For those who may have come here due to having me on author alert, please note that this is not a KH fic. Mmk? K.

Disclaimer: I do not own Weiss Kreuz. I did, however, buy Kapitel over five years ago at an exorbitant price. Be glad that anime is so cheap these days.

Pairing: Schuldig/Omi. Yes, it is consensual. No, it is not crack, nor is it ridiculous and unjustified.

Casey would like you to note: This fic was written jointly with an awesome author by the name of Card who does not have a ffnet account. This is posted in a few other places but it seemed prudent to put it here since it only does a handful of people any good for it to be up on my LJ these days.

We started writing this fic sometime in 2007, actually, and it started out as just a smut oneshot, but somehow it grew into this massive canon piece. We hope you enjoy it, and you may want to note a few things before you begin:

---The story is set following the death of Takatori Reiji during the period of time while Weiss is disbanded, separated, and lying low. Or at least, it starts out that way, and from there proceeds to give canon the Middle Finger of Doom. And while we're on the subject of canon, we prefer the An Assassin and White Shaman backstory. Where it contradicts with Kapitel, we go with whatever AAWS says.

---This was originally composed as part of the LiveJournal 30_lemons challenge, though Card and I have long since dropped our pairing claim as the story did not fit so well with the rest of the prompts. Therefore, there is a lot of sex in it. A lot. But there is a story, too. We hope the sex makes up for it.


Bling

Crawford (king of the very stupidest things any grown man could ever say with a toneless sincerity and a great deal of sarcasm) had told him that predators often reuse their hunting grounds until the game is all gone. Pointless observation, really. Crawford had looked at him like it was going to make a great impact on him, seemed to realize that even if he had gotten the secret-code-warning he wasn't going to immediately start sobbing out his thanks, and went back to doing something that would actually produce results.

(Doesn't think much of you, does he--) No, that wasn't the trouble. Crawford knew exactly what he was capable of. He just didn't know how to handle it. (Stroking your own ego, now?) Speaking the truth. (Right.)

Thought about the relevance of this hunting ground wisdom, somewhere about the time he was leaning back against the wall--(one of the only ones with good lighting--and thus one of the only ones without fresh come stains or a grunting mass attached to it)--of the club. Some cheap sounding music making the ground shake, and all the bodies that weren't fucking on the floor, twisting and turning and pulsing right in time with the music. Sweaty and shiny and the smell was something that could make his noise burn if it wasn't so--(inviting?)--pornographic. Thick smell of sweat, but it didn't matter much because only the main floor of the club was lighted and all the dark corners were open and available for a quick anonymous fuck.

Thus, this club's appeal. Lots of cute boys willing to drop their pants with very little encouragement. Thus the club's loss of appeal. Wasn't fun if all it took was his smile and a nod in the direction of the dark place to get witless idiots hot and bothered.

(Wait--you want someone to not want you to fuck them? Doesn't this contradict your very belief structure?) Wanted a challenge-- Wanted someone to play a little, and not just hand over the win with a slutty hair-flip. (...Might have come to the wrong place then.) Someone here had to be something other than a hopeless slut. (No, not a requirement for entry, really.)

Stumbling idiots pulling each other, giggling with their own naughty intentions. Back into the shadows, belts clinking together. Minds sliding as wetly as two tongues--and it was nearly too sickening to describe. (Thankfully they won't be reproducing.) Yes, but it was a small favor in exchange for having to listening to their babbling little brains whimper and moan and question their own whore-like nature. Why o why do I come to the club to get fucked? Why do I need this? Why--oh, yes, put your hand right there.

Half a step from leaving, waste of time to stand here and wait for something that wasn't likely to-- Stopped, probably looked stupid, stopped in mid-step like that--but-- Felt the grin across his face, felt the useless idiot dancing closest to the edge looking up at him. Uncomfortable, maybe, turned on a little--something, but he didn't like that grin deep down in his gut where his better instincts were. Didn't matter a bit, what that idiot thought.

Because there, in the part of the crowd, working his way to the edge, moving with the beat of the music--glitter in his hair--mind sliding along with (want? desire? horniness?) reluctance. Contradiction, wanted it and wanted it soon, but couldn't let it happen because--(because he was a good boy, right? Good boy that killed people.)

