Monty's hands are going numb. They clench their fingers weakly, unable to do much else. Justin's hips collide with theirs, shoving their body forward and back, forward and back like a heavy pendulum. The bench legs, trying to contain the weight of them both, squeaks against the floor loudly in the large room, barely drowning out the low, possessive growl of Justin's voice curling like smoke in the shell of Monty's ear, making them even weaker in their limbs.

Across the room is a leaning floor mirror and Monty can't help but catch a glimpse of the picture they're making: their body, pale and slight, being used so brutally, so adoringly; the way Justin's teeth flash white when he clenches them, possession and obsession knotted together in every tight line of his jaw, the grip of his fingers; their own face loose and sloppy, tongue lolling out of their mouth and eyes rolling back.

They don't need to respond, verbally, to Justin's taunts for him to have his answer. That much is clear.