Chapter 54
SINN'OUS
“Sin.” Izz’s groan is intoxicating. Rich in need and touched by deep desperation, brought about by Sinn'ous straddling him and toying with his boy.
He firmly tied his boy’s hands behind his back, effectively binding him in place.
His naked chest on display. Every shallow groove in his thin frame is open to Sinn'ous’s touch.
His shirt is torn into strips and currently working as the binding to constrict his wrists.
He could have taken a guard’s cuffs, but he’d had immense satisfaction cutting Izz’s shirt from his body and creating a rope from the strips.
They’re in his cell, being watched over by everything Satanic, including Satan himself. Because why wouldn’t Satan watch this show. And fuck will it be a show.
This is it. The time he’s been building up to. Not even the chill to the cell can cool his heating excitement.
“I’m going to try something new with you.” Sinn'ous dips his head, leaning down to bite at Izz’s vulnerable throat. “You’re going to have to trust me.”
His boy’s soft gasps are coupled with him squirming around in his bindings. “I do trust you. Please.” His voice is a dripping mess of arousal.
Sinn'ous pulls one of his razors from the hidden slit in the waistband of his pants at the small of his back. At the same time gripping under Izz’s chin to push his head back, and prevent him from seeing what’s about to happen.
Can’t have his boy panicking before the funs begun.
This is what he has to offer. Pain and blood.
Each ragged breath his boy exhales drives the conviction further. Fear will do that, it demands to be heightened, and Sinn'ous is all but happy to oblige.
He takes his boy’s lips in a surge of dominance, creating a distraction and planting his control.
Claiming a kiss, in the cover of what he really wants to own.
Devouring every inch of his plump lips, and resting the razor on his skin.
Tip poised just under the ribs, the same ribs his thumb rests on, positioning the razor for the next steps in breaking his boy.
Sinking his teeth into Izz’s lips, not to the point of breaking skin, but damn close. And the way his boy reacts, whining and arching, trying to press closer. It’s very desirable. And enticing Sinn'ous to do more. Take more. Control more.
The barely perceived flick of his wrist does just that.
Digging the sharp blade in, and dragging it down inch by inch.
As much as he wants to watch the blood well and fall, he continues their kiss.
And continues holding Izz’s jaw in place, but even so, his boy manages to dislodge their mouths to rasp out on a wisp of breath.
“What . . .”
“Relax,” Sinn'ous commands. His voice level and soothing, “you’re okay. You trust me.”
Izz acknowledges on a shaky nod. And tries to look down at the cut. It’s not hard to stop him, hand tightening on his jaw.
Distress in both body and soul, it’s written in everything. Down to the ragged breath, and the rapidly flickering eyes. Even the pupils are blown wide.
Fuck is it a sight to behold.
To give back to the experience, and heighten it, Sinn'ous flicks the razor over in his fingers, and presses his loosely closed fist down onto the wound.
The reaction is immediate and sharp, a scream breaks out of his boy’s throat, crashing into the cell and carrying to every corner. Body jacking off the mattress, shoulders bunching as he pulls at the bindings, tears shimmering in his eyes.
“Red. Red. Red.”
The screamed safe word is like a punch to the gut. Tapping out so early. What the hell is with that? Where is the pain tolerance?
It takes everything in Sinn'ous to remove his hand and relinquish the giving of pain. Repeating in his mind that he does not rape. He is not his father, and never will be.
I do not rape.
But that doesn’t mean he has to stop fully.
The hesitant anger in Izz’s distress is a surprise, his next words are not. “Untie me please. I don’t like it. I don’t—” Izz shakes his head, unable or unwilling to finish his thought.
“Calm down,” it’s scarcely a nick.
From his weight sitting on Izz, to his firm grip pinning his head back, it’s a simple task to keep his boy trapped. He does, however, cart a hand through the hazelnut hair. “Deep breaths. You’re not in any danger. Calm down.”
“I want to stop. It hurts.”
“You like it. Your mind is merely experiencing a survival reaction. You need to let yourself know you’re not in any danger. Repeat it in your mind.”
There. Blame it all on the boy. Have him second guessing his reactions.
The only acceptable reactions are the ones that benefit me.
Izz’s eyes are doing that thing, threatening to roll back. “I don’t—”
Sinn'ous cuts off the imminent panic attack by dropping himself onto his boy. Using his body weight, and heat, to distract. Averting the attention away from panic and into something easier for Sinn'ous to pretend to care about.
