"What are you planning?" asked Murphy, his eyes so ablaze with mistrust that it was almost tangible.

Sewell cocked his head to the side, "What the fuck are you talking about, sugar?" he retorted. Pendleton's hands gave a very obvious squeeze around his throat, fingers trembling with a barely restrained urge to just crush that flesh until it became a ruined pulp of torn ligament and violent crimson.

"You've got that look on your face," he said after a deliberate pause in which Sewell tried to accommodate his breathing to that tight, restrictive hold across his wind-pipe. And yet, despite the obvious peril he was facing-staring up into those dark, threatening eyes-Sewell found himself oddly at ease for the first time in a very long while.

"What look?" he managed to croak.

"That look," spat Murphy, as though it was as obvious as the sun on a clear day, "that scheming look; the look you wear whenever you're striking up a dodgy deal; the look that means you're thinking of doing something where only you benefit. That look."

Sewell rolled his eyes. He thought about telling Murphy that if he did indeed have a plan, that he'd have put it into action already, instead of just laying there and allowing him to slowly cut off his ability to breathe. The only thing Sewell did have was a possible advantage that he could play if Murphy continued to lose his temper; he knew from past experience that the guy was clumsy-no, that's too much of an understatement-he was downright stupid when he let his anger get the better of figured he would keep his eyes out for that opening and only then would he decide what to do.

OK, that was somewhat of a plan, but it wasn't exactly polished enough to be worthy of such a title, so Sewell decided to keep it to himself, and said instead, "Jesus Christ, sugar, I'm not plotting anything, well... except getting you off, but I think that'd be you benefiting from that. So, how about you take your fuckin' hands from around my throat, and I jack you off? Then, you can get out of my house, I can eat my pizza, watch my film, and pretend that none of this ever happened...

"That sound good to you, kid?"

Sewell was beyond surprised when Murphy relinquished his hold just like that; he had expected some kind of parting squeeze, or a verbal warning about 'not trying anything', but no, the guy let go without issue and just sat back on his heels. He still looked suspicious, but his anger had all but disappeared (which put Sewell right back to square one, he had lost his trump card-this didn't worry him nearly as much as it should have).

Murphy regarded Sewell for a moment, watching him as he struggled to sit up and a flicker of discomfort twisted his face before melting away into that perpetually smug look he was so well-known for.

"You gonna get undressed or what?" asked Sewell once he had righted himself.

Murphy looked down at himself, at the way his cock was straining against the front of his trousers. He didn't really know how he felt about the notion of Sewell putting his hands on him; it seemed... off, sordid. He wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't minded putting his own hands on Sewell; it was a subject he'd rather not dwell on too much. Regardless, he was less willing to have the favour returned than he had been to offer it in the first place.

"Kid, I don't got all fuckin' night! Do you want me to help you out or not?" asked Sewell, before glancing down at his wristwatch and then back, "It's almost eleven, and my movie starts at quarter past; if you're not on your way out of here by then, shit's gonna go down."

"What film are you so eager to watch?" asked Murphy, finding himself suddenly curious.

Sewell threw his arms up, "Argh," he spat, "what does it matter! Just let me jack you off or get the fuck out of my house!"

Murphy said nothing.

And nor, for a while, did Sewell.

They stared at each other for a long, long moment.

Sewell felt his jaw twitch; he was going to kill the bastard. He was going to rip the fucker's head right off, then shove it down the toilet, and-

"I just want to know what you're so excited about seeing," said Murphy.

"How can you sit there with-with that-" at this, Sewell pointed to the bulge in Murphy's trousers, "-and just not want to get rid of it. Do you not feel the fuckin' thing? Is that it?"

"Of course I feel it, "snapped Murphy. A hand twitched unconsciously towards it before he reeled it back in and let it flop down at his hip. "I just, it's not urgent... not really."

"And knowing what film I want to watch is?"

Murphy shrugged.

"Fine. Fine, if that's what it fuckin' takes, all right. I'm watching The Thing."

The corner of Murphy's lips curved up. "Good movie," he muttered.

"You ain't stayin' to watch it with me," said Sewell quickly.

"Don't worry, sugar, I won't bother you after..." He motioned to his crotch and-finally-started to unbuckle his belt. As he readied himself, Sewell reached down to his ankles to pull his own gear back up his hips. He felt instantly better once he was covered.

"You better not try anything," said Murphy, the suspicion back on his face and multiplied. Sewell opened his mouth to form a response, but he made the mistake of looking down, and the sight just left him gaping like a fish; Pendleton was hard enough that it hurt just to look at it-the guy must have nerves of fuckin' steel to just sit there and chat away with that thing stashed down the front of his trousers.

"Not bad," said Sewell after a pause, echoing Murphy's earlier comment, "not bad at all."

As Murphy reclined against the cushions, Sewell got into position across his lap, letting his legs fall on either side of Pendleton's strong thighs. It was uncharacteristically intimate, but Sewell found himself wanting to see every detail on the man's face as he got him off, so he tolerated the burn in his hips at the position (and the voice at the back of his head berating him for being such a woman), and reached down.

Murphy's hands flew to his hips at the first touch, and Sewell knew there and then that this wouldn't last that long.

It took a few experimental strokes before Sewell found a rhythm that had Murphy jutting his hips and expelling little gasps of desperate air (and the occasional muttered plea for him to 'keep going', and 'don't stop'). Those hands clutching at Sewell's hips unfurled and slipped instead to his ass, ushering his body closer. Again, Sewell knew exactly what Murphy was trying to do, only this time he didn't stop it.

Murphy tasted of Heineken and pizza.

Ham and pineapple pizza.

