It’s time to say ‘fuck you’to control.
“You’re mine,” Sinn'ous growls, his hand involuntarily tightening on Izz’s throat. “All mine. No one else can touch you.”
The wheezing shallow breaths of Izz trying so hard to suck air into his lungs is calling to Sinn'ous’s inner animal. A beckoning call to the wildest reaches of his psyche. Every twitching muscle under his bulk is massaging his own. A quivering presence he wants to take apart.
Sinn'ous bites Izz’s lip, relinquishing his hold on the boy’s neck just enough so the smaller inmate doesn’t pass out, “you’re gorgeous when you’re helpless.”
He has to tread carefully here, having someone so helpless under him usually ends in blood. And he doesn’t want Izz dead. Bloodied, yes. But dead? No. Not anymore. He isn’t entirely sure when that changed for him, but he acknowledges the overwhelming desire to keep Izz. To consume everything that is Jasper Marcelo.
“Please,” Izz moans, his body arching off the mattress to press into Sinn'ous. A blatant invitation if there ever is one. Blunt nails dig into Sinn'ous’s sides, giving sharp licks of pain he relishes.
Give me all you have.
My Izz.
Shoving Izz’s face to the side he takes the opportunity to run his tongue over the salty tang that is infused with Izz’shot flesh.
“Roll onto your stomach,” Sinn'ous murmurs into his boy’s ear.
He fights off a savage smirk when Izz hastily complies, not an ounce of hesitation to follow the order.
You’re all mine.
He offers no help, staying put, not budging an inch to give Izz room to move. It doesn’t deter his boy, only creates a delicious friction between them from all the squirming manoeuvring.
The feel of this. The dominance he has over another. It’s intoxicating. Being on top and in complete control is the only way he can have any form of intimacy with another. The days of him being the weaker body pinned below another are long since dead. And he will never go back, he would sooner slit his own throat than subject himself to the whims of another ever again. And he isn’t in the least bit suicidal.
Never again.
He starts on his boy’s pants, tugging the crunchy material down to Izz’s thighs. The stiff prison pants are an insult to his sense of touch, subjecting his fingertips to a rough sanding which is a sensory nightmare. You can’t say the prison system doesn’t torture them in their material objects.
Izz’s hands are white-knuckled in the sheeting above his head. His ribs expanding so rapidly Sinn'ous can see them moving under the boy’s shirt.
And the ass exposed to him . . . Rounded globes of perfection. He digs the pads of his fingertips into the tannedflesh, kneading them roughly. Each bitten off cry coming from his boy is a squeeze to his own cock. The thing is so hard it could be used as a weapon to bludgeon someone to death.
He’d give anything to hear those noises unobstructed and screaming his name so the whole prison knows who Izz belongs to. The loud voices from the crowded wing are already bouncing off the cell’s walls’, he can add his boy’s cries to them. But first, he needs Izz naked.
Tugging up the shirt is a task Izz assists him in. As a team they discard the offensive object away in a flutter of grey fabric. And his access is granted, nothing in the way to block his view or his touch.
Frustration mounts over the pants clinging to his boy’s legs. It’s an easy solve, one swift yank and he has that offence gone. The socks and shoes coming right off in one fellswoop.
Then Izz is left bare to Sinn'ous’s eyes.
He eats in every detail, down to the small spots of ink. The small skull on his ankle is more cutethan threatening. And the snake skeleton interwoven in vines around his biceps is something on the opposite ends of the scales to Sinn'ous’s own ink.
Where Sinn'ous’s ink is murals of skeletal death, Izz’s ink is more a delicate reminder of how soft life is. How easy it is to snuff out the small spark in someone’s eyes and watch their soul leave their body forever.
He’s not entirely sure what the significance of the date inked into the nape of Izz’s neck is, but he will be sure to find out. Later. When he isn’t in the middle of something of far greater importance.
He strips off his own clothes, removing the last barrier between them. His blood red ink flashing in and out of his view while his solefocus remains pinned to his boy. His pants are next, revealing his blood splattered inner thighs, the ink-work making it look as though he is covered in fresh blood.
Movement has Sinn'ous briefly pausing. Izz’s tucking his arms under himself, and pushing his upper body off the bunk to turn over—
“No,” the sharp order cracks the air, a deathly warning Sinn'ous will follow through with pain, should it not be heeded to. It does what it’s intended to, shoving Izz back down sharper than any hand could, not that it stops him from using his hand to push his boy down and pin him there.
There are times when some pain is required to obtain obedience.
“I want you like this.” Sinn'ous adds on.