His boy is hard, and the acceptable hardness makes it’s presence known by digging into him. It’s not what he had expected. A pain induced erection? Or pleasure?
His smirk is unstoppable, cracking his lips, and is coupled by his body responding in a wave of adrenaline crashing into him. He rotates his hips, to drive the point home, how much Izz’s own body knows what it needs. Who it needs.
It works like a charm. The hazy glaze over Izz’s eyes clears. Eyes closing, whole body sagging. Tension lost.
“There you go,” Sinn'ous praises, fingers stroking through Izz’s hair, “you see, you’re doing well.”
“It feels better. Can you let go of my jaw now.”
“No.”
The responding frown is cute—
He inwardly scolds himself for the thought.
He takes back control by giving directions. “You’re doing well. I want your mind to stay in this zone. We don’t want you to panic again.”
“Why would I panic?” His boy’s voice is squeaked, and panicked.
Bloody hell.
“Repeat what I told you. You’re spiralling again.
” He dips the hand not occupied by controlling Izz, down to the curve of slim hip bones.
Using the soft skin on skin contact to help ground Izz.
Slowly stroking his fingers over the warm skin there.
Snaking his hand down further to wrap around his boy’s hard dick.
Allowing the silence to stretch and the world to zone into the touch he gives his boy.
But instead of conceding to Sinn'ous’s control, he buckles down. “Red. I’m done. Let go. Please, Sin.”
Bloody hell.
Sinn'ous’s huffs, in barely contained irritation. Relaxing his fingers and dropping his boy’s dick. Hoping the lack of touch will change his boy’s mind. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Apparently not.
He rolls his boy over, to cut the bindings from his wrist with the razor that gleams with Izz’s blood.
And then the disobedience continues, when Izz makes a move to sit up without permission. Sinn'ous keeps him pinned by pressing a hand sharply into his back. Preventing him from escaping.
“Sin—” Izz’s plea is quickly cut off when Sinn'ous speaks right over him.
“Relax. I’m letting you up. I need you to stay calm. It’s not deep. It hasn’t gone through all the layers of skin. You trust me, yes.”
The tension that pulls the muscles tight under Sinn'ous’s hand is anything but relaxed.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
But at the very least he has stopped trying to sit up. Small victories.
“You remember our conversation, to do with different forms of play.”
“Yes,” Izz nods into the mattress.
Sinn'ous takes back his hand, now that his boy has ceased trying to move away.
“The one mentioning knife-play.”
His boy slowly rolls his torso, eyes comically wide. The slice comes into view, just under the ribs, barely longer than an inch. A paper-thin cut, and little to no bleeding except for a single bead of blood. It trickles from the wound, escaping down his side.
“That’s it. It felt like . . .” Izz punches Sinn'ous’s chest, taking him off guard. “You’re an asshole. You freaked me out more than this would have,” he gestures to the injury, the one they both know he’s talking about.
“Mind’s a powerful thing, isn’t it.” The playful jab was unintentional.
Second off-guard thing to happen to him in the span of .
. . what? . . . a minute? And the third, the third is his laugh.
It snaps out of his chest like it needed to pay rent if it stayed.
Loud, and damn near spontaneous, it doesn’t stop, no matter how pissed off it makes him.
Gathering his control, he manages to tamper down the involuntary reaction, just in time to be cold blasted by the frequently recurring prison alarm. Calling for the start of whatever meal they’re up to. Lunch?
And the after effect is the same. The sound of the bell fades into the sounds of hundreds of men stomping towards the cafeteria.
“I wanna shower first.” Izz swings his legs off the bunk, gathering his clothes which are scattered around the Satanic cell. “You joining?”
“Not much else to do.” Sinn'ous answers dryly. And yet he notices the change in his own response. The hint of sarcasm there is unsettling. And he doesn’t do unsettled.
“Wow. Don’t get too excited to spend time with me.” His boy smirks, wiggling his legs into faded grey prison pants.
“You’re developing an attitude,” he half-heartedly reprimands Izz, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the smaller inmate dress.
“Nah, I’m becoming comfortable with you. Enough to open up as who I’ve always been . . . Well, who I was on the outside—” Izz cuts off. Brows furrowing in thought.
The distant expression passing over his boy is one Sinn'ous is intimately familiar with. The change in oneself, the loss of who you once thought you were.
