by Kara Greenan
"Nah," London assures him, happy to see the crease disappear from his brow. "Remember the second day in Venice? We did that three times in one day and I was fine."
The words are out before he can stop himself and the soft atmosphere is immediately replaced with a terse silence. Sebastian clears his throat clumsily.
London rolls away.
Where are the rest of his clothes, anyway? He pulls his pants and trousers over and struggles into them, all the while avoiding eye contact. It had been a stupid idea, this entire mess. They'd had a clean break, and while London had maybe been a bit hung up on it, at least he'd known that Sebastian had no longer wanted it. This? This just confuses him. Now the question is does Sebastian actually want him, or just someone to get off with? And if he does want London, has he always wanted him? Then why did he leave without a word in Venice? The denim isn't easy to get over his sweat-slicked thighs, but somehow he manages, lying back down to do up the zipper.
Sebastian hasn't moved since London's accidental slip of the tongue, he just watches his every move.
"What?" London snaps, supremely freaked out.
"I'm sorry, you know?"
A fist clenches around his heart and ice slides down his spine. He doesn't want this, he doesn't need this. Hating Sebastian is so much easier than opening up this can of worms again. London isn't at all sure if he ever wants to relive those feelings. And it probably makes him a huge dick, but he's not ready to accept Sebastian's apology. Right now he's not ready for Sebastian's explanation, too afraid of what it might be. So he does something else he's really good at.
He deflects. "No harm done, Walker," he says easily, combing his fingers through his sticky hair. "You're not the first guy to make me deep throat his cock and you won't be the last."
"That's not what I –"
"– Anyway, um. Have you seen my phone?" Sebastian scowls but starts looking for it. "And Jesus, put your dick away, would you? We're almost there, I doubt Frankie would recover from getting an eyeful."
They sort out their things, Sebastian finally getting himself dressed just as the van slows to a halt. He leans over Sebastian, glancing at a piece of paper on his other side. When he holds it out for Sebastian's inspection, it’s nothing more than distraction.
"This yours?" Even before Sebastian's eyes fall to the paper, London has his wristwatch unclasped, masking the feeling of sliding it off by placing his hand on Sebastian's thigh for balance.
Sebastian looks at him, thrown by the suddenly familiar gesture, oblivious to London discreetly depositing the watch in his back pocket. Now he'll just have to make sure Sebastian walks in front of him - the pervert always checks out his bum - and he'll get away with it.
Just after Frankie shuts down the van's motor, they hear her jumping out. Moments later, the doors are yanked open. Bright lights from the car park spill into the dark and stuffy interior. They both blink owlishly and it hits London, in the proverbial light of day, just how bad his choices have been. Sure, sex with Sebastian is hot. But it isn’t worth his sanity to let Sebastian play with him like this. It will never be more for Sebastian, who needs variety to stay sane as much as London needs a good adrenaline rush every now and then. They just aren’t meant to be, not in this life, at least. No matter how compatible they are.
Now, if he could only stick to that, everything would be dandy. It's hard to look inconspicuous, with the hectic red blotches still high on Sebastian's cheeks and London's hair a tangled mess.
Frankie looks at them suspiciously, taking a protective step away from the bread van. "Will either of you end up with a bun in the oven?"
Sebastian barks out a shrill little laugh, clambering out to high-five Frankie. "Baker humour. You're my favourite, Frankie."
Frankie turns slightly green under the fluorescent lights.
"No," she says vehemently. "No, I'm really not."
She wipes her hand not so discreetly on her thigh, pointedly ignoring them both.
Sebastian opens his mouth but before he can say anything London hops out, stumbling into him on purpose. He doesn’t want to hear it.
"I swear, Walker, if you say anything along the lines of 'don't knock it till you've tried it' I'll have to kill you."
Sebastian pouts and Frankie laughs, so London silently gives himself a pat on the back.
“Come on, then," Frankie says, over her shoulder. "We'll wait for the others in the pub. I’m going to need a beer with that debriefing."
