Baby, bang it up inside

It stings deep in my nasal cavity when Monaghan swabs his cotton bud of betadine on the cut but I haven't hissed from the pain since those first few times I'd been here. I often show up at Monaghan's backyard after Vasily has had his fill of kicks, punches, and vodka, and let Monaghan have at it with his first aid kit. To this day, I still don't understand why he keeps helping me-- not like I do anything for him in return but throw a few punches of my own. Or maybe that's the exchange. Monaghan can't afford to get his hands dirty, after all. It helps to have someone to do that kind of work for you.

My shitstain of a boyfriend has a formidable right hook; it's one of the few things I've learnt from him. In an alternate universe, he'd have made a fine boxer. In this one, if he lets me off with just a broken nose, I consider it mercy.

Monaghan is firm when he grabs my chin and tilts my face to the light-- then again, he doesn't have any reason to be gentle. His fingers dig into my jaw. His fingertips register as a dull pressure and distract me a bit from the sting of the cut. Maybe that's the point. Monaghan doesn't tell you when he's doing something good for you. You're either not supposed to know or are to figure it out yourself. In either case, he probably does it because he wants something out of you.

That's just the kind of person he is.

Monaghan's eyes are deep-set and ice-cold and when he looks at you, it's instinct to feel threatened, like he watches you but doesn't care to actually see you, because that's exactly what he does. Often, I find myself avoiding his gaze altogether. Not this time. He towers over me, yet his face stays mere centimetres from mine. His blue eyes bore deep into somewhere on my face. His breath fans the top of my nose, where the cut is. It stings a tad, but I can't find it in me to focus on the sting now.

His grip on my chin, almost imperceptibly, loosens, becomes something less bruising.

I watch his eyes as he draws closer, and when I finally figure out where on my face he's been staring, Monaghan whispers.

"We could snog."

"Sorry?"

"Distract you from the pain? How's that sound?"

Most likely, this is him being nice, him offering because he wants something in return. Monaghan's eyes reflect no mirth, just desire, and not the pretty kind. For me, at least, Monaghan's desire has never been pretty. He doesn't take his time, doesn't tease, doesn't whisper little nothings that make my toes curl-- it's just not something we do. Monaghan and I go hard, fast, urgent, slamming each other against furniture without words like animals. Monaghan isn't gentle with me because that's not the kind of relationship we have.

And I don't have any qualms about that.

So I lean up to meet his lips and Monaghan pushes back immediately, delves his tongue deep into my mouth, slides it over my own, lips flush against mine. Monaghan kisses in a way that gives you no room to breathe, to even think and all you can do is return his favor until he's taken all the air out of your lungs. He has a hand on my back, under my shirt, and another roughly shoving me down so I'm laid flat on his bed.

Monaghan groans into my mouth as he shoves my legs apart. A hand on my hip, he grinds up against me, the bulge in his pants hot, stiff, and obvious. I'm not the kind of person he wastes time on, and he doesn't, because once Monaghan lifts his face from mine, his right hand scrambles to my zipper and the left gathers my arms and to restrain them above my head. I know it's easy to break out of his hold, flip us over, sit on top of him and indulge myself, but I let him take what he wants because I've learnt that when Monaghan disinfects my cuts and snogs me, he's doing a nice thing and he expects submission in return.

Monaghan's slid my pants and boxers off now. He's got two fingers in me, lube-slick, and I don't even know when he got around to that. He and I both know I don't need the foreplay and can just as easily stretch as he pushes into me-- this makes it two nice things in a row. He's about to ask for a favour soon. He's rubbing that spot inside me, because he knows too well where it is, that, soon, will make me come apart at the seams, moaning so loudly even his brothers downstairs can hear it. I keep it together as much as I can and, before long, Monaghan kisses me again-- that's a third nice thing. His kisses are devastating. If I get any more of them than I already do, I might not be able to live without them.

Monaghan's good at that: making you feel like you need him.

But as soon as the spot starts sending tingles to my hands and feet and head and heart, Monaghan runs out of patience for me. He unbuttons his pants with urgency and just as hastily puts on a rubber, then lines himself up, like he's been waiting long and hard for this moment when he really can just corner me against some alleyway and spread me open, have his way with me.

I cry out when he pushes in. It doesn't feel half bad-- not painful, just overwhelming, like blood has done nothing but rushed away from my brain. When I come to again, he's pulled himself out and slammed back in, this time reaching half-way. I shiver as he pours more cold lube where he and I connect, rocking in and out of me to rub it in. His tip rubs into that spot that sends small sparks along my skin, and by the look on his face, it seems he knows it, too.

Monaghan drags himself out again. He's being slow about it. It's excruciating and he's goddamned smug because he knows that I know I can't do anything about this. I'm not someone Monaghan wastes time on and, for that reason, when he does, he expects me to be grateful. And I am.

That makes it the fourth nice thing tonight.

When he pushes in, Monaghan stops at that spot again, which has been so stimulated that every time it's touched, my toes curl. The dim light from the lamp glints off Monaghan's eyes as he catches on. His left hand braces on the mattress around my head for leverage, while his right pushes my thighs back so that I'm bent over myself.

