Chapter 29: Crudes
The showers were a symphony of echoes. Water hit tile with a constant, percussive hiss, bouncing off the endless concrete and steel to create a damp, ringing atmosphere. Steam hung in thick, shifting clouds, blurring shapes and softening the harsh lines of the communal space. The air was hot, thick with the smell of cheap, industrial soap and the underlying, musky scent of wet male bodies. The lights overhead buzzed, casting a sickly greenish glow through the vapor.
Dominic stood under a spray head, the water sluicing over the thick, ropy scars and faded ink that covered his broad back and shoulders. He worked a bar of soap into a lather in his hands, his movements efficient. Beside him, Angel struggled with his own soap, which kept slipping from his small, slick hands. He’d already dropped it twice, each time letting out a soft, annoyed gasp before chasing it under the spray.
“Hold still, cuore mio,” Dominic rumbled, his voice a low vibration that cut through the watery noise. He turned, his dark eyes finding Angel’s shivering form. “You’re dancing around like a wet kitten.”
“It’s hot, Daddy,” Angel whined, his platinum curls plastered to his neck and back, dark with water. He stood with his arms slightly held out from his body, as if the water droplets were tiny insects. The hot spray highlighted the gentle curve of his waist, the swell of his chest. The old, silvery claiming bite on the side of his neck gleamed.
“It’s supposed to be hot. It gets you clean.” Dominic reached for him, his large hands gentle but firm as he guided Angel under the next spray head. “Arms up.”
Angel complied, lifting his arms obediently over his head. Dominic began soaping his back, working the lather in broad, circular strokes from his slender shoulders down to the base of his spine. Angel wriggled at the touch, a giggle escaping him.
“Tickles!”
“It does not tickle. Stand still.” Dominic’s tone was one of mild, practiced exasperation. He rinsed the soap away, the water tracing paths through the constellations of old scars on Angel’s pale skin—some thin and surgical, others ragged and violent. A history written in flesh.
From a few showers down, a voice cut through the steam. “Gotta get ‘em good and clean, Reaper. Can’t have your boy smellin’ like the yard.”
It was Fletcher, a gaunt man with sunken eyes and permanent smile lines that looked out of place. He was scrubbing his thinning hair with methodical intensity. “Kids track in all sorts of shit.”
“He’s not a kid, he’s eighteen,” rumbled Atlas from the other side. A mountain of a man, covered in burns that had healed into shiny, rippled patches of skin. He soaped his massive arms without looking over.
“He’s your kid,” corrected Garcia, a compact, wiry man with quick, darting eyes. He was shaving his face with a careful, practiced hand, using the stainless steel wall as a mirror. “That makes him a kid. My Isabella was twenty-three when she died. Still my kid. Still needed reminding to wash behind her ears.” He said it casually, the same way one might comment on the weather.
Angel turned his head, smiling at the voices. He knew these men. They were always around, like uncles who told strange, dark jokes. “I wash behind my ears,” he announced proudly.
“Do you now?” Blackwood’s voice was a dry, rasping thing. He stood under the spray letting the water run over his lean, ropey frame. His eyes, pale and assessing, watched the scene. He had the calm, detached air of a biology teacher observing a specimen. “What about your tits? You get under there properly? They can chafe if you don’t rinse all the soap off.”
Dominic’s hands paused on Angel’s back for a fraction of a second. A silent warning. Then he continued, his touch not faltering. “Mind your language, Blackwood.”
“What? It’s anatomy. He’s got ‘em. They need washing.” Blackwood shrugged, a fluid motion. “Just saying. My Jessica, God rest her, she had sensitive skin. Had to be meticulous.”
Angel, completely missing any subtext, nodded sagely. “Daddy’s meticulous. He checks.”
A low chuckle rippled through the group. Fletcher snorted. “He checks, does he?”
“Yes,” Angel said, utterly sincere. He leaned back into Dominic’s scrubbing, his eyes closed against the spray. “He says I’m bratty and I don’t do it right myself so he has to.”
The admission landed in the steamy air. Garcia paused his shaving, raising an eyebrow. Atlas let out a grunt that might have been a laugh. Blackwood’s thin lips curled into something resembling a smile.
