But instead of conceding to Sinn'ous’s control, he buckles down. “Red. I’m done. Let go. Please, Sin.”
Bloody hell.
Sinn'ous’s huffs, in barely contained irritation. Relaxing his fingers and dropping his boy’s dick. Hoping the lack of touch will change his boy’s mind. “You sure?”
“Yes.”
Apparently not.
He rolls his boy over, to cut the bindings from his wrist with the razor that gleams with Izz’s blood.
And then the disobedience continues, when Izz makes a move to sit up without permission. Sinn'ous keeps him pinned by pressing a hand sharply into his back. Preventing him from escaping.
“Sin—” Izz’s plea is quickly cut off when Sinn'ous speaks right over him.
“Relax. I’m letting you up. I need you to stay calm. It’s not deep. It hasn’t gone through all the layers of skin. You trust me, yes.”
The tension that pulls the muscles tight under Sinn'ous’s hand is anything but relaxed.
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
But at the very least he has stopped trying to sit up. Small victories.
“You remember our conversation, to do with different forms of play.”
“Yes,” Izz nods into the mattress.
Sinn'ous takes back his hand, now that his boy has ceased trying to move away.
“The one mentioning knife-play.”
His boy slowly rolls his torso, eyes comically wide. The slice comes into view, just under the ribs, barely longer than an inch. A paper-thin cut, and little to no bleeding except for a single bead of blood. It trickles from the wound, escaping down his side.
“That’s it. It felt like . . .” Izz punches Sinn'ous’s chest, taking him off guard. “You’re an asshole. You freaked me out more than this would have,” he gestures to the injury, the one they both know he’s talking about.
“Mind’s a powerful thing, isn’t it.” The playful jab was unintentional. Second off-guard thing to happen to him in the span of . . . what? . . . a minute? And the third, the third is his laugh. It snaps out of his chest like it needed to pay rent if it stayed. Loud, and damn near spontaneous, it doesn’t stop, no matter how pissed off it makes him.
Gathering his control, he manages to tamper down the involuntary reaction, just in time to be cold blasted by the frequently recurring prison alarm. Calling for the start of whatever meal they’re up to. Lunch?
And the after effect is the same. The sound of the bell fades into the sounds of hundreds of men stomping towards the cafeteria.
“I wanna shower first.” Izz swings his legs off the bunk, gathering his clothes which are scattered around the Satanic cell. “You joining?”
“Not much else to do.” Sinn'ous answers dryly. And yet he notices the change in his own response. The hint of sarcasm there is unsettling. And he doesn’t dounsettled.
“Wow. Don’t get too excited to spend time with me.” His boy smirks, wiggling his legs into faded grey prison pants.
“You’re developing an attitude,” he half-heartedly reprimands Izz, crossing his arms over his chest as he watches the smaller inmatedress.
“Nah, I’m becoming comfortable with you. Enough to open up as who I’ve always been . . . Well, who I was on the outside—” Izz cuts off. Brows furrowing in thought.
The distant expression passing over his boy is one Sinn'ous is intimately familiar with. The change in oneself, the loss of who you once thought you were.
The Satanic tenets come to mind. The core values Satanists abide by. The values he abides by to the extent that they don’t encroach on his service to Satan.
One particular passage comes to the forefront. A tenet that has been repeatedly broken in Sinn'ous’s life, in his childhood, and used against him.
One’s own body is sacred, and is subject to one’s own will alone.
