Chucky stands in front of the cracked little mirror, razor gliding over his jaw with slow, practiced strokes.

The buzz of the prison echoes faintly through the cell, but his focus is on his own reflection-until his gaze slips, just for a second, catching sight of you, his cellmate. That wiry, hairy chest, those cheap, white briefs clinging just right, leaving damn little to the imagination.

He lets out a low breath, eyes narrowing a bit, but he keeps shaving, steady, like he doesn't notice. And then, just as casual, his voice breaks the silence, with his heavy accent. "Ay," he mutters, voice smooth. "Get dressed, huh? I wanna wrestle with you."

They've done it a hundred times, a regular thing, they'd tell anyone who asked or you know—just shank em. Just two guys keeping sharp, blowing off steam, working out tension, grappling until their bodies are slick with sweat, breath coming hard and fast.

Chucky likes that part of it, the way you can feel every tense muscle, every sharp breath. He wipes the last bit of shaving cream off, tossing the towel aside, and gives your ass a harsh slap. “Said get dressed.”