Sinn'ous strips from his sweat crusted clothes, the low-quality fabric almost crunching as it’s relieved from his body. He piles his clothes in the same place he always does. The furthest corner, out of the line of sight from the doors—both the ones leading to the showers and the set which exit into the corridors. It’s a corner wedge he can press into, stopping anyone from having the chance to come up behind him. Having anyone at his back is a vulnerability he hasn’t undergonesince he was a kid.
Reni’s clique is dressing by the doors, and the new inmate is not among them. The likelihood he has been dropped by the group is slim, and at the same time it’s a silent hope. If they have cast him out it will make ensnaring himoh so much easierwithout them hovering in the way.
A lull in bodies exiting the showers is Sinn'ous’s cue to move. Stepping through the archway into the wet moisture filled air.
He pulls up short when the object of his thoughts steps into the way, nearly walking right into him.
The boy’s head is down, in a way that screams vulnerable prey. It would be so easy to snatch him up, drag him into a shadowed corner, and consume him. All before he knows what’s caught him.
“Sorry, my fault.” The boy’s voice is soft, in a breezy way that rubs over the rough edges, sanding them smooth.
And then the boy looks up and sort of short circuits. Everything behind his vibrant green eyes fade into non-existence. The beading water droplets trickling from his hair line latch onto his lashes, and he doesn’t blink them away. A little doe caught in headlights, and all Sinn'ous wants to do is rev the engine and put his foot to the floor.
No, it would be over too quickly. Half the fun is in the hunt.
A small pink tongue flicks out to wet his prey’s lips, the action repeated multiple times—a nervous tick, perhaps? And he turns so pale there’s a high chance he’s about to pass out. The boy’s reaction serves to piss him off, fuelling his resolve to cut the connection between him and Reni, before more damage can be done. It has crawling ants burrowing their way under Sinn'ous’s skin, anger coiled into a tight ball that sticks his feet to the tiled floor.
Can’t hunt prey if the prey knows who to look for.
Well, you can. But half the fun is catching them and watching the dawning horror colour their features as it slowly dawns on them what you are.
Sinn'ous holds his ground. Eating in every tick of muscle in his prey, while those green eyes do the same. It’s a standoff, and he’s on the winning end.
His lack of movement is half to rain in control. Keeping a stoic face while anger swims under his skin is not a skill he is particularly versed in. Even the constant reminder of the games he wishes to partake in—the inevitable hunt—does little to stay his hand.
This isn’t just about the kill.
And the other half of him. A part he pushes to the foreground. Is whispering at how close he is to that petite body, with all the soft curves and unblemished skin. Save for a couple small tattoos on the biceps, the rest of his torso is an open canvas.
What I wouldn’t give to place scars there.
He’s so close he can scent the unique aromathat belongs to this individual, even under the clinging diluted fragranceof prison soap.
The pause gives the boy the opportunity to drop his gaze, for his eyes to hone in on every tattoo marking Sinn'ous’s skin. The light dusting of a blush is another bemusing vulnerabilitypeeking out. It has Sinn'ous gritting his teeth to lock his hands by his sides.
“Izz.” The annoyance known as Zidie bellows from the other room, digging into the young prisoner’s studying of Sinn'ous and taking away his heat inducing gaze. “What’s taking ya so long? We wants’ to go.”
Zidie has just added his name to the list of interferences who need to go. Right alongside Reni.
Using the distraction Sinn'ous passes the boy unnoticed, and slips into the shower room, moving out of sight to a corner shower head. His shoulders are taunt to the onslaught of an overwhelming desire to kill.
One man three spaces down side-eyes Sinn'ous before shutting off his spray and moving down another several spaces. Leaving Sinn'ous alone to lean his forearms on the tiled wall and bow his head into the spray. His muscles are wound tight enough to crack bone, and the lacking water pressure drizzling out isn’t helping massage the knots away. If anything the trickling tickle is serving to add to his aggravation.
His grounding solace is in the blood ink over his skin. The tattoos of deep crimson giving the illusion of blood dripping over his upper arms to the crooks of his elbows. It calms his mind and allows it to drift into a sea of spilled blood and gurgled screams.
4
SINN'OUS
Suffice it to say he had not slept a wink. Every time he closed his eyes all he saw was green eyes unblinking in a cold pale face. His hands covered in blood as he looked down at the unmoving body, while he positioned himself to slice Satan’s marks into skin already stained in crimson.
Which in turn made his cock ache, and he’d had to beat off multiple times. His cock could not take a hint, it just kept bouncing back to go again.
Good thing he has no cellmate or he would have kept them up all night with his tossing and turning. And masturbation marathon. Although, an available warm body might have taken the edge off more than his hand did.
The object of his obsession is currently being accosted by two rowdy inmates who have signed their death sentences. Mark and Harryare low in the hierarchy around here. Little vultures who pick at the leftovers. They should know better than to go after something that Sinn'ous has his eyes set on.
The boy is up above on the second floor, pressed in close to the rails while he is practically sandwiched between the other two. They stand so close their eyelashes might kiss.
