by Kara Greenan
He yanks out the scissors and shoves the flat edge under a corner of the keypad, levering the front cover off. It dangles down, still connected to the wires, and he peers at them, feeling the familiar thrill run right through him.
His hands are steady, even though he's had no time to plan this. But this is what he does. This is what he understands. Quick fingers start sorting out the colour-coded wires. Green, blue, brown, white. All of them occur more than once. Everyone knows the colours are useless, are nothing more than a way to differentiate them. He follows them instead. Green is for the lamp, blue for the keypad itself.
A hand slips around his chest, coming to rest over his beating heart. "Twenty-five seconds," Sebastian whispers in his ear.
He presses his entire body against London's back and fuck if that isn't the most distracting thing ever.
He shoves a white wire aside, just as Sebastian's hand slides down his chest, over his abs and — yep. London is wearing joggers, wouldn't wear his skinnies for a recon session like Sebastian. That's why Sebastian's hand slips inside those, as well as his pants, easily. His long fingers wrap around London's cock and squeeze.
"Fuck," he grinds out, pushing another wire aside. Three left. "You're fucking insane."
Sebastian bites his earlobe, breath heavy and hot. “I’m not the one getting hard.” He squeezes his fingers more and for a long second, London keeps his shut, trying to concentrate.
He lifts the scissors and cuts.
They both freeze, suspended in that second, waiting for another beep.
It doesn’t come.
“That was fucking hot,” Sebastian says harshly, grinding his erection into London's arse. Before London can push back, or do anything, really, the heat of Sebastian’s body disappears. He drops to his knees behind London, stripping London from the waist down in the same move.
Sebastian bites his left bum cheek and gently but firmly guides his legs apart. The joggers stretch around his ankles and he tips forward, face almost smashing into the dangling keypad. He steadies his forearms against the wall, is just about to turn around when oh –
London whimpers when Sebastian drags his tongue, eager as always, over his hole.
“There’s something wrong with you,” he mutters. His voice is pitched low but the whine is unmistakable.
“Not true,” Sebastian says, replacing his tongue with a wet finger. He bends it just right and London squeezes his eyes shut, bites into his forearm to keep the moan from escaping. For a long moment, Sebastian falls into a fascinated silence. He seems content just watching London rock onto his toes whenever he pushes in, rolling back to stand flat when Sebastian pulls his finger out, London following his movement. He groans, low and loud. “Nothing wrong with wanting to eat you out.”
The fingers are replaced with his mouth and London can’t help it. He pushes back, unbothered that he’s practically riding Sebastian’s face. All that matters is the growing tension low in his belly.
He reaches down to his leaking cock but Sebastian must notice, because he slaps his hand away. He pulls back, and London very nearly begs him for his mouth again.
“Don’t,” Sebastian says, rubbing his face against London's bum. “Let me.”
“Less talking,” London gets out.
Sebastian pushes his finger back inside, with just enough saliva for it to not hurt. At least no more than London enjoys.
“What do you want instead then?” he asks conversationally.
London opens his mouth then shuts it again, spreading his legs wider and pushing back. Again Sebastian bites his arse cheek, and London wouldn’t be at all surprised to find a bruise there tomorrow.
“Tell me,” Sebastian says, his voice low and ragged and sexy.
“Your – your mouth.”
“Yeah?” One of his hands disappears and London hears the unmistakable sound of a zip being undone.
Fuck, the idea of Sebastian getting himself off on this is just – fuck. London closes his eyes and moans, pushing back on Sebastian’s finger.
“Please,” he whispers. But Sebastian hears and his finger is gone and his mouth is back, licking, sucking... It's perfect.
London looks down, sees a long strand of precome dripping from his cock. He’s so close, fuck. And really all rational left him a long time ago so he might as well just go with it, commit. “Your. Your hand. On my cock.”
