“Hush, now,” he shifts above Izz, gripping his hips to sink in to the hilt. “You’ll beg when I tell you to beg. Not before.”
His boy goes lax, complying and opening his body completely to Sinn'ous. Each sound he pushes out of Izz goes straight to his balls, building up to the climax he knows will be strong.
The razor kisses his boy’s spine, running up the length, a promise of more pain to come.
Instead of cutting, Sinn'ous fists a hand into his boy’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing that vulnerable throat. Sparks ignite in his own spine, the sensation driving down into his cock. And he presses the blade to Izz’s neck. Floating there. On the edge of will he or won’t he.
The ease in which he could is on the forefront of his control.
So simple. No exertion needed. He could flick his wrist and be done with it. Have a river of hot blood flowing over his hand and arm.
Against his better judgement, he presses harder into it. And watches in a haze of desire as blood escapes, sliding over the razor and down the fully exposed throat.
Fuck. I need this.
Satan, I need this.
“You’re mine,” he growls, thrusting deep inside as he claims Izz at his throat and between his legs. “To do with as I desire. . .”
His climax roars through him, snapping his spine into a rigid pole. His fingers release the razor to fall free, so he doesn’t kill his boy in the clutches of his white-hot climax.
~~~
Light and drifting. It’s not a sensation he’s considered after sex. Yet, here he is. On a high where no drugs were consumed.
Sex has never been this freeing. This alive.
They’re on the stairs, with Izz leaning the majority of his weight on the rails. It draws concern, a nagging voice whispering that he pushed too far too fast. Too many cuts. Not the right amount to consume his boy and bring him back for seconds. Thirds. And more.
He’d applied a salve to fight any infections, and wrapped the wounds in clean bandages. Providing aftercare that his father would have scolded him over. But when you want the one you’re fucking to live, and stay for more, you have to play your part in aiding them.
From all the talk and clattering around the Wing it’s hard to hear Izz’s small, pained grunts. The limp on the other hand is very noticeable, and the way he’s halving his steps to try to hide it, only serves to draw that much more attention to it.
Sinn'ous hovers close, glancing at Izz so much it becomes a morning exercise stretching the muscles in his neck. He’s at a standstill, waiting on Izz to shuffle forward in fake bravado, before he takes his own step. And then the cycle continues.
“Quit staring. I’m fine. Just a little stiff.” His boy tries to come across as strong, however, his voice wavers and the pained huff he lets out at the end of each clipped sentence says it all.
Sinn'ous hums to let his boy know he can see through the act of defiance. “You sure you’re not bleeding or—”
“I’m fine, quit worrying.” Izz snaps, stronger this time. So Sinn'ous drops the topic. For now.
Progress is made. One step at a time. To the corridors of A-Wing.
Step. Grunt. Sucked breath of pain. Step. Hiss. Pained exhale.
Satan, give me strength.
Step. Pained intake of breath. Hissed breath out.
“You keep grunting when you walk,” Sinn'ous’s gaze flicks to his boy’s limp, just as he wobbles and lists to the left slightly. He takes Izz’s elbow, righting his stance.
“Am I? I hadn’t noticed.”
More lies. His boy noticed enough to try to hide it. Which he is clearly terrible at.
The pained intakes continue all the way to the cafeteria. Where the loud chaos beyond the doors mask the noises. But it does nothing to disguise the limp.
They go straight to the front and their trays are filled. Then they part ways, where Izz goes to the table occupied by Reni’s clique. And Sinn'ous sits at his table, alone, and shadowed. To watch his boy. Observing the interactions at Reni’s table, every crease in his boy’s brow, any shift in his body language.