Monaghan thrusts shallowly, staying inside me, rubbing against the spot inside me that gets my breath ragged and my thighs shaking. Monaghan tells me a lot, after the fact, that I'm loud. I frankly could never tell because he knows how to push my buttons and, when he does, my vision blurs around the edges and I can't hear a thing. Monaghan says he doesn't mind me being loud, that me being loud means he's an excellent bedmate, not that he needs the confirmation (his words, not mine), so I don't hold myself back.

Once, I drove myself into panic because when I couldn't see nor hear a thing, I'd be vulnerable to attacks and I couldn't afford to be so. I dry heaved my way through it, still as a statue.

That time, Monaghan finished inside me anyway, then tossed me a towel, told me to get my act together, and dumped me on the street, like he'd always do.

It didn't matter, of course, because that's the kind of relationship I have with him.

Monaghan's grown impatient again. I feel it in his quickening pace. He's not even fully inside me yet and he usually likes it better when he's fully sheathed in me, thrusts brutally fast. He likes it when I'm sore and limping the next day; I think it gives him some sense of possession and pride. It's odd. He isn't actually interested in me, but rather the idea of owning, taming, controlling something like me, of knowing that while others fear me, he's used my body to relieve himself.

I suppose I can understand it a little bit, that desire for control. It's the same reason Vasily clings onto me; the same one that keeps me in Monaghan and Vasily's orbits.

Monaghan is holding himself back. He's fully sheathed now, but as he drags himself out and pushes back inside, he's still brushing past that spot and pulling moans and whimpers out of me. Part of me wants to ask why he's being so nice, another wants to just hold on to this rare instance of delicacy and patience. Monaghan's lips crash into mine again and as he gulps down my moans, his pace quickens, but all he ever does is stay in that one spot. I whine when he entangles his hand into my hair and pulls. Spark after spark of pleasure travels downward to my thighs and feet, and Monaghan quickens his pace again.

I see him break off our kiss to whisper something as his eyes bore into my face, but can't quite make out what he's saying. Monaghan dives down, pressing his mouth onto my neck, and begins to suckle and bite. He's trying to leave a mark.

I try to use my voice, tell him he can't do that, but all that comes out are whimpers and moans because it feels good, it feels right, like he should do it. I can't think right. Can't think at all. It feels good and toe-curling, and it shouldn't, but it does.

Vasily will kill me if he sees the mark.

A wave finally crashes into shore. I climax. My entire body stiffens, almost spasming, as I release onto my stomach. I unravel. My mind blanks. Heat rushes to my head, then spreads across my limbs. Nothing exists aside from this euphoria. Monaghan thrusts himself inside me through all of it, and even after, finally working up to the pace he prefers. I wonder why he hasn't been fucking me like that the entire time as I lie there, breaths erratic and heavy, sweat from who-knows-whence dampening my forehead.

Monaghan's hair bounces against his forehead and his face scrunches up in concentration. He looks handsome. He looks terrible. The sound from his hips as his skin slaps into mine echoes around the room and blends into both our breaths. Some crickets are chirping outside and the electricity in his house hums gently as a background noise. Monaghan's shadow dances erratically on the ceiling as his thrusts grow even faster, more brutal inside me.

I raise a hand to brush the curls off his forehead, but he swats it away. His thrusts are starting to hurt me now, but I can't tell him that.

Monaghan leans down, his lips grazing my neck again. This time, voice ragged, I do tell him.

"Monaghan--"

"Shut up," he says, and I do. He leaves another mark.

Vasily will kill me.

"You can't--"

"I said shut the fuck up!"

Monaghan's hands fly to my neck and press down, the force light, clearly testing the waters. I suck in a breath, but don't stop him. Time and space halt as I stare into his eyes, gulping under his pressure. He's still thrusting wildly into me. He's being nice; this is just a warning. When I don't react, he presses down harder. There's a correct way to do this; but this isn't that. Maybe Monaghan is trying this out and getting it wrong; maybe this isn't a warning. All I know is he's getting off on this, because his thrusts hurt like a bitch now as he's pressing down even harder on my windpipe.

Fuck.

I grip his hands, trying to pry them off my neck, but Monaghan's always been stronger, heavier, even in his bony frame. He holds me down with his weight as he keeps fucking into me. I gasp, trying to suck more air into my lungs only to choke as the air is blocked off by the pressure on my neck.

And that's when Monaghan finally finishes, his grip tightening further as his lower body jerks and he thrusts himself as deep as possible into me, like he wants to stain me white with his release. I blank out. My lungs are on fire. It hurts.

I finally shove him off of me and claw at my throat, gasping desperately for breath. The pain is dull, throbbing on my neck. Light flashes in my vision as blood finally rushes back to my spinning head. The world around me dims and blurs again and every time I try to take in a breath, my throat closes in on itself.

I curl into myself, naked, on the edge of Monaghan's bed, hands barely grazing the bruising skin of my neck. Every breath I take into my pharynx stings, but if I don't take any breaths at all, my heart starts racing and when my heart races I can't feel or hear or see a thing and if I can't perceive my surroundings I'll be in danger again.