Tsukiyono. Omi. Leader-boy of Weiss.

(Isn't this about the time that Crawford would be reminding you about bees?) Left Crawford at home, and that line about the bees wasn't even slightly in reference to this. (Naturally not.)

Watched Omi move through the crowd, zipper of his shirt catching the light--that glitter in his hair-- (Think you can talk him into fucking after you've just killed his cousin?) That was weeks ago--a month? Two? (He still remembers it quite vividly.) Didn't matter, he wasn't here to remember his dead cousin; he was here to rub against the pretty flesh and get laid. (Your flesh would only be pretty to him if filled with holes and bleeding profusely.)

Schuldig smirked; Omi was working his way to the edge of the crowd (Could just go over there, wander in--someone would notice, might take an interest, might be easier if you can't see...,) farther from the lighting (Not like you couldn't get out if things went bad,) closer to the dark.

(Not like you couldn't get out if things went bad, and in the dark there, if someone ended up with a shuriken to the groin it's not like they'd know who put it there.) Leaning into and away from the hands and legs and hips brushing against his. All the will to let it go, and all the stubborn refusal to give in. (Could just wander over, wander in, see what happened? Wouldn't be so bad...)

See what happened? (By all means, go help him.)

Turned, caught the edge of that idiot still staring at him, wondering about that smile on his face and the length of his hair. Pondering his own dirty thoughts and that sick-twist of bile-flavored fear in his throat. Schuldig half turned his head back, cracked a snide sneering grin at him, swiped his tongue across his lips and then turned back and walked away. Kept to the edge of the crowd, less people there to grab at his clothes, or rub against his leg like whimpering dogs. Slipped into the darkness--could almost hear the moaning here, smelled the sweat, sex and come in the air. Too much cologne in spots, almost made him sneeze--left a bitter taste to the air.

Stood there, watched Omi hesitate, turn back, look at the crowd. Fighting, fighting with himself. Some last sense of morality in his head, some restraint based on perfect ideals. (Good boys don't give it away for free.) Never been a good boy then.

Schuldig moved, slipping just out of his line of sight, hand down in his own pants pocket, pulling his hair up into a ponytail, (because he'd notice it, right, even if he couldn't see it?) moving silently, around behind him. Omi felt him, half turned his head, eyebrows pulling down--suspicion in his mind already. (Assassin training dies hard--) Schuldig put his hands on Omi's shoulders, wrists almost touching on the back of his neck, firm press but nothing like danger--no intent to hurt. Touch. Slid them forward, felt the shirt drag against his palm, fabric damp--his fingers curling around the slope of shoulder.

Flinch there, (this is what you wanted, isn't it?), bit of curiosity as Schuldig's hands kept dragging, down his arms now, moving a bit closer. Loosened the grip, hands coming back up Omi's arms, just his open palm, pulling the sleeves of his shirt up. Watched him turn his head, head tipping back, trying to see him, but the lighting was bad. Couldn't see much other than the silhouette. Taller than him.

(Really think this will work?)

Palms around his shoulders, fingers pressing just above his collarbone, something almost reverent in the touch. Flexed the grip and then moved it again, dragging down, heavier this time, slipping down, down his arms, almost to his hands, slightest bit of grip there, fingertips against his pulse, thumbs on the soft flesh of the insides of his wrist. Lower, sliding down onto his palm, and then back up--slipped just a bit closer, the air between them warm and close.

(Yes, this will work.)

Tightened the grip on his wrist--not so much to alarm, just enough to guide, up, felt the uncertainty there, but Omi moved with him. Enough curiosity there to see where it was going to lead, (to hell, of course.) Arms up, over his shoulders, pressed them back so his hands were up against Schuldig's shoulders, could go around his neck if he wanted--wasn't picky about what they did. Slipped his hands down Omi's arms sliding along the line of paler flesh, down to his elbows, over his sleeves, and to his chest, fingers pressing against his collarbone for a moment, then his thumbs, fingers dipping lower. Thin shirt, could feel the heat of his skin through it, damp from the dance floor--

Dipped his head down, breath just at the edge of Omi's ear, hands going lower, palms pressing closer to the line of his ribs, felt the muscles flexing. One hand going lower, just at the edge of his belly, the other back up, sliding across his chest, slipping up his neck, arm across his collarbone, and tipped his head back.