Murphy brought his hand up to the back of Sewell's head, ruffling the dark hair as he tried to angle him for a deeper kiss.

Ham and pineapple pizza. His pizza?

Sewell broke away just as Murphy flicked his tongue out to explore his mouth. "Did you eat my fuckin' pizza, Pendleton?" he growled. Murphy's answering grin faltered when the grip on him tightened considerably. "I was-" he gasped and writhed when the hand stopped moving entirely, and just held him in that dangerous, potentially ball-crushing grip, "I was waiting a long time! I was-oh God-I was hungry." He bit at his lip and tossed his head back, whining low in his throat, "Christ," he pleaded, "I'll buy you another, just please!"

For some reason, Sewell found the theft of his pizza the most offensive act Murphy had committed all night; Friday was his day for a little indulgence; throughout the rest of the week, he stuck to a rather rigorous diet. Sure, he could always move the trash eating to tomorrow, but that would be breaking routine, and Sewell despised breaking routine.

Murphy was grasping at his ass again, digging his fingers into the soft flesh in a kind of unspoken plea for him to continue. His hips hadn't stopped jutting, but the grip on his cock was too unforgiving to allow any kind of pleasure, and instead of alleviating the burn in his balls with each steady rock of his hips, Murphy was met with nothing.

"I oughta just leave you like this." said Sewell.

Murphy's grip tightened on his backside and he shook his head, face flushed and pupils blown wide. "Don't," he muttered, "I'm..." his cheeks burned bright, "I'm sorry I stole your pizza."

Sewell grinned, very much enjoying the feeling of control returning to him. He gave Murphy a playful slap on the cheek. "You're lucky I'm not really a sadist in the bedroom, Murph, otherwise you'd be finishin' yourself off out in the streets!"

Any response Murphy had in mind died in his throat when Sewell resumed that steady pace.

Sewell's earlier prediction had been entirely right; Murphy spent himself within a matter of minutes, tossing his head back against the cushions and groaning as his lower half stuttered and spasmed through the wave of aftershocks. Still feeling sore about his lack of junk food for the night, Sewell wiped the mess across Murphy's shirt, positively delighted when the man clucked his tongue and jerked away in obvious dismay. He left him to moan and gripe about it whilst he took care of washing his hands of what remained in the adjoining kitchen.

When he came back, Murphy was still muttering under his breath and glaring at the smears across his green shirt. His belt and trousers had been buckled up, leaving just the stains as a reminder of the debauchery that had taken place.

Sewell crossed his arms, and waited. When Murphy took note of him staring, he brushed a hand through his hair in an obvious display of nervousness (Sewell had gotten to read his character very well back at the prison), before promptly looking off to the side. "Uh, before I go, I just wanted to ask you something." he said after a moment.

Sewell stole a quick glance down at his wristwatch: 11:09; time enough to hear the kid out. "You'd better make it snappy then, Princess."

Murphy glanced at him. "Do you remember how we met?"

Sewell blanched; he didn't know what he had been expecting Murphy to ask him, but it certainly hadn't been that. He racked his brains, trying to recall, but the earliest memories he had of Pendleton were of gazing through the man's files and deciding that he could be a useful asset. He shook his head, "Can't say that I do." he said.

Murphy frowned up at him, "It's important." he said, and the delicate note of desperation in his voice was almost enough to make Sewell feel bad. Almost.

"Sorry, kid, I don't remember."

With a sigh, Murphy got to his feet and approached the door. Sewell expected him to just walk through it without a second-glance, but he stopped short of grasping the handle and turned back to face him. "I was dragged off by Jack-Knife and his boys," he started to explain, eyes downcast, "I knew what they were gonna do; I mean, obviously, you hear the stories about prison... so I fought as hard as I could, but I wasn't getting anywhere."

Sewell swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He didn't like that slow, encroaching feeling of-he didn't even know what it was, but it was spreading through his stomach like poison.

"They had me over one of the workbenches before you came in." His eyes grew hard as they locked on to Sewell's and held his gaze. "I remember the first time we met, because if it hadn't been for you, Sewell, then they would have had me and I wouldn't have been able to do a fucking thing to stop them. You came along, and they scattered.

"Then you asked if I wanted a cigarette and you walked me back to the yard."

Murphy released a low, bitter laugh and reached back for the door-handle. "I actually thought you were OK; I didn't know anything about you at that point, and you made me believe that maybe I could get through prison life, that I could cope with it. Then, well, I soon found out that you're so far from O.K it's not even funny."

"Why are you telling me this?" asked Sewell.

"I've been thinking about it a lot lately. Every time I think of Frank, I think of killing you; I think of wrapping my hands around your throat and just squeezing. But then when I think of that, I think back to how you helped me out during my first week, and you didn't ask me for anything in return. It wasn't something you did to get me on side so you could use me later, it was... it was something good."

Sewell shook his head. "What are you trying to say, Murphy?"

"I'm not trying to say anything," said Murphy with a shrug. "I just wanted you to know that I'd been thinking about that." And with that, he opened the door and vanished into the bitter winter night.

For a long moment, Sewell just stood there, staring at the place Murphy had been standing, and wondering what the hell had just happened. Then he turned off the lights and headed up the stairs to his bedroom; fuck the movie, fuck this night, he just wanted to sleep. And when the morning came, he wanted to have convinced himself that all of this had been nothing more than a bad dream.

Author note-Ohhhh, I really struggled with this chapter XD I hope it reads O.K though. Bit of an abrupt ending, but I do have a sequel planned, so hopefully it'll work better once I've started on writing that. This started out purely as an exercise is smut writing, I tried to shoo the plot away as hard as I could, but it came back and demanded to be put to use in the sequel, so hopefully I can offer something a little more substantial when I writing it.