Once they catch up Frankie punches Sebastian’s shoulder.
“What did I do?” he asks, rubbing his shoulder. He’s giving her his best kicked-puppy look.
“That’s for thinking on the job.”
“I’m not allowed to think?”
“Definitely not.” She pushes open the door and heads inside. “That’s what I’m here for.”
Venice, almost a year ago
“Hey,” Sebastian says softly, tugging on London's hand. “Come here.”
Before London can react, Sebastian has him pushed into a darkened doorway, edges of the bricks digging into the palms placed on either side of London’s head. London frowns, opens his mouth for an explanation or a reprimand, so Sebastian quickly cups his jaw and leans in. Their lips brush and London lets out a broken, frustrated groan, pushing forward enough to press them together tightly. Sebastian feels London’s breath hit his cheek in a broken staccato as something inside him dissolves at their first real kiss.
There’s nothing tentative about it; that would be ridiculous seeing as how they’re still partially hard from hiding in the gondola. He slides his tongue into London’s mouth and London bites at it, not playful but demanding. Sebastian obliges, steps closer to slide his knee between London's legs. London groans, shifts onto the tips of his toes when Sebastian presses up, scrabbling for purchase on Sebastian’s clothes. London allows himself to ride Sebastian’s thigh, fingers tugging frantically at the hairband until Sebastian’s curls slip free, offering London something else to hold on to. The kiss is hot, interspersed with breaks of panting into each others mouths, London biting at Sebastian’s lower lip when he zones out and just stares because, fuck, he’s actually kissing London.
“I don’t even know your surname,” he whispers
London's hands slide down the front of Sebastian’s chest and he smiles when Sebastian’s breath hitches the moment London's fingers reach the top of his jeans. London lets his index finger slip under, dragging it tantalisingly slowly from one side to the other.
“I don’t have one.”
“We all have one. Several.” He gasps when London’s hand slips lower, not low enough but teasing him regardless. “One we give to colleagues, at least.”
“Are you admitting to lying to me, Mr. Walker?”
Sebastian slumps forward as London’s fingers slip lower still. The tight jeans aren’t giving him much room, but he manages to find his way into Sebastian’s pants and — oh. It’s just a brush of a warm fingertip to his hard cock but he crowds in closer, desperate for more. He’s about to throw caution to the wind, just unbuckle his trousers right here, when a tourist couple makes their way around the corner. They’re staggering, the girl wearing a Venetian mask that covers the upper half of her face, both clearly drunk and not expecting a couple necking in a darkened entrance.
Sebastian doesn’t even step back. He only groans in frustration when London’s hand disappears, when he wriggles out of his grip altogether.
It’s clearly taking a toll on him, yet London doesn’t seem sympathetic at all.
“What are you, fifteen?” He laughs, taking Sebastian’s hand and pulling him up the cobbled street.
“You aren’t that much older,” he grumbles as he discreetly adjusts himself. “You’re what, twenty-six?”
London just hums, not looking at him as they walk through a darkened street in Venice with a priceless statue stored securely in London’s backpack, holding hands like teenagers after a dance.
“Did you notice,”
London starts, leading him down a smaller street. He hears his own footsteps on the rounded stone but has to concentrate to make out London’s. “You’ve calmed down?”
“I’ve calmed down?”
London nods. “I was afraid you’d hyperventilate in the gondola. It happens sometimes, especially after physical exertion and the adrenaline of a chase.”
“Has it ever happened to you?”
London laughs, his thumb rubbing the back of Sebastian’s hand. “No. But I really shouldn’t be the barometer for a normal reaction in a situation like that.”
He doesn’t reply, their shoulders brushing occasionally as he’s lost in thought. Until a horrible suspicion strikes and he blurts out, “That — on the gondola. Was that just to distract me? To calm me down?”
“It had a certain amount of selfishness to it,” London assures him before saying more seriously. “I’m not a grifter. I don’t con people into sleeping with me with an ulterior motive.”
Sebastian would love to agree with that statement but well he tries honesty instead.
