Chapter 55
SINN'OUS
Watching his boy under the shower’s glistening spray is not something he thought would be a want of his. Yet he is doing it. While his boy’s eyes are closed and he has no idea Sinn'ous is there.
That is something he is intimately familiar with. Intruding on moments without another’s knowledge.
His boy had gone ahead into the showers, and clearly forgot all about Sinn'ous joining him. Because here he is. Hand on his cock, stroking the hard length, eyes pinched shut in concentration. Head bowed, and other hand gliding up his side to the slice there. The one Sinn'ous left with his razor.
Sinn'ous discovers his own breath catching. His own feet taking him over the wet tiled floor, fully clothed, to the space beside Izz. Silently prowling right up to him, and leaning his shoulder against the tiled wall to watch his boy pleasure himself.
Swallowing hard he catalogues every display of vulnerability, down to the way his boy’s hand continues to hover over the cut. Not quite touching, but the intent is clear. To the moment the resistance snaps and that hand presses in.
A gasp breaks over the sounds of multiple showers running.
Not to carry anywhere but Sinn'ous’s ears.
His boy’s forehead drops to the tiled wall, resting there as he continues working his hand in a rhythmic pump over his dick, thighs visibly trembling.
And fingers digging harder into the slice, blood mingling in water to pinken the rivulets running down his body.
It’s a glory to behold. Locked in a growing climax that has come from the pain he is inflicting on himself. And it cements the chances of them doing so much more. Cutting. Slicing. Blood exchanging.
His boy bites into his plump bottom lip, teeth digging in to add to the fingers pressed into his side.
Biting back the noises he should be making.
And cums into the falling shower spray. Rope after rope of hot cum shooting from his twitching cock.
Some spluttering on the tiled wall, where it quickly washes away.
Slowly, forest-green eyes blink open, cheeks flushing crimson the second they catch onto Sinn'ous.
Still leaning right next to his boy, clothes mostly dry, and somewhat sticking to his skin in places water splashed from Izz’s jerking hand under the shower’s spray.
He knows he has a wicked glint in his eyes, and a deep smirk on his face.
But why wouldn’t he, when all his darker fantasies are playing out inside his mind.
All the possibilities he can now explore.
He would have done it anyway, come up with elaborate plans to make Izz think it was his idea. But now, he won’t have to work as hard to get his boy to the ultimate place of blind obedience.
The look of pure unrestrained embarrassment on his boy’s face is delectable.
“O-okay, so I like knife-play. Leave me be.” Izz studies the wound one last time then glances away from it, changing the subject.
“I think I’d want another tattoo.” He flicks the showers spray off, finished with the routine of washing and wanking.
“When I get out,” he adds almost to himself.
Sinn'ous will be taking full advantage of this confession.
He learnt very early on that Izz had a compulsive need to give back the equivalent of what he has been given.
So not only will this tattoo be a mark Sinn'ous has placed there to lay claim, it will be another link to fasten the chain around his boy’s neck.
“I’ll get you one in here.” Sinn'ous stalks his boy out of the showers, not minding how his clothes tug at his skin in all the wet places.
Being the reason behind permanent marks left in his boy’s skin is not an opportunity he will pass up on. Even if it won’t be his own hand doing the marking. The ink will be linked to him all the same.
His boy towels off, rubbing the unnaturally greying towel over his skin, something that was probably white when the prison board bought it centuries ago. “I can’t keep sponging off you.”
Weird sentiment to have, considering Sinn'ous already buys him plenty. And for all the given freedom he allows his boy to have, he still owns him. Izz might not realise it yet, but he will soon. When the time is right, and when Izz can’t go anywhere, he will learn it.
“I don’t mind.”
“But I do,” Izz snaps, in a way a small dog would, an irritation that does nothing but make it glaringly obvious how little power they possess.
Sinn'ous humours his boy regardless. And he has to admit, he is mildly interested in why someone would turn down the offer of money. “Why. It’s my money to spend on whatever I want.”
The answer is the expected stuttering to try to find what should be said, not what he wants to say. “I-I—it just matters,”
Sinn'ous chuckles to break the ice, and act as someone would in the situation. Someone who isn’t him and has emotions to play into.
