Moonstruck ⟡ HS

00

Hocking Correctional Facility
September, 1990

The chilling howl of wind, it's something that he misses now more than anything. To feel a cool breeze fly across his skin, dance along the biological warmth like it was meant to be there, and like a howl of wind, he blew right through Chagrin Falls without fail, leaving an undeniable mess and a cursed, unspeakable name that incites chills like the beginning of crisp autumn.

Up and down, up and down the ball went, bouncing against tainted concrete he paced along until flying back up into his palm, he paces a lot. The mangled and rasped lyrics to Scorpions' Rock You Like A Hurricane tumble from his lips as he moves his feet, only until he gains volume and a need to belt the tune, echoing so effortlessly, he relishes in it.

    "My body is burning, it starts to shout . . . desire is coming, it breaks out loud!"

    "Fuckin' can it, pretty boy!"

Across the way is a man—Germ—doing time for beating a bartender to death for doing his job, though he has only heard that through he grapevine of horrors. He also learned that the nickname spawned from his awkward agoraphobia, which is like a ticking time bomb in a place like this—full of filth and grime that has to send his nerves and anxiety running at all times. So his singing, obnoxious and antagonizing, is an easy access to get underneath Germ's bacteria infested skin.

    "It's . . . a goddamn classic, Germ!" The brutal man grips the iron bars with a shake, aggression pours from his heated gaze, and this only sends his smirk deepening, curving harsher along his lips, and as he leans his cheek against the iron bars of his own, he snickers. "Lust is in cages 'til storm breaks loose . . . just have to make it with someone I choose—" He continues with the lyrics and sends a sly wink across the narrow pathway, only to force Germ's anger out on to the metallic cage once more as another snarl is slung his way.

"I'm warnin' you, kid!"

"Or what?! You'll beat my face in again?" He taunts with a click of his tongue, letting his gaze fall to the bouncy ball in his grasp as he tosses it against the floor. "I'll come out lookin' twice as pretty this time around, I'm fuckin' sure of it." A sense of egotism rattles within his chuckle as he begins to pace again. Up and down, up and down, the bouncy ball goes, and as Germ's presence departs from the iron bars, he's left with himself, mumbling lyrics under his breath.

Time pecks at him more than his dark and unholy desires, locked in a nine by nine cell with nothing but his soured saliva and a dirty bouncy ball, he's left to daydream, idealize, and pull his hair out with every passing day. Sunlight hasn't grazed his skin since he first arrived, claimed to be too dangerous and too hard to deal with, so here he is, stuck in a box, keeping him from everything his brain yearns for. He is surrounded by concrete, ugly faces, and too many fucking pigs to count.

When the familiar jingle of keys, handcuffs, and the other frilly shit they carry around echos throughout the cement walls and into his ears, he is quick to stuff the bouncy ball underneath his shitty mattress with ease and moves to casually lean against the iron bars, wondering if they would be so stupid as to send another vulnerable female guard into the section or if they finally learned their lesson. Although, Gina sure did feel fantastic against his throbbing, rock hard co—

"Styles," One of the three guards mutters as they approach his cell, standing close enough to the bars for him to reach out and brush his fingertips against the chin of Prickles, the guard who he nicknamed based off of his poor attempt at growing facial hair. It amused him amongst other things in this hell hole, and as Prickles jerks away from his touch, he smirks and listens to the other officer, the one too boring to even get a nickname, continue on as the iron gates begin to slide open, "you got a visitor."