012. Fuck or Die

[stealingmyway]

He'd done everything he thought he needed to make sure things went as smooth as possible between he and the Southern Sam. Knives under the sink. Handcuffs behind the nightstand. Benzodiazepine and a syringe taped under the bed. And, as much as he hated it, the .9 mm in the sock drawer. If worst came to worst, all he had to do was scream or bang on

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[pocket_pal]

Well, here we are.
It's been just over an hour since the blond left him where he was. Since then Theodore has taken some time to look himself over, to make sure there's nothing especially unpleasant going on with his hair, or eyebrows, or whatever else. He showered earlier in the day, so that's taken care of. His teeth are good. There's no crud under his fingernails. He smells all right-like himself, his own skin, hair and breath. Warm and clean.
He could have skipped all that and just come strolling along as-is, of course, but hey. This isn't like being locked in a cage with somebody. It's one thing to slam some kid up against the bricks and pound him senseless-that's an easy game to win. In there, the only alternative to submission is pain. Inescapable pain. Death. Out here in the free world, there are other things to think about. More variables; more challenges. Besides, it's not as though he's completely inhuman-sometimes it's nice to feel like maybe somebody actually wants you

[stealingmyway]

The knock caused his nerves to tighten and prickle in his gut. One. Inhale. Two. Exhale. Three. Inhale. The blond leaves the bathroom in calming stride, each step adding to his gradual swaying hips. Each step forces back that uncertain feeling riding the butterflies in his stomach. Each step marks his willingness to continue with what's about to happen. Sex had never been a big deal to him and remains to be so. Though - with much help from the system of the church harking obscenities at him over his alias - he can't help but to feel that this could be potentially bad for the plans he's made. The heist

[pocket_pal]

There he is, pale and pretty, smooth and perfect-Theodore can't help but smile at the sound of Cameron's voice, and as he steps through the door, his smile becomes a benign grin. "Hey there, sunshine." He sheds his boots near the door, and even hangs his coat and hat where they should be. It wouldn't have taken much bitching to teach this old dog that particular trick

[stealingmyway]

And wander he does. For a few steps, he meanders behind the taller man, doing a silent sight check for weapons that could be visible. None. Bah. It's purely instinctive to do so. As Theodore takes up his usual place against the wall, Cameron passes him with nothing more than a playful swat to the mans rear end. Into the kitchen, now.

It's really in this room that shows just how short the Irishman is. He has to reach up, even lift up onto his toes to get to the top shelf of the cabinets. It's quite a sight to see that lithe form naturally present perfect curves and angles, all covered by snug fitting clothing. His spine curves inward, bare skin peeking out from his shirt as it separates from his jeans. One foot lifts from the ground, bending up at the knee. Fruity little man.

"Ngf." God, he hates this apartment. Hop. He reaches high, because he clearly needs the glasses at the very top of the cabinet. This is completely logical. Shush it. Streeeetching. He even leans a bit forward, bottom out to the man in the living room. Yes,