Rolling the joint requires precision he has no patience for, and it takes several attempts until he has a thick roll lit between his lips. It’s nothing like the few cigs he’s had over the years, no hit of nicotine to jolt his blood pressure. This is a wave, a slow cooling wave rolling down his tracheaand into his lungs. It seepsinto the soft tissues and coats the exposed nerves in a damp blanket, muffling their receptors.
He steps out of his cell and leans back against the wall, half lidded eyes flickering up the length of the empty platform. Most of the Wing occupants are at their prison assigned jobs, leaving an almost quiet air to the space. It’s almost . . . calming?
No wonder people smoke this stuff.
He feels like a fluffy cloud, or a poodle. Why? He’s not sure, maybe because poodles are the animal version of a fluffy cloud?
From raging homicidal urges, to arguing with himself over poodles and clouds. The joint sure fucking takes the edge right out of the equation.
Well, it had been, right up to the moment before a set of green eyes appear by the stairs, floating up to linger. Kicking every neuron of calm to the curb.
His blood thickens and his body tenses, he has to physically prevent himself from moving. Not to charge down, and grab his prey by the hair and demand to know who visited him. Then throw him in the nearest cell, and slit his throat.
Don’t kill him now. Not while you’re floating and can’t enjoy it.
The vacancy on Jasper’s face gives Sinn'ous pause, then backhands his inner voices and plants a kiss on his need to kill. And not the need to kill the boy, no it’s the needto torture whoever put that washed out fade into Jasper’s usually lively green eyes.
Something’s wrong.
Something is reallyreallywrong.
Jasper walks in a dragging fashion, stiff unyielding limbs forced to go where he directs them. Slumped posture, clammy skin, hitching breath. And it’s not fear etched into every movement. No, it’s something else entirely. Something . . . lost.Directionless. Vulnerable. He’s done something that he is not proud of. But what?
Jasper drifts into the space between him and the open cell door. Eyes going everywhere but never resting on anything. He remains unfocused. A palpable wave pulsing out of him, something akin to shame swirling around him.
Then his green eyes catch on Sinn'ous’s cell, running over the Satanic mural. Spell bound by the artwork, the words, or the vibe, Jasper drifts into his cell. Feet scarcely moving, it’s almost as though he’s a ghost sent to haunt Sinn'ous, floating in his space but forever out of his reach. Forever taken from his touch.
Ghosts?
Sinn'ous eyes the burning end of his joint, scrutinising the orange flare flaming their. This is probably why he’s never smoked this, because what are his thoughts? Ghosts? What the actual fuck?
But perhaps his ghost of a prey could do with a hit of the calm-the-fuck-down smoke.
“You here for a reason.” Sinn'ous asks without asking, dismissing the offer of the joint for now. It’s not a question when he will have an answer, to not give an answer is an insult Sinn'ous would rectify in blood.
Jasper’s doe-green eyes peer over his shoulder at Sinn'ous. They’re consumed by a deep despair and yearning for help.
Then his prey seems to half snap out of whatever haze has its claws in him, taking a generous step out of the cell. “Your cell?”
At a loss for what to say that won’t come across as homicidal, Sinn'ous can only nod. Somehow, he doubts ‘why don’t you kneel so I can slit your throat and rid you of your troubles’would go over well with the boy.
Smoke simmers into his lungs on the next drag. Orange flames working hard to consume the last of the paper, racing to his fingertips, threatening to burn them. It’s past the halfwaypoint, and he’s keenly aware of how he’d unintentionally almost consumed it in its entirety.
“It’s . . . unique,” Jasper notes. It’s said in a way that should scream judgmental, but reeks diversion. A delay in the true reason he’s lingering by Sinn'ous’s cell.
The boy is so caught up in thought that his nose wrinkles, pulling a surprised chuckle from Sinn'ous. It’s out before he can catch it.
Straightening up from his casual lean to his full height, he towers over the boy. Humouring the conversation by adding dryly, “not a Satanic fan.” He rakes his gaze over his prey’s face, eating in every detail. Down to the tiny crease of his brow.
The thought hits him in passing. How ravishing his prey would be covered in blood.
His prey shivers, a tinge of pink blooming over his cheekbones. “I’m not really religious. But I hold nothing against those who are. It wouldn’t surprise me if the Devil exists.”
Sinn'ous hums in the back of his throat, not convinced his prey won’t flee the moment he discovers Sinn'ous’s true affiliation to Satan.
Building a foundation of trust means downplaying his connection to Satan.
Forgive me, Satan. It’s for a worthy cause. A worthy sacrifice foryou.