“Your mind’s a curious thing, isn’t it. So caught up in others, you’re not taking the time to get what you want.
Denying yourself. For what. Social standing.
Because society says it’s wrong to sponge off someone who’s doting on you. ”
If Sinn'ous stood by what societal norms dictated he wouldn’t be serving Satan very well, now would he.
Forgive me, Satan, for I have sinned.
He sends down the humour filled prayer. A mockery of that ‘faith’ he would burn to the ground given the chance. That ‘faith’ that has no place in the world, a fake invisible sky daddy that should stay in the ground rotting. At least then it would grow mushrooms and be useful.
I’d burn it all for you, Satan, every last page of inked vulgarity.
“It’s called a gold-digger,” Izz mumbles, dragging Sinn'ous back to the current passing of events.
Lips curling into a calculated smirk, he waits for Izz to look at him before continuing. “You can always say I ‘demanded it of you, for my protection’, if it makes you feel better.”
His boy does the strangest thing, he sticks his tongue out, in a show of playful defiance. It has him going to all the places that tongue could be. What it will be used on very soon.
Izz ducks his eyes, shame colouring his cheeks. Another display of vulnerability over what others think of your actions.
It’s of little concern, so long as his boy serves, that’s all that matters.
“Come, we’re leaving,” Sinn'ous commands, and prowls to the door without waiting for his boy’s reply.
He can hear Izz wrestling his last shoe on, and stumbling to catch up.
“Where to?”
“You have a tattoo to receive.”
“W-what? No—” Izz stutters, and fumbles over his words, in that flustered way that seems to be normal for him.
It’s easily ignored, and spoken over, “you want one, don’t you.”
One more link to add to the growing chain I will lock around your neck.
The reluctant, “yes,” is the only correct answer.
A tattoo is now happening, with or without Izz’s direct consent.
What I want, I will get.
~~~
His boy trails along like an obedient puppy, right behind Sinn'ous, down the centre of the yard.
They’re going to the gang that has claimed the eastern benches. A grouping of three metal tables cornered by benches. In the winter they’re good at attracting the heat to warm your ass. In the summer they’re a death trap that burns through your clothes.
This is the gang the best artist in this slice of prison rolls with. And he will not have a second best, amateur artist inking his boy.
Part of the Russian mafia, they’re run by a notoriously ruthless man by the name of Alexiel, the underboss of the entire organisation.
If Sinn'ous had to guess, it would mean that he is in here for a purpose. Considering how high in the organisation he is, money would have bought his freedom, had he wanted it. Whatever he’s doing here, it’s of little concern to Sinn'ous.
He stops at the edge of the group, Izz’s heat pressing up against his back. Every set of eyes is on them, and Sinn'ous scrubs them away. Insignificant as they are.
They’re waiting on bated breath for trouble. For a go-ahead by their boss to attack or to make themselves scarce.
Sinn'ous shouldn’t hope for an attack, but then again, he lives for blood.
Alexiel is front and centre, even when he is partly obscured from view by all the bodies coalescing around the tables. Sitting on the central table, feet resting on the bench, hands hanging by the wrists off his knees. In a way that screams casual confidence.
Sinn'ous has to respect him. If the rumours are true, Alexiel is just as blood thirsty as Sinn'ous. And someone he knows isn’t afraid to take him on. A challenge he respects.
Sitting at the underboss’s feet is a slim young thing, short blond hair, deep blue eyes, and a thin air that filters resignation.
Alexiel’s deeply accented voice cuts past the men half standing in front of him. Watch dogs at his beck and call. “What can I do for you, Sinn'ous?”
Outwardly to anyone who isn’t as observant at Sinn'ous, Alexiel would give off the vibe of relaxed and unbothered. But the signs are there, the tightening of muscle, the sharpening of eye, all ready for the conversation to turn confrontational.
“Matvey.” You don’t need to say more. Everyone knows why you ask for him. It’s a waste of words explaining further than a simple name drop.