“I regularly play with people’s emotions to get what I want.” London stiffens beside him. “But that’s not what’s happening here.”
“It’s not?”
Sebastian shakes his head. He doesn’t know what this is. It’s well above the usual attraction he feels, the sort he acts on because he can, because he’s horny or has nothing better to do.
They enter an area with several late-night partygoers milling around, some vendors still standing next to their carts, hoping for a midnight sale. One is in luck, because Sebastian pulls London towards one selling Venetian eye masks. He doesn’t hesitate, grabs for a solid black one with golden swirls around the eyeholes and covering almost the entire mask. He holds it up to London's face and London keeps still, looks at him expectantly as the ties the string and the weight of the mask settles on his nose. “And?”
Sebastian nods slowly, strokes his thumb over London's cheekbone.
“Stunning,” he whispers hoarsely. “Brings out your eyes even more.”
London gifts him with a smile. It takes some nudging, but he returns his attention to the more elaborate mask for himself, holds up a ceramic creation that cover his whole face.
“No,” London murmurs when Sebastian reaches for one with more feathers than the rest. He apparently knows exactly which one is for Sebastian because he grabs a fine metal filigree one, painted black and adorned with fake diamonds. The swirling mesh of the mask feels cool to the touch, Sebastian’s face burning in comparison when London fastens it for him.
“Doesn’t really hide my identity though,” Sebastian says when he turns to London.
London looks at him from heeled boots to his ripped skinny jeans and the soft shirt with enough buttons undone to almost flash a nipple piercing.
“We’d need bed sheets to hide your identity,” London says while stepping closer, sliding his hand along Sebastian’s ribs. “You’re rather memorable.”
Heat erupts in his chest, heat and pride and want.
London giggles, holds Sebastian’s arm and tries to heave him over the balcony’s solid brick ledge. They’d bumped into a masked group of partiers, and bought a few shots under the guise of fitting in. Now they’re following London’s brilliant idea of heading towards higher ground.
“I’m usually much better at this,” Sebastian laughs as he climbs onto the ledge and rolls over it. “When I’m not tipsy.”
“You’re drunk,” London says with finality.
He overtook Sebastian on the way up to the second floor balcony, even though he isn’t completely sober either. Some things in life just aren’t fair.
Street performers are juggling, contorting and wowing with slight of hand tricks. London points out a dark-haired girl as she glides her way through the crowd.
“Pickpocket,” he says as they see her hide a watch behind her back. “Sloppy lifts are my pet peeve, even if they are just for entertainment,” he grumbles as the girl hands the watch back with a smile seconds later.
He’s about to point out something else, maybe a real pickpocket, Sebastian doesn’t know. Instead of standing shoulder-to-shoulder while watching the people mill around below, he’s pushing London back, out of sight of the people below, crushing their lips together without any preamble at all. Once more London’s back hits the wall. The breath rushes out of him, yet he still pulls Sebastian closer to lick into his mouth, courteous and careful giving way to hard and rushed within seconds.
“Thought you wanted to see,” London says when they pull apart after their masks knock together, both smiling.
“I do,” Sebastian breathes, eyes never leaving London’s before he leans in for a quick peck that’s so at odds with their heated exchange that London finally seems thrown off course. Sebastian reaches for the straps of London’s backpack and gently pushes them off his shoulders. London lets him, staring at him intently as he slides their precious cargo carefully off to the side.
And then Sebastian leans back in, dragging his lips over London's while looking him dead in the eye.
“May I?” he asks while dragging his fingers over the front of London's trousers.
London bites his lip and nods. “If you want to blow me on top of a balcony overlooking the festivities, I’m definitely up for it.”
“That’s presumptuous of you, isn’t it?”
“Is it?” There’s a challenge in London’s eyes he has to give into, has to try and one-up.
His fingers scrabble over those damn cat suit trousers, pushing them and London’s pants down to his ankles. London has just stepped out of them when Sebastian is spinning him around, bending him over the wall’s ledge with a large hand between his shoulder blades.