God, fuck.

Monaghan's legs enter my vision, and I know it's his legs because he's got socks on, because Monaghan's about the only person you'll find with socks on during sex. And I don't understand how I find it so hilarious, yet I do, so I burst out in laughter.

It hurts like hell, and I can't stop.

"Elisei," I hear him say, before kneeling in front of me and offering me a cold pack.

I know for a fact Monaghan doesn't keep cold packs around, because the last few times I'd had a bruise, he'd give me a bag of frozen vegetables or tell me to suck it up. Monaghan doesn't keep cold packs, which means he's planned this.

The bastard's planned to choke me all along.

I laugh some more, then chokes out a cough, and Monaghan looks confused because he doesn't expect me to find this funny. To be fair, I don't, either.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" He asks, a tad bemused, pressing the cold pack into my neck anyway. I flinch back.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" I shoot back, still laughing. Then, I stop. I'm not conscious of the moment that this particular flip switches, but I start shouting at him regardless. "How am I supposed to show my face around that shitstain? You marked me, then choked me! You son of a bitch!"

I cough, still glaring at him. Monaghan presses the cold pack harder into my neck until I snatch it off his hand and hold it against the bruise myself. Monaghan stands and walks away. I can hear his footsteps around the room, the shuffle of fabric as he collects the clothes and rearranges the bedsheets. Any moment now, he'll crawl back into bed and leave me be until I flee the house of my own volition.

It happens every time.

Which is why, when Monaghan scoops me up into his arms as though I weigh nothing, I'm not prepared to fight back. He deposits me onto the bed and just as quickly returns with a warm, damp cloth that I can feel running along my back, my stomach, and, finally, into me, cleaning out the leftover lube. He's uncharacteristically careful when he wipes down the sore muscles I've stopped noticing and I can't help but shiver at the attention.

Maybe he feels bad, if he's even capable of such a thing.

I let him wipe me down and clothe me and wrap my neck with an adhesive cooling pack. I can't say that I don't enjoy the attention, because I do, but it's uncanny. Mere minutes ago, he'd been choking the life out of me, the excitement glinting in his eyes more than enough to prove he was getting off on this-- why the gentleness now?

I want to ask him about it, but Monaghan doesn't like it when I question his motives. He's dramatic, a bastard who likes his plans unravelling in a manner that gives room for theatrical flair. He's not going to give me an answer anyway, I might as well enjoy this, while it lasts.

Monaghan lets me lie on his bed, and I, too, prefer that I don't wander outside sore and heaving. When all the light's turned off and I feel the weight of Monaghan on the bed, I half expect him to finally push me off and tell me to take my arse somewhere else, but all he does is wrap his arm around me, pulls me flush to his chest, my back to his front.

I flinch when his chin digs into my shoulder and jolts again when his breath tickles my earlobe-- too close to my throat. Moonlight enters Monaghan's room through the gaps between his curtains and I trace the contours of everything that's lit, everything that's visible. I need to map out my surroundings, even if I've been here many times before.

Monaghan's eyelashes flutter against my skin as he blinks. His breath overtakes all that I can hear, and all my muscles seize up again. There's nothing here that can hurt me, I tell myself, except that there is and he's already hurt me and the proof is on my neck, just below this adhesive. And when my breaths stutter again, Monaghan's arm tightens. He holds me close against him and even though he's the one who put that hand-shaped bruise on my neck, my body eases up for him.

This isn't the kind of relationship we have, but somehow...

"That's it," Monaghan whispers into my hair, "relax for me. Good boy."

So I do. Because Monaghan's doing a nice thing, and I should be grateful, even if the nice thing is to make up for-- well, maybe I shouldn't overthink it.

My body goes limp in his hold.

I switch my gaze from the way moonlight changes as the curtains shift to the white, pristine sheets of Monaghan's bed, to Monaghan's arm, over my torso, freckled and bony and bafflingly strong. Monaghan isn't asleep yet, because he knows I'm not, either. I feel his lips move against my hair before I hear him when he finally speaks again.

"I need you to kill Peter Curtis." He says.

I won't lie and say I don't feel a tinge of betrayal. I want to tell him that I can't commit goddamned murder for him, that there are lines of legality that I just can't overcome for him. But when Monaghan does a nice thing for you, you're expected to give him something back. My neck stings, but, Monaghan knows how to make you feel as though you can't live without him.

And there's nothing better out there for me anyway.

When he doesn't hear anything in reply, Monaghan assumes I've said yes. I haven't, but I can't tell him that. Not when his arm's around me, caressing my skin like I mean a damn thing to him more than convenience.

Maybe I'm overstepping, because more than convenience isn't the kind of relationship we have. More than convenience isn't something I can afford. I try not to stiffen up again. Monaghan's perceptive, he's sensed the change by now, but what he doesn't care about, he won't mention.

"Dump his body in the creek by the Eighth of July. Make sure nobody knows it's you. Will you do it?"

I say yes.

"Good boy," he tells me.

It feels good.