“Sounds familiar,” Fletcher sighed, a wistful, dark nostalgia in his tone. “My boy, Liam. Hated bath time. Used to scream like a banshee. Had to pin him down just to wash his hair. Strong for a six-year-old.”
“Strength ain’t the issue,” Dominic said, his voice calm as he guided Angel to turn around. He began soaping his chest, his large hands moving with a clinical thoroughness over the soft curves of Angel’s breasts. There was no leer in his touch, no hidden hunger. It was a task, like cleaning a car or polishing a gun. Necessary maintenance. “The issue is the squirming. And the complaining.”
As if on cue, Angel squirmed. The soap was slick and the direct touch on his sensitive skin made him jerk. “Daddy, that’s cold!”
“The soap is not cold. Stop fussing.” Dominic’s hands were implacable, working the lather over and under, ensuring every fold was clean. Angel whined, a high, pathetic sound, and tried to twist away.
In one fluid motion, Dominic bent and hooked his hands under Angel’s armpits, lifting him clean off the wet tile. Angel dangled, dripping, a surprised yelp tearing from his throat. Dominic gave him a gentle, shaking jostle, like a parent disciplining a misbehaving puppy. “You see?” Dominic said, his voice carrying a thread of amusement to the other men. “This is what I deal with. The dramatics.”
Angel went limp, pouting, his hair dripping. “Put me down, please.”
The older inmates were grinning now, a gallery of monstrous fondness.
“Ain’t that a picture,” Garcia chuckled, rinsing his razor. “Used to do that with Marco. Swing him around till he got dizzy and forgot why he was mad.”
“The grip is important,” Blackwood commented, his analytical tone returning. “You don’t want to slip. Armpits are good. Or a firm hand on the back of the neck. Works for puppies and pups alike.” He blinked slowly. “Worked for Jessica.”
Dominic lowered Angel back to his feet, but kept one large hand on his shoulder to steady him. “Alright. Rinse.” He pushed Angel gently back under the spray, washing the suds from his chest and stomach. The water darkened Angel’s blonde curls further, pasting them to his skin.
Angel stood still now, compliant, though his lower lip was still pushed out. Dominic moved on, kneeling on the wet floor to soap Angel’s legs. The atmosphere shifted, just slightly. The task became more intimate, the positioning more vulnerable. The joking murmurs from the other men softened into a watchful quiet.
Dominic’s hands were methodical on Angel’s thighs. He was utterly focused, his expression one of neutral concentration. This was part of the care. It had been for four years. He soaped the pale skin, working around old, thin scars on the inner thighs—not defense wounds, but precise, careful cuts. Harvesting marks. Angel looked down at the top of Dominic’s head, his expression softening into one of simple trust. He reached out and put a wet hand on Dominic’s shoulder, a small point of contact.
Blackwood’s rasp broke the moment, not with malice, but with a kind of grotesque camaraderie. “Miss that part,” he said, almost to himself. He was staring at the wall, but seeing something else. “The cleaning. After. The quiet. The… care. Making them presentable again. My Jessica had the prettiest little pussy. Like a doll’s. Had to be gentle washing the blood out of the folds.”
The statement hung in the steam. No one flinched. Fletcher nodded slowly, as if remembering a technical detail. “Liam fought less after. Went quiet. Was easier to get him clean for the box.”
“Marco used to just… stare,” Garcia mused. “Once the fight was gone. Just stare at the ceiling while I washed the burns. Peaceful.”
It wasn’t bragging. It wasn’t even cruelty. It was recollection, shared between men who understood the specific, terrible geography of their pasts. It was, in the most warped sense, a parental bonding moment.
Dominic didn’t look up. His hands continued their work, moving between Angel’s legs with the same unwavering, thorough attention. He soaped the delicate skin, rinsing with a cupped hand of clean water from the spray. Angel shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his hand still on Dominic’s shoulder.
“He’s good for you, Reaper,” Atlas grunted, his voice like stones grinding together. “Calms you down. Gives you a focus. My two… after they were gone, the fire went out. Just had anger left. You got a reason to stay smooth.”