Sebastian doesn’t tease him this time, just reaches around and wraps London's aching length in his big hand. London watches it move up and down, once, twice, his precome coating Sebastian’s fingers. And then, with the next stroke, Sebastian runs his thumb over the head, pressing down firmly.
London comes with a hoarse cry. He can see his come dripping on Sebastian’s hand. There’s even some splattered on the wall. Sebastian doesn’t let go, hand still wrapped around him, almost too sensitive now. Instead the movements behind him speeds up and with another harsh bite to his skin, Sebastian comes too.
They stay like that for a long moment, breathing heavy.
But Sebastian’s spit is drying between his arse cheeks and his knees are about to give out. Sebastian must feel the same, because he finally lets go of London's cock, lets him turn around.
"So much for leaving no DNA at the crime scene."
Sebastian's laugh comes rough and happy, like a contented cat stretching in the sun.
“Come on,” he says, nudging London out of his clothes. “There’s a huge pool out back. We'll deal with that later.”
And that's it, really. No awkwardness, nothing.
Without saying a word, they shrug out of their remaining clothes and head outside.
Sebastian produces some towels and two cold glasses of water from the poolside bar, which London promptly ignores in favour of jumping into the water. Sebastian joins him moments later and they spend a relaxed afternoon, alternating between swimming, sunbathing and completely ignoring Frankie's calls.
If Sebastian accidentally blows him while they’re in the pool, snorting water when he surfaces, and London wanks him from behind, bent over in the shade of the bar, hard and rough until Sebastian is spreading his legs, moaning and begging him for more, your cock, need your cock, come on, London, please, then it’s more of an accident than anything else. After all, London doesn't give him his cock.
Clearly, this doesn’t count.
The two weeks leading up to the heist are filled with more recon and yet more meetings to hash out the final details. London hates being cooped up in the hotel, he misses the vast height above his bed at home in the warehouse he calls his living room. The afternoon he spent with Sebastian helps for a few days, but when that ebbs he doesn’t know how to ask for more, especially since he’s quite firmly decided not to repeat that. He knows he sounds like a broken record, but at least he’s still trying with the good resolutions, right?
He visits Wyatt a lot, lets him talk him down from doing anything rash. He helps with the planning of Wyatt’s upcoming heist, a simple two-man job that really doesn’t need his attention. But it keeps his mind occupied, even if he calls Wyatt in the middle of the night with yet another idea, an easier way in.
“I could be in there in fifteen.”
“Yes,” comes Wyatt’s gruff, sleep-addled voice. “But you’re not part of the crew.”
He hops down from the banister of his tiny hotel balcony and pads back inside. It might be summer, but he gets cold quickly and sitting outside for twenty minutes has given him a chill. The room is a mess. He doesn’t let the staff clean it and he’s far too antsy to do so himself.
“I could be though. I’d do it for free.”
His floor is littered with his clothes. He nudges a towel aside, hoping he’ll find the jumper underneath. No luck.
“You’d do it for the thrill. I’m not pulling you into this while you’re neck-deep in another job.”
“But I’m bored,” he whines, kicking a shirt across the floor.
“Aren’t you there with your friends?”
“They’re all busy.” London makes it sound like they aren’t all working their butts off, establishing covers and befriending the right people to gain access to whatever they might need access to. Not him though. He doesn’t need to befriend air-vents, he needs to rely on Amelia and Sebastian to supply him with the newest layouts, on Frankie to give him the time to open the doors by hand that Hale can’t override remotely.
He hates waiting for a job to go down.
“Okay,” Wyatt murmurs. He’s about to fall asleep again, London can tell. “I’ll take you out, yeah?”
“Soon?”
There’s a soft chuckle. “Go to bed, Shrimp.”
He doesn’t, not for another hour or so, which makes the knock on his door the next morning all the more unwelcome. He hides under the pillow, hoping whoever it is will just go away. Another knock sounds shortly after. He rolls out of bed, nearly stumbles over the mountain of clothes from last night. He doesn’t even look at himself in the mirror as he makes his way to the door. He knows his hair is a mess, his eyes are puffy and red. He’s still wearing Wyatt’s shirt, bare legs sticking out from under the fabric. Well, maybe whoever is at the door will be offended enough to just leave.