(Kissing the enemy--think he's going to like it when he finds out who you are?)

Hesitation almost. Soft at first, mouth barely open--breath against his lips. Pressed harder, hand flattening against his belly, pulling him back just a little, still space between them, but the heat was stronger this way. Kiss deepening, his thumb stroking Omi's jaw.

(You'll get killed for this.) No. (Yes.) No; the boy would blame himself.

Tongue against his--tastes like mint. Brushed his teeth like a good boy, freshened up his breath. (Something more people should do, really. Two-hour-old teriyaki just isn't appealing.) Slow kiss. (Almost too slow.) Slower than he was usually forced to make it; but in some cases a little patience paid off. (Cases involving you fucking your enemy, of course.) Felt the fingers go around his neck, brushing against the hair falling out of the ponytail at the nape of his neck. Curling around those fingers and pulling a little--shoulders tipping back against his, and Omi's mouth opening a little wider--didn't match the beat of his thoughts though. Couldn't quite let it happen, wanted a bit more, then was going to let go. Should let go. Not nice to lead him on like this-- Felt nice, but no thanks.

Schuldig curled his fingers in, pulling the shirt under his hand up, over belly flesh, held it up with his thumb--let his fingers press against the skin. Lingering there for a minute, and then working down, low enough he could feel the edge of Omi's belt, and the slight dip where his waist started to trail down into his hips. Broke the kiss though, too many crowding little doubts in his head. Flicked his tongue against that earring in his ear-- Then down, panting wet breath against Omi's neck--hand moving back across his chest, and up on his arm, fingers curling loosely around his elbow.

Licked his lips and tipped his head in, (ah, yes, lets nibble on his neck, and he'll return the favor by slitting yours.) Glitter on his skin, gritty against his tongue--skin blushing warm under his mouth though. Reached that hand off Omi's belly, up to his neck, tugged on the zipper, felt it resist, the clingy fabric stretching against the pull. (Another reason not to like the club--ridiculous wardrobe decisions.) Dropped his other hand down to press against the collar, and held it still, felt the zipper sliding, and followed its descent with his free hand, shiver in the body under his, bit off gasp, sweat-sticky skin, getting slicker with new sweat now. Down, down over his belly, Omi's indrawn breath and all the way down. Fingertips against his belt again, pushing against his pants. Moved his mouth back up, caught Omi's again--felt his mind, something like give right there, but the other thing was rising up; time to stop, maybe. (Not hardly. Boy must not be attracting the right sort of people if he thinks he can just stop now.) Schuldig's hands up, back up to his shoulders, arms crossed over his chest, elbows against Omi's ribs, the open flaps of his shirt bunching up around his forearms, and there--his chest to Omi's back.

(He's not gonna like that--) Predictable, that good boy voice in Omi's head got too loud--didn't like the closeness and the intent. (Can't do this.) Didn't matter that it felt good, didn't matter that Omi wanted the feeling, liked the feel of it--still did with his hands rubbing against his skin and his body against his, hips dipping lower, evening the press of their bodies. (--felt good.)

Omi's mouth pulling away, head pressing back against Schuldig's shoulders, his arms falling back down. "W...wait--" (but this can't be right and there must be a better way than in the dark with some stranger you can't see who isn't even talking and it isn't safe here.)

Squirming now, half-assed attempt, separating their bodies again, hands around Schuldig's wrists, pulling at them a bit. Wanted his freedom, thought, somewhere in his mind, that this was all it would take.

(Maybe it is all it takes--) No. Not likely.

Followed him forward, no threat, insistent, mouth against his jaw, his neck. His tongue on Omi's skin, hands slipping a little under the pull of those wrists, not much, lower now, back to his chest, one hand over his heart--felt the beat of it. Speeding up--his mind giving into it again, just a little. Back arching into the touch again, breath heavy--floating on the feeling of the touch. Eyes closed, mouth open. (Should tell Crawford--all it takes is a little nibble and they're putty. Just to see what look he makes.)

But no. Good boys don't give it away for free in dark corners to men that aren't even talking to them.

"Wait--" Would have meant more if it weren't exhaled over his teeth--if he had stopped wanting the touch or if his head had tipped forward or his hands had really pushed him away. Would have meant more if there had been any real effort behind it--instead of the want in his mind, that shivered down into his shoulders and the slight arch of his back. Neck still bared--

(Should give it to him, if he wants it.)