Alexiel gives Sinn'ous an appraising once over, eyes flicking back to check out Izz who is glued to his back. Tucked behind him in a way that pleases him greatly. It screams ownership.
“You gift wrapping?”
A term to ask if he is selling Izz’s sexual services.
“No.”
Alexiel leans back on his hands, lips encircled by a full goatee purse into thought, or irritation, it’s hard to tell. A combination of both?
They both let the silence carry. A tactical play of power neither is willing to break. Something that would have lesser men squirming, and by the way the men around them do squirm, it’s working.
“If you change your mind . . .” The sentence drifts, as does Alexiel’s hand, into the blond head of hair by his leg.
A glaring invitation to switch out. “tit for tat.” His accent carries a husky air.
Then it’s gone, and his eyes turn cold. “Matvey.” The sharp word has Izz jumping and bumping into Sinn'ous’s back.
The artist steps out from the group, eyes going between his boss and Sinn'ous.
Alexiel flicks his chin at Sinn'ous instead of voicing anything. And Matvey nods to the silent conversation.
And the discussion is over. Sinn'ous turns, pushing Izz to walk ahead of him back towards the building. To wait in I-Wing for Matvey to collect everything needed for the work.
~~~
Sinn'ous isn’t the only one in here who owns guards. One such guard had unlocked the way into I-Wing, having already been informed by Alexiel. It meant they’d gone straight in to wait in the usual cell.
That had been a good hour ago. Time has been passing in a comfortable crawl.
Izz’s lying on his stomach on a bare prison bunk, his pant leg bunched above the knee.
Matvey is hunched over his work, scratching the clean lines into the exposed leg.
And Sinn'ous is sitting in a chair by his boy’s head, watching the ink slowly grow into something artful.
“I don’t know why you pay for this stuff.” His boy’s voice takes his focus off the mixture of inky blood being cleaned from skin. A strain to his voice at the next touch of needle. “It’s not like I do anything in return for it.”
A smirk plays over his lips. Something he is increasingly aware has become a bad habit around his boy. “So you don’t bend over for me. I was imagining you sprawled out on my bunk—”
“Oh, my God. Stop,” Izz frantically looks back at the artist, embarrassment colouring his cheeks.
But that word. It should be burned from any form of vocabulary. From memory.
“Satan,” Sinn'ous sits up in his chair, leaning closer to his boy. Letting the word cut deep. He wants it to leave a permanent scar.
“Huh?”
“Your god reference is repulsive,” he slides his fingers through Izz’s hair, tugging lightly, but hard enough to send the message of ownership, “ ‘oh, Satan.’ Is the term you should use . . . If you want me to do sin unto your body.”
The heat in his boy’s eyes is almost enough to have him shoving Matvey aside and mounting his boy. Like some sex deprived beast.
Satan, give me strength.
~~~
He’d managed to cling to his self-control. Allowing the tattoo to be completed in a timely manner.
Tracking Izz’s movements as he walks to the locked doors of I-Wings corridor, after being dismissed by Sinn'ous and told to wait there.
He turns to Matvey, still packing the tools of his trade.
He’d sent his boy out of ear shot, there is no need for anything not controlled by him to be brought to Izz’s attention.
And this conversation is not one that will be controlled by him.
Matvey could say anything, things he doesn’t need his boy to be privy to.
Matvey speaks without stopping in his task. “He’ll send word to you on the price of this work.”
“Not the usual?”
“Nope. He wants some business dealt with.”
A kill.
Sinn'ous hasn’t had a job in this sense since he stepped into Sandstone Correctional. On the outside he occasionally dabbled in contract kills. They pay good, especially if you take the high paying jobs offered by the many networks of organised crime families.
“You think a bit of ink covers that cost.” Will he turn down the given opportunity to kill someone? No, probably not. But that doesn’t mean he can’t kill anyone to take the edge off. Especially if he’s not being paid adequately for a job.
“No. Which is why Alexiel will be in touch.”
Matvey scurries out of the cell, hands occupied by ink bottles and everything else he’d used, crammed into two sizable boxes. Leaving Sinn'ous to stride to his boy and escort him back to their wing.