OT5 Imagines

He Is A Villain By The Devil's Law

Life is but an enchanting game of russian roulette, guaranteed is death and yet the thrill shall keep us as its pawns. Uncertainty may torment the apprehensive, nefarious in its quest to forge psychological chaos.

Vehement are the fierce rumbles of outside thunder, skies emcompassed by murky gray clouds. The overhead ceiling lights flicker as though imitating an old movie reel, the prisoners its audience and you the film upon which their eyes cannot depart. Shadows manifest in the ominous hallways, dancing upon the ceilings and walls. Monsters are sworn to be imaginary, but in such a place you cannot distinguish reality from what is simply nightmare. In your mind the beforehand discussion with fellow warden Rhonda echoes ceaselessly, steps taken delivering you to the unknown.

"Here's who you'll be checking today, darlin'." A clipboard is placed onto the desk, the very first photograph of a man whose hair ascends into sepia ringlets, jade eyes staring ominously into the camera. Harry Edward Styles, detained for battery, three counts of robbery, illegal sales of meth and cocaine. Generally, a single inspection was required per day - unfortunately this evening included another, which was evident by the added pages underneath.

The following is significantly more disturbing, a man by the name of Louis William Tomlinson. Caramel tresses neatly arranged into a swirled quiff, irises of turquoise and an ever so devilish smirk that implies any and all who dare cross paths know no mercy from a human as vile as he. Quadruple murder, a lengthy history of rape and abuse, drug trafficking. "Rhonda, you can't expect this of me. Oh no, I am not so much as idling across from where he sleeps."

"You have to, boss says it'll up your paycheck since he's one of the five most wanted in this sham of a town. If it puts you at ease, he's improved these last couple of months and I'll be on speed dial in case anything goes haywire."

"What a relief, can't wait to attempt typing in the numbers with the stubs I'll have after my hands are chopped off. Enjoy keeping all your limbs."

The grid on the scuffed, graffiti-ridden wall awaits your fingertips and moments later receives, access obtained to the row of cells in which they lie. Hey there, mama. Such a cute uniform. Is it my turn for a patdown? Catcall after catcall is hollered, words suppressed yet the bushy mustaches and toothless grins on faces remain lucid. 80-A is now only inches further, the destination in immediate proximity until at last it is met.

"Welcome, dearest babydoll, to the Devil's Den." Gentle is his purr yet not his intentions, a Yorkshire accent whose owner is Louis. "Care for a rendezvous with the man in red, or am I too frightful?" Out his tongue darts, salaciously trailing up the metal bar that divides.

"I'd advise you to have that mouth closed rather than open when I join you, or would that be a task incomprehensible?"

"Yes, it most certainly would seem so, since I'd rather force it up your pussy and hearken those lovely screams." Unafraid and bold is this stranger, much to your disliking and also his roommate's.

"Always thinking lowly, Tomlinson," chimes in an arising Harry from the lower bunk. The younger of the two, he sports a dark blue jumpsuit and matching bandana among his head.

Etched are the older's statuesque cheekbones, a modern day Adonis gazing with overwhelming delight at his lovely Aphrodite and inevitably it is reciprocated as he disregards the unnecessary comments. "Quite a character you are, Styles; locked up in here yet playing the innocent. Look in the goddamn mirror once in a while."

"On the contrary, she's most assuredly trembling from the mere thought of entering our little haven. Isn't that right?" Dimples poke out in either cheek, voiceless ridicule at your expense. "Or are you a mute, my fair lady?"