Indeed. Kissed him again, more intent to it. No force (lets not provoke the use of the shuriken in his pocket, hm.) Put his want into it. (I want you, feels good doesn't it? Someone touching you like this, and kissing you like this, pressing against you like this-- Wanting you. So shut up and like it.)

Dragged his hands down Omi's bare skin again, those fingers still loose on his wrist. Pressed a palm against his belly and pulled him back again, their hips brushing now, and the other hand turning, fingers down now, slipping under the line of that belt. Not so deep, just a little naughty--making the intent clear. Brushing against the line of his hip. Sighed a breath into the kiss, something almost needy in the near moan.

(I want you. Feel it.) Just don't ask why. (Ah, evil's in the motivation, right?)

Stutter of breath there, mouth open under his, something like a whimper in Omi's throat. (Finally.) Giving in, there, letting it go and moving with it. Hand over top his, not restraining it, giving a little push of encouragement maybe, the other hand back up, slipping into his hair.

(Too far away from the wall to fuck him, you know. Lets move forward.) Gave a bit of push, leaning forward, (move now.)

Omi moved, feet first, almost tripped, mind not really giving a thought to the why until they were six steps closer to that wall and the smell of sex was thick in the air. (Quick fuck, right here. Time for the conscience to object.) No, lets not. Schuldig dropped his mouth again, away from the kiss, to his neck--mouthed the skin, his tongue trailing across it just barely, almost ticklish. Omi's mind waking up its objections again--all about nice boys and their prudish behavior. Pressed his hand further down, belt tight across the back of his hand, on his wrist--tightening around Omi's waist too--fingers against him, slight rub through the thin fabric of his boxers. Hips against his, rubbing a bit now--(Look at what I can give you.) Felt the shiver there, in his mind--still not quite convinced, still maybe--ought to stop.

(No, lets not.)

Pressed his hand in deeper, pulling the belt tighter against his forearm, tighter around Omi's waist. Had to hurt, or would soon. Pressed his palm against him heavier, rubbing slightly--not much, not enough space. Turned his head, mouth against Omi's hair, breath across his ear, something like a moan in there somewhere. Gasped out in his breath.

Omi's whine, mind with some objection still, but that belt around his waist hurt now and that hand--didn't hurt at all. Liked it, the feel of it, not quite like he wanted it to feel, and the body behind him, hand against his belly, fingers on his ribs--holding him there. Could do it. Still could get away if he changed his mind. (Hold onto that security, like a baby's precious blanket.) But his hands were down, tugging on his own belt, hard slide, with the extra stretch. Yanked it--dug into Schuldig's arm--and then it came open, loosened.

(Note how he didn't unbutton his pants; how lazy is this boy, exactly?)

Omi's hand tracing back up Schuldig's arm, to his shoulder, and then up, fingers around his neck, into his hair, curling there--pulled it loose from the hairtie and leaned his head back.

(Apparently this means you have permission.)

Indeed. Hand on Omi's face again, turning it toward him, kissed him. Urgent messy kiss, more force now, more want-- Calculated bit of need. Press of Schuldig's hips against him, slow grind, and his hand moving against Omi now.

Shiver. Moan into his mouth like the taste of mint on Omi's tongue. And his mind (still uttering objections, a little, not a lot--not loudly--shut up please.)

(How are you going to do this, exactly?) The same way he fucked most boys, probably. (He's short.) There was that, he'd noticed, what with the pain forming in his neck, but the benefit of kissing him had thus far outweighed it--eager little thing. Wondered what he was going to think when he found out who's tongue he was rubbing against. (Nothing good, but the more immediate concern--boy needs to gain a few inches in height.)

Broke the kiss, looked around the dimness of the corner, eyes squinting--should know this place by now, as many boys as he had fucked here. (All of them giving it up much faster, if you'll remember--and most of them just a bit taller.) A bench. Disgusting, really. Had yet to sit on it--did not like the idea of starting today. (Put Omi on it then--it's taller than his knees, if only by a little.) That would work.