The Satanic tenets come to mind. The core values Satanists abide by. The values he abides by to the extent that they don’t encroach on his service to Satan.
One particular passage comes to the forefront. A tenet that has been repeatedly broken in Sinn'ous’s life, in his childhood, and used against him.
One’s own body is sacred, and is subject to one’s own will alone.
His father hadn’t thought that tenet held any heightened bearing.
It’s probably half the reason behind Sinn'ous’s own disregard to the tenets.
Yes, he follows them, but only so far. So far as it allows him to kill to send sacrifices down to Satan.
But he knows his worship and sacrifices are taken at high value.
Why does this boy crash through all his walls and bring the past to the forefront of his mind? The past he’d thought he long since buried.
“—Kind of.” Izz continues, like he hadn’t cut himself off. “Can we just drop this subject? It’s depressing.”
Unable to resist, and not trying all that hard, Sinn'ous runs his hand down Izz’s spine when his boy leans forward to pick up his shoe.
A small hiss of pain escapes his boy, but he makes no verbal remark over it. Just stands back up, shirt in hand, to probe softly at the small cut. No longer bleeding, it’s little more than a thin line.
Instead of continuing to dress, Izz throws out a question that seems to come out of nowhere. “Why do you care about me, and no one else?” Eyes bore directly into Sinn'ous’s own, an intensity to them that he can’t quite read.
“Don’t know. I just do.” Is his clipped tone too obvious that he wants this subject dropped?
And of course Izz doesn’t drop it. “But why am I different?”
Satan, give me strength.
He can’t explain this. Or anything too deep. Everything has to be surface level. If it goes too deep Izz will learn that Sinn'ous does in fact worship the Devil. And that isn’t something he has had the time to desensitise his boy to.
So instead, he chooses a poorly veiled threat. “Do you want me to treat you like I view others,” He arches a brow.
“No,” Izz mutters, deflating completely. A blood bag stuck by a two-inch needle, he drains in an instant. Using the guise of pulling on his shirt to hide his face, but not before Sinn'ous catches the hurt there.
“So what’s the problem.” The words leave his mouth against his better judgement, dangerously close to being a question. And Sinn'ous doesn’t do questions. You tell him what he wants to know, or you die. Simple as that.
His boy shakes his head, and that will not do. Then Izz shrugs, his soft voice timid. “Never mind.”
Sinn'ous holds his composure while it threatens to crumble. Staying silent so he doesn’t spew more words he hadn’t calculated and rerun through his mind to find any fault in.
That is until Izz steps around him on the way to the cell’s door. The laid-back excitement of earlier has evaporated from his expression altogether.
Sinn'ous’s hand snaps out of its own accord to grab Izz’s forearm.
Because fuck me that defeated look is way too fucking broken for what I want.
Compliant, not broken. That is what he wants. What he craves.
A long and low sigh slips free, rolling over the tension radiating off his boy.
He has to give him something. “I can’t tell you because I don’t know.
I’ve never cared about anyone before. People .
. .” He trails off, mulling over his words cautiously.
To reveal too much would lead to broken trust, to reveal too little will likewise lead to the same thing.
Neutral ground is needed, the middle to chase away the undesired outcome.
Sinn'ous continues, trying to be vague while giving enough to appease the boy. “To me, people are simply animals, or . . . the way you would view an apple. Some you want to slice. Others look repulsive, you don’t touch them, but you would slice them open, if needed, without care.”
There, that sounds good doesn’t it? Sweet and like wrapped in feelings?
Maybe a drop more? So he adds another collection of pretty words.
“You on the other hand . . . I care if you feel pain—unwanted pain. I don’t want to inflict injuries on you which you’re not comfortable with.
And I don’t want to treat you as the apple, I care if you were to be sliced open, I do not want it from you. I would like you to be in one piece.”
It really is hard to say—’I used to want to kill you, but now I think I only want to hurt you a little, maim you some. But you won’t die from it.’—without actually saying it.
His boy’s brows are furrowed in thought, lips thinned.
Fuck me dead. At this point it would be easier to just stab him.
Then Izz appears to blink everything away, a single nod, followed by his hand sliding into Sinn'ous’s own. Which fucks with him to the extent that he doesn’t pull away, and is led out by the hand. The contact drops once they start walking down the platform, but the phantom touch remains.
Satan, why did you set this boy in my path?