never be claimed by anyone or anything else. Every touch was rough, every thrust a punctuated, punishing beat against the silence. Vinny was pinned, claimed, and overturned, moved and manipulated like a doll, his own will completely submerged under the sheer, overwhelming force of Matthew's rage. He was too shocked, and frankly, too intimidated to fight back, his body arching on command, his protests reduced to choked-off gasps and whimpers that only seemed to fuel the fire.
There was no sleep. There was only the sound of strained breathing, the rhythmic creak of the bedframe, and the feeling of being utterly consumed. Hours bled into each other until the blackness outside the window finally grayed, and Vinny's body gave out, collapsing into a void that wasn't rest, but sheer, empty oblivion.
The next morning, the sun was an agony. It streamed into the room, illuminating the wreckage—clothes scattered like casualties of a battle, an overturned water glass, the sheets hopelessly tangled and half-off the bed.
Vinny's first conscious thought was pain.
A deep, profound ache had settled into his bones, his joints, his hips. His muscles screamed in protest as he tried to shift, a pained groan escaping his raw throat. He felt... hollowed out. Used. He was a constellation of new bruises, finger-shaped marks on his arms and hips, a faint, stinging abrasion on his lip from where Matthew's teeth had grazed him. He felt utterly wrecked, like a ship dashed against the rocks.
He turned his head, wincing at the pull in his neck. The other side of the bed was empty and cold.
Matthew was already up, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. He was standing at the window, his back to the bed, one hand braced against the frame. He was staring down at the street below, but Vinny doubted he was seeing any of it.
The manic, desperate energy from the night was gone. It had burned itself out, leaving something colder and sharper in its place. His posture was rigid, his jaw set so tightly Vinny could see the muscles clenching and unclenching from across the room.
He wasn't tired. He wasn't relieved. He wasn't remorseful.
He was still completely, furiously pissed.
Matthew must have heard him stir. He didn't turn around, but his voice, when it finally came, was flat and cold as ice.
"Get up. We're not done."
The words hit Vinny like a physical blow. "Not done?"
A weak, involuntary sound, half-sob, half-laugh of disbelief, escaped him. "Matt... I can't. I... I can barely move."
He tried to prove his point, to push himself up onto his elbows. A blinding, white-hot lance of pain shot through his lower back and deep into his hips. He collapsed back onto the mattress with a sharp, choked cry, his vision speckling with black. Every joint, every muscle, felt like it was full of crushed glass.
"Please," Vinny whispered, his voice cracking. He was desperate now, the fear a cold knot in his stomach, far colder than the morning air on his exposed skin. "Please, just tell me what's wrong. What did I do? Last night... you were so..." Angry. Violent. He couldn't say the words.
"Get. Up."
This time, Matthew turned.
The simmering, explosive rage from the night before was gone. It had burned away, leaving something far more terrifying in its wake: a cold, focused, and utterly detached fury. His eyes were flat, devoid of any warmth, any recognition. He looked through Vinny, not at him, as if Vinny was no longer a person, but an object. An objective.
He stalked to the side of the bed. Vinny flinched, pulling his knees up as much as his aching body would allow, a pathetic attempt at defense. Matthew didn't even look at his face. His gaze was fixed on the tangled mess of bedding.
He didn't reach for Vinny. He reached for the sheet.
With a single, violent motion, he grabbed the top sheet and duvet and yanked. The covers were ripped away, pooling on the floor, leaving Vinny completely exposed, naked and shivering in the harsh morning light. The sudden cold was a shock, and he yelped, his hands flying to cover himself.
"Matthew! Stop! What the hell is wrong with you? You're scaring me!"
"Talking," Matthew said, his voice a low, chilling growl, "is over."
He grabbed Vinny's arm. His fingers clamped down on a fresh, tender bruise, digging in with punishing force. Vinny cried out, a sharp sound of pain.
"Ow! Fuck, Matt, that hurts!"
Matthew's grip only tightened. Ignoring the cry, he hauled Vinny bodily to the edge of the bed. Vinny's feet hit the cold hardwood floor, and his legs, unable to support even his own weight, immediately buckled. He would have crumpled, but Matthew's grip on his arm was like a steel manacle, holding him upright, his toes barely scraping the floor.
"I said," Matthew repeated, his face now inches from Vinny's, his hot breath fanning across his cheek, "we're not done."
He didn't wait for a reply. He began to pull, dragging Vinny's stumbling, aching body out of the bedroom.
"Where are we going? Matt, what are you doing?" Vinny pleaded, his voice rising in panic. He was naked, bruised, and being frog-marched through the apartment by a man he suddenly didn't recognize.
Matthew didn't answer. He just pulled him down the hall. The cold tile of the bathroom floor was a fresh shock against his bare feet. Matthew reached past him, his arm brushing Vinny's chest, and with a sharp twist of his wrist, turned on the shower.
The sound of the water hitting the porcelain tub was deafeningly loud, but it wasn't the sound of a warm, soothing shower. It was the sharp, hissing spray of ice-cold water.
Matthew turned, his expression unchanged, and pushed him toward the stall.