Listened to the bitten-back little noises Omi was making, his body quivering a bit, hips pushing forward into the press of his palm. Hand curling up in a fist against Schuldig's neck--

(Yes, time for the bench.) Bumped against him, deliberate, slowed the rub of his hand, felt Omi's objection in his head, whine through the clench of his teeth around his lip, those wide eyes sliding open enough to look--trying to figure out why he was being nudged. Blinked against the darkness, and saw the bench. Schuldig pushed him again, dragging his hand up, out of the pants--onto his belly, leg moving, pushing Omi's and--there. Finally, forward movement. Two steps and Omi raising his knee, pulling himself up, one arm against the wall to steady himself, half turning to look back at him again--(self conscious now, is he? No objection, but doesn't it feel a bit strange to be so obliging?) Schuldig moving behind him again, height difference a bit better, kissing Omi again. Hands on his belly, flattening his palms against that skin--flexing now--and rubbed his hips against Omi's, groaned into the kiss, low and needy.

(Want more now, be a good boy and help out.) Plucked at the waist band to Omi's pants--felt his mind acknowledge the request, maybe ignore it a bit; his hips pressing forward though, wanting more of that touch and rub. (Want it--prove it.) Schuldig's hands around his sides, dragging, and then falling away from Omi's skin. Pulling at his own pants, no belt--Omi couldn't have heard the sound anyway, not as loud as the music was. Throbbing now, and the sound of all those bodies rubbing together, jumping and dancing.

Omi's short and sharp moment of complete-- Disbelief that he was really tugging his pants open, really going to do it, pushing them down--right here--in public--getting himself all ready, available--couldn't believe it really. (Or maybe he can.)

Schuldig sighing out a pant, wanted to be touching skin again, dug the lube out of his pocket, the condom--leaned forward to press his forehead against Omi's shoulder, panting against the loosened collar of his shirt, felt the shiver there. All but heard the drag of Omi's tongue across his lips--waiting for him, hands right there on his own waist band but he wasn't about to push it down--not yet--not until it was necessary.

Schuldig's hand slipping back around his waist--necessities attended too--(as much as they can be with those pants in the way) licked a line of sweat off Omi's neck, back up, felt his head tip again, little gasp at the hand going around his waist and back down, nudging at his open pants, digging under the waist band of the boxers and-- Heavy breath, pant, gasp--beautiful sound.

(Now get your pants out of my fucking way.)

Good boy, sliding his pants down, drag of breath at it, into the kiss, had to lean back against him, almost unsteady on his knees--bench was narrow or it was just strange. Pushing his pants down, to his thighs, a little lower--breaking the kiss to pant, eyes closed still. (Enjoying this too much, are we?)

Panting enemy rubbing back against his hand, shivering with want and utterly clueless as to who he was about to let fuck him--yeah. Enjoyed it a bit; especially those noises. Dropped his hand down to Omi's thigh, fingers against the inside of it, tugging it open a bit wider--Omi leaning forward against the wall now, head down, elbows braced. (Still couldn't quite believe he was--) Exhale of breath, hard, helpless, quivering muscle--Schuldig's fingers sinking inside of him. Slipping deeper--finding the angle. Omi's fist against the wall when he found it, pressing back of those hips and an urgent whimper held back and strangled in his chest.

(Fuck him now.)

No, pressed a bit more, rubbing inside of him, hand petting his thigh, holding it open and his body pressed against Omi's back, his breath against his ear, his cheek, hair falling down out of its holder, brushing against Omi's shoulders. Fingers moving, shallow and slow. Teasing him with it, wringing those noises out of him--out of his mouth, head tipping, hips rolling back, shameless in the want and suddenly Omi didn't seem to mind they were in public. (More of that now.) Mouth against his neck again, sucking on it, feeling the vibration of the moan as it caught there in Omi's throat.

Fingers slipping out, shift his hips, had to dip a little lower--sweet anticipation in Omi's mind--flexing, pressing in. In. Eyes sliding shut.

In.

Omi fingernails against the wall, scratching for something to hold onto, his shoulders forward but his head rolling back. Schuldig pressed his teeth against Omi's neck, not hard, just enough, breath heavy. Pressed his hand against the wall, elbow bent, needed something to steady himself.

Shivering, yes, moaning, yes, whimpering, yes, and rubbing back against him--yes. Taste of Omi's skin in his mouth, should have been normal, just sweat--glitter, bit of soap. It shouldn't have mattered--but his mind--his fucking mind. Likes to be touched, hard to find that, to really find it.