“We’re basically on the run. Why would I think now is the best time for a blow job?”
He doesn’t even know what he’s really saying, his mind off on vacation with the sight that presents itself. It’s mouth-watering. Sebastian drops to his knees – the cold, hard ground doing nothing to distract him as he reaches up to squeeze that perfect arse.
London staggers, his fingers curling around the edge of the balcony for support. He cranes his neck to look at Sebastian, his back one long, graceful arch.
“While you’re down there,” he says, widening his stance, his right thigh visibly shaking with anticipation, “how about you put that pretty mouth of yours to better use?”
“So glad you said that.” Sebastian pries London's cheeks apart and drags his thumb down the centre. “Wanted to since I first met you.”
Before London has a chance to answer, Sebastian is already leaning in, face pressed in tightly until his mask is knocked askew, tongue lapping with firm determination.
“Fuck.” London whispers, his legs shaking, and he collapses forward onto the waist-high wall. It drives Sebastian wild, drives him forward, nudging London’s legs further apart until he’s on the tips of his toes, has no leverage to push back or take control of this. And the beautiful thing is that he doesn’t seem to want to. Instead he lets out a muffled groan as his torso collapses forward, hanging precariously over the balcony’s edge. Any doubt as to whether this is too much quickly disappears when London grabs a fistful of his hair, dragging him closer desperately. Sebastian really goes for it then, pushing his face closer, his tongue deeper, working his jaw like it’s relevant to his survival. And London feels good beneath his touch, amazing, his arse and thighs and calves, whatever Sebastian can reach. The night sky above them seems to add to their arousal, the milling people from the festival down below ratcheting it up to new heights. Sebastian’s cock is aching with neglect and yet all he can think of is giving London more, giving him everything. It’s scary, the intensity of his feelings, the way he’s losing control so quickly, reduced to nothing but providing pleasure, driven by the need to drag that sweet, desperate noise out of London one more time.
“Fuck,” Sebastian rasps when he pulls back. “You’re shaking like a leaf.”<
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He’s admiring his handiwork; the way London’s hole glistens with spit in the moonlight is endlessly enthralling. He can hear London gearing up for a response, probably something snarky and really it happens almost by itself, but he finds his own fingers in his mouth and coats them with as much saliva as possible. It’s not like he thought to bring lube to a heist. Goes to show what he knows. Index finger as wet as it’ll get, he doesn’t tease but watches avidly as it sinks into London’s body, London moaning loudly in surprise. The stretch doesn’t seem to bother him, while the shake in his right leg is back full force. Sebastian smiles and crooks his finger —
And London sobs, loud and desperate as he scrabbles for support on the old stone, pushing back as much as he can only to pull forward and repeat it all over. He keeps thrusting his finger, tongue back to licking, wriggling in alongside. When he shifts London whines, like he’s afraid he might stop. Sebastian can’t think of anything he’d like to do less, not before London comes just from being eaten out, on this rooftop in Venice with a priceless artifact discarded carelessly a few feet away. He presses his finger in more roughly, sliding his free hand up the inside of London’s trembling thigh. There’s no hesitation when he wraps his fingers around London's cock, the angle weird but who cares when London is gasping for air, saying nonsense words as Sebastian brings him closer and closer to completion. Sebastian angles his head, lets the metal of the mask he’s still wearing scratch against skin.
“Oh fuck,” London groans. His hand snaps back reflexively when Sebastian presses in again, using his other hand to place London's knee on the ledge, exposing him even more.
He’s shivering all over now, clearly aching to come. His voice is brittle, like he’s passing the information on because in that moment he doesn’t know what to do with it. “There’s – there’s police. Need t’ go.”
“Mm,” Sebastian hums against him, sliding his finger in and out speculatively. Right now, he doesn’t care about the police. “Close?”
“Other end of the square.”
Sebastian laughs as he pushes his finger in again, harder now; London's knee scratching along the wall as he almost slips. “Not them. You. Are you close?”