No need to look over his shoulder to tell that the boy is unnerved. He’s practically vibrating in his anxiety.
And it is unsettling here, deathly silent, emphasising how much he’s become used to. When the noises of prison life are gone it unsettles the brain, an instinctive response to the quiet of a predator nearby. Even when in this case there isn’t one hunting in the shadows, and it’s just a reaction to being surrounded by constant noise.
“I-Wing. It’s unoccupied, no guards will bother us here,” Sinn'ous explains, stepping further into the cell to give Izz room to access the bunk where the work will be done.
It’s a good thing he didn’t have to worry over a lockdown, or this tattoo wouldn’t be possible today. They never seem to throw one when it’s a suicide. Guess they only need to pretend to care when it’s a non-consensual murder, not a self-inflicted murder. He barely had to stage the scene, and they wrote it off as suicides.
“This your bitch you want inked?” Matvey’s voice is thick, and it cuts down Sinn'ous’s spine crawling into the marrow.
Howdarehe say that.
The cocky grin and laid-back attitude seals Matvey’sfate. Sinn'ous has the man’s shirt collar in his hands and his back against the wall in the next heartbeat. Leaning in so close he can smell the rank stench of prison food on the man’s breath.
His voice is cold and detached when he lays down the law. “You’ll refrain from ever referring to him in that manner.”
The near-to-death inmate’s eyes bulge, it would be laughable if Sinn'ous weren’t teetering on the edge of flipping. Of turning this meat sack into a sprinkler of spewing blood and organs. The only thing refraining his blood thirst is the shy presence sharing the small cell space.
Don’t kill in front of Izz, the boy isn’t ready.He reminds himself.
Yet. A small part in the far corner of his mind whispers.
The day he can kill in front of Izz without so much as an eyelid flutter, will be a day in the comfort of Hell.
Hail Satan.
“This is Izz,” Sinn'ous continues, raining in the aggression still threatening to erupt, and flicks his head back over his shoulder to indicate where Izz’s standing, not once breaking eye contact. Sending every wave of displeasure he feels straight into Matvey, every ounce of his inner demand to kill.
And then he leans closer to drive the point home. “And he is mine.” He wasn’t sure what he had planned to say in the man’s ear, but that had not been it. Either way it’s said now, and he can’t say it isn’t true.
He drops his hold, the point made. And the faster this ink work happens the faster he can leave and take Izz back to his cell. He had savoured the sensations of the boy pressed up against him, and he wishes to have him unconscious in his arms again. To touch. To admire.
Fuck, he loves that the boy sleeps so deeply. And he plans on pushing to see how far he can get without waking him.
“Take a seat, please, Izz.” Matvey’s attitude is polite and professional, taking Sinn'ous’s warning to heart.
Izz follows the instructions, perching on the edge of the bare bunk. He looks so fragile, in this cell next to two inmates who dwarf him in strength and build.
Handing over a neatly folded piece of paper for the artist to reference. A smaller, more, dare he say,feminine, version of Sinn'ous’s own tattoo at the small of his back. The blood red ink that is tattooed in a way which resembles a blood splatter someone proceeded to finger smudge Sinn'ous’s name into. Skin breaks through red ink to permanently show his name. Something he and his brother did. A dare of sorts. Zayne’s was slightly different and held not his own name, but the initials SK, in broken skin through the palms of a bloody handprint, one on each of his hips. Like an invisible person is standing behind him and gripping on.
Matvey flattens the sheet over his thigh. Clicking various parts into the machine and setting out small caps for ink while studying the drawing.
“Easy enough,” Matvey grunts.“Where am I putting it?” He aims the question towards Sinn'ous.
It isn’t something he has to think over for more than a breath. “Above the hip, will suithim . . .” He trails off, knowing he might be pushing Izz too fast too soon if he doesn’t word this in a way that gives the illusion of it being the boy’s choice. “Is that okay with you.”
There. Now it’s phrased in a way that should give Izz the sense of independence.
The lack of instant acceptance ticks at Sinn'ous’s irritation. He grits his teeth and forces himself to remain stoic.
He barely manages to refrain his temper.
“Izz?” Sinn'ous presses, biting his tone to cut off anything more. Trying very hard to lighten his tone and add an uptick of enquiry.
Izz’s eyes blink rapidly, shocked green irises peering up at Sinn'ous. “Huh?” It’s almost as though his mind needed a minute to reboot. “Oh, yeah. The hip is fine. Yes.”
There is definitely an air of hesitation in the answer but Sinn'ous heeds it no mind. After all, Izz belongs to him and he will do what he pleases to the body that is his to possess.
~~~