Grit his teeth together, rocked his hips forward, urgent whimper echoing in his ear. Again--another noise, another twist of that mind, pressing back against him, knees shifting. Schuldig dragged his fingertips up Omi's skin, off his thigh, up his hip, to his belly again, palm against that, pulling him back. Tipped his head, cheek against Omi's shoulder, opened his eyes just enough, saw the black shirt pulling down, sleeve half down that arm--scar there.

(From where you shot him.)

Grin across his face in time with the rock of his hips. More urgent now, flexing, rubbing harder, hand pulling that body back against his-- Licked his lips--and ran his tongue across that scar. Smooth skin, raised a bit.

(Bad boy.)

Needed more now, straightened back up, felt his palm slipping on the wall--sweaty--and pressed harder, leaned against Omi, pressed to his back, hips rocking into his, short and shallow movements, like grinding against him--felt the shivers, the moan in his chest. Pressed his face against Omi's hair again. Hand sliding up from his belly--feeling the shiver of muscle the whole way, and curled his fingers around Omi's throat, on his shoulder with his thumb pressed there, feeling the panting whine.

(Fuck him.)

Yes, more, mouth against his neck now, sucking on it--hips jerking, in and in and in--friction and heat and his mind.

"Fuck," he breathed, face pressed against Omi again, mouth just at his ear--had to have heard it--but it didn't matter. They were both moving with it, rocking, hands slipping on the wall, arms touching and hips pushing to meet each other. Breath almost in sync, Omi crying out now, and head heavy against Schuldig's shoulder, mouth open--

(Oh fuck.)

Mind everywhere, all at once, and feeling it. Drowning in it, but it was alright, with the heat of the body around him, damp weight against his chest and the throbbing need in his hips, his belly--right there in his jaws. Teeth around the earring in Omi's ear, tugging on it a little--pressing in more and more--

Eyes closed and an echo of that curse mangled in his throat--"Fuck"--or something like it. Pressed in tight and shivering, Omi coming down off the high first--still breathing uneven, not quite ready to deal with the reality of it.

Schuldig let go of the earring, stayed there tight against him. Breathing through the moment--catching his breath and riding the quieting of Omi's mind until the aftershocks were gone.

Time for reality again--loosened his grip then, pulling back. Tossing the condom wherever it landed--no real concern for it. Looked at Omi--watched him shifting, moving himself so he wasn't on the bench, pulling his own pants up, and resolving something in his own mind--his justification for this. Some suspicion in his mind, ((isn't quite right, that voice) And that wasn't so bad, really good, actually, and he was skilled and considerate and (he licked at that scar, that was odd)) or something else. (Tired now, but it'd be nice to at least get a look at him (this isn't--)) Turned around—(NO.) Knew who it was with a spike of certainty right through his belly—knew it by the fall of his hair even before he saw his eyes. His face. Omi's eyes going wide, hand over his mouth—bit too pale now.

(Oh God what have I done?)

Omi sank down, onto the bench, button to his pants still undone and open, belt hanging loosely—

Schuldig pulled the hair tie out, shook his head to let it fall back around his face. Still warm and floating a bit. Broke away from Omi's mind and the endless spool of it. Shame his damn conscience had to get in the way and twist his brain all up around this. (That happens to good boys.)

"It's my day off," he said. Within arms reach of the boy—unarmed even, and wouldn't now be the perfect time to hurt him or kill him. Dark here and nobody was liable to notice. Figured Omi could do it without getting blood on him.

Too much time, Omi blinking, mind working its way around that spool of thought (what have I done) and past the still fading burn of the orgasm. Figured it out, finally and (then…why?) If he wasn't doing it to hurt, to torment him—then why do it at all?

Schuldig bent down, two fingers under Omi's chin, lifting his face and kissed him. Short—didn't push his luck, or wait for Omi to break out of this downward spiral and pull out the pointy things—and then pulled back, still close, his hair falling into his face now, bangs against Omi's. "You're a smart boy," looked at him, his eyes, and the glitter still clinging to his hair. "You'll figure it out."

(Time to go.) Yes. (Want another go?) Yes. (Think it's going to happen?) Maybe.