It’s Sebastian. He isn’t offended.
“Hi,” he says, licking his lips as his eyes travel down London’s body. London is tired and cranky, never has it been easier to resist Sebastian’s intent gaze as it is right now.
“What?”
"I've brought you cereal."
London blinks at him. "What?"
Sebastian's smile widens and starts looking a bit desperate. "Cereal. Like Frosties and Special K and stuff. And milk. I know how much you like cereal, and they don’t really have the right ones at the buffet, do they?"
They don’t. London looks at him suspiciously, then down at the two plastic bags.
"That it?" he asks, nodding to where they're dangling off of Sebastian's fingers.
Sebastian holds them out. "Yep."
London looks at him before reaching out slowly. The moment Sebastian blinks, he snatches the bag in one quick move.
"Hope there's some Cheerios in there," he grumbles. "I'm going back to bed, it's practically the middle of the night. Thanks."
And with that he lets the door fall closed and trudges back to bed.
Only later, when he wakes up again and actually gets started on his day, does he notice the two bowls and matching spoons in the bag.
Frankie finds him at the pool, catching a bit of sun. The empty bowl of pasta he ate for late lunch is sitting on the small side-table. He sips his drink when she sits down on his lounger.
“Sebastian talked to me last night.”
He takes another sip. “Oh?”
“I think he might be in love with you.”
London laughs so hard that he spills pineapple juice down his stomach. He’ll have to take a dip soon, wash it off before it gets sticky.
“Good one.”
“I mean it. He had a bit of a revelation yesterday.” She takes his drink and has a sip as well. “Usually I wouldn’t interfere, but I happened to witness it, and then he sort of. Well. He told me all about it.”
He doesn’t like where this conversation is heading. “You love to interfere.”
“Trust me, not when it involves listening to someone wax poetic about how awesome you are.”
“I am awesome.”
“Yes,” she agrees darkly. “And you have to most amazing arse. Plus, you’re never boring. He’s never bored when he’s around you, or something like that. I don’t know, he was working through it himself, it was a mess.”
London pulls up his legs and wraps his arms around them. “He probably knew you’d come tell me about it. Part of his plan.”
“Oh my god, I will murder the both of you in your sleep, I swear!” She gets up, not even looking at him. “Please go talk it out. I don’t need this shit happening when the job goes down.”
“Whatever,” London mumbles. He’s definitely not going to talk to Sebastian about that. It’ll probably just end in sex and confuse the matter even further.
Instead, he texts Wyatt to ask him if they’re going out tonight.
The answer is a clear no, along with an added reminder that no one goes out on a Thursday night. Tomorrow night, then – he can wait that long, right?
By the time the next evening rolls around, he's had enough of feeling cooped up, climbing the walls and scratching his own skin. He's had two naps out of boredom today.
Wyatt picks him up in a cab, dressed in tight dark jeans, a tank top with edges so loose it seems like someone had been trying to drag it off his body by sheer force. He's topped it all off with a ridiculous knit cardigan. London makes fun of it immediately but once he notices how soft the fabric is, he can't help but snuggle close.
They end up at a club Wyatt frequents. It's not the most posh, but not the grungiest either. Not that London would have minded either way. It's dark, the heated air bisected with rays of green light. The music is loud, everyone is sweaty and the DJ doesn't suck completely.
But most importantly everyone is dancing.
And London is, well, he's laughing.
There are guys all around him, pressing in close and Wyatt with a big grin in front of him. They're drunk, maybe more than a little and he doesn't care one bit. He throws his hands in the air and sways his hips to the deep bass in the nightclub, relishing the writhing bodies pressed against him. Big hands land on his hips. He leans his head back against a strong collarbone, his eyes closed and small laughs escaping his lips.