Dominic finished rinsing and stood up, his knees popping. He placed a hand on Angel’s head, guiding him back under the water for a final, all-over rinse. “He’s a handful of a reason,” Dominic said, but there was no heat in it. A rough affection underpinned the words.
“All kids are,” Fletcher said. “Worth it, though. Wouldn’t trade a second of it.” His sunken eyes were bright with conviction.
Angel, now fully rinsed, stepped out of the direct spray, shivering violently. Dominic immediately grabbed a thin, gray prison towel from a hook and wrapped it around him, briskly rubbing his arms and back through the fabric. “See? All clean. No chafing.”
Angel burrowed into the rubbing, seeking warmth. “My hair’s all wet.”
“It’ll dry.” Dominic’s ministrations were firm, drying every part he could reach through the towel. The other men began finishing their own routines, the moment of shared nostalgia passing back into the mundane.
Blackwood turned off his shower, slicking back his wet hair. “So what’s the discipline like, then? For the squirming. Time out? Take away his juice?”
Dominic smirked, a flash of white in his dark beard. He pulled the towel tighter around Angel, who was now peering out from the folds like a baby bird.
Angel, ever oblivious, answered for him, his voice muffled by the towel. “Daddy spanks me.”
The shower area went quiet again, save for the drip of water. Then Fletcher let out a sharp, genuine laugh. “Does he now?”
“Of course he does,” Garcia said, grinning as he toweled off. “What else is a father to do? Lectures don’t work on the young ones. Action does. A few good swats on a wet ass get the message across faster than any speech.”
“A wet ass stings more,” Blackwood agreed, nodding with professional appreciation. “The science is sound.”
Dominic finished drying Angel and slung the damp towel around his own neck. He was grinning openly now, a rare, unguarded expression of amusement. He looked at the circle of murderous, nodding men—a council of the damned offering parenting tips. “He’s too old for spankings, really,” Dominic said, though his tone suggested otherwise.
“Never too old,” Atlas intoned. “My father spanked me ‘til the day I left home. I was thirty-two. It’s about respect.”
Angel, finally extracting himself from the towel, looked up at Dominic with wide, earnest eyes. “But you still do it, Daddy. When I’m very, very bratty. Like when I hid the contraband candy in Brick’s boot.”
Dominic’s hand came down to cradle the back of Angel’s neck, a possessive, comforting grip. “Yes, mio angelo. When you’re very, very bratty.” He looked at the other men, a glint in his black eyes. “And sometimes the spanking isn’t enough. Sometimes the bite is required.”
He said it evenly. A simple statement of fact.
The men understood. The claiming bite wasn’t just a mark. It was a tool. The ultimate corrective for an Omega, a biochemical reset delivered through pain and dominance. A language only an Alpha could speak to his own.
Fletcher whistled lowly. “Hard to argue with that.”
“Instant results,” Blackwood conceded, his pale eyes flicking to the scar on Angel’s neck. “Efficient.”
Angel touched his own scar, a subconscious gesture. He didn’t look upset. He looked thoughtful. “It makes my head quiet,” he said softly, as if sharing a secret. “After. Everything gets quiet and warm and I just want to nap on Daddy’s chest.”
The raw, unsettling honesty of it silenced even the old-timers for a beat. It was the truth of their dynamic, stripped of all pretense. A violence that brought peace. A punishment that felt like love.
Dominic’s expression softened, the amusement melting into something deeper, more private. He pulled Angel against his side, ignoring the dampness. “Come on. Let’s get you into dry clothes before you catch a chill.”
They moved away from the showerheads, Dominic’s arm a solid bar around Angel’s shoulders. The others finished up, the session over.
“Hey, Reaper!” Garcia called after them.
Dominic paused, looking back.
“You’re a good dad,” Garcia said, and he meant it. It was the highest compliment this place could offer.
Dominic gave a single, slow nod. Then he turned, leading his clean, damp, thoroughly-cared-for boy out of the steam and into the echoing concrete hall, where the sounds of the prison—the clanging doors, the distant shouts, the relentless machinery of confinement—swallowed them once more.