This feels like that night he spent with Sebastian, when he'd come up behind London and they'd danced just like this. Eventually he'd turned around and slid one knee between Sebastian's legs. Soon they'd started grinding into each other, lips ghosting over sweaty skin, sharp breaths exhaled in rhythm to the beat. Sebastian's hand had slid up his spine, underneath his shirt, fingers slip-and-sliding through the sweat.
He twists around in the guy's grip. He's handsome, with a square jaw and a body he clearly takes pride in. His hair is close-cropped, just long enough to feel the slide of it between his fingers when London reaches up to card them through his hair. Probably a dark blond colour in daylight, but now it looks mostly blue-green from the club's artificial lighting.
London smiles, friendly, swaying closer now. Their hips touch and their knees knock and it takes London a moment to realise it's because he's comparing this guy to someone who is taller than him. Someone like Sebastian, whose body fits seamlessly against London's, always has.
Wyatt comes up behind him, shouting in his ear. London barely hears him. "You okay?"
He nods, reaching back to pat Wyatt's side. Wyatt is good people, he really is.
His dance partner looks over London's shoulder dubiously and London can't have that. He leans forward – not up – and presses their lips together. The distraction must work, judging by the tightened grip on his waist and the way the guy immediately opens his mouth.
The kiss is... well the kiss is fine. Good. It's a decent kiss, with both parties sufficiently skilled to make this an enjoyable experience. Only, it isn't. It's not bad, London thinks as a tongue licks over his lips. It's just. Boring.
He sighs, pulling back to look at the guy straight on. "I'm sorry," he says, coupled with a shake of his head. "I think I can't, sorry, mate. There's this guy and, like, he's a bastard, you know? I just have to wait a bit, get over him." He nudges the guy, whose expression has clearly plummeted. "You should give me your number. Then I can call you. When I'm over him, I mean."
Great. He's rambling to a stranger in a club, isn't his life glamorous? And in English, too. He’s just about to fall into another wave of explanation in French, when the guy makes a weird hand gesture, pointing to himself and the bar, before promptly departing. London watches him go, the writhing bodies around him suddenly bothersome. He gets an elbow in his back and someone treads on his foot.
And what the
fuck just happened? Did Sebastian finally succeed? Scratched at his walls, bothering him, always bothering him, until London's last reserve had finally snapped and now he can't even get off with a random guy at a club because Sebastian-fucking-Walker has invaded every part of his life. How long until he goes back to normal? Will he drag this around with him until the end of his days?
He squeezes out through the tight knot of people on the dance floor and heads straight for the door. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a flash of… something.
Bright-blond hair.
It’s not Sebastian.
And why would he be looking for Sebastian anyway? What good would that do? He marches past the bar, ignores one catcall that’s definitely directed at his arse and shoulders his way to the exit. He needs to breathe. Fresh air, yes, that’s it. He just needs to go outside, away from the smell of beer and cigarettes and sweat. He just needs to take a few deep breaths, clear Sebastian from his mind. Then he can go back inside.
He’ll be fine.
The air outside is cool; it washes over his sweaty face and fills his lungs. It reminds him of the rainy night in Venice. He'd woken up just past midnight and wrapped himself in a sheet. It didn’t ward off the chill on the balcony, but he’d stayed anyway. The lanterns on boats below reflected in the calm surface of the water, distorted and weird. For once his surroundings made no sense, but something deep inside of him had clicked. The world could go up in flames and they'd be safe in their little bubble.
He can't remember how long he stood there, barefoot and shivering and so utterly content. Sebastian had opened the door behind him, looking sleep-rumpled and bleary-eyed and so utterly, utterly lovely.
"London?"
He’d reached for Sebastian, wrapping his arms around the taller body from behind and covering him in the sheet, too. That brought Sebastian's shoulder blades to just the right height for kissing.
"Looks like a Dali painting, doesn't it?" he’d whispered, pointing at the scenery below.
Sebastian had tilted his head, this way and that.