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This River Is Wild	By : CardDragonBall Category: Weiß Kreuz > General Views: 1001 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Weiß Kreuz, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-This River Is Wild
- 1
Title: This River is Wild

Authors: Card and Casey

Fandom: Weiss Kreuz

Characters: Schuldig/Omi

Rating: Nc-17

Warnings: Sex, Slash. It's for 30_lemons over on LJ

Disclaimer: Not ours. No money is made. Just borrowing.

Prompt 23: Preventing Hypothermia, or, "Let Me Apply Some Liquid Heat to Raise Your Core Temperature."

Sequel to Bling

~~~***

The rain started about fifteen minutes into the jog, without preamble or bothering to warn unprepared runners with so much as an apologetic spatteing of drops. The sky simply opened like a faucet and poured.

Omi was drenched within seconds; decided to stop running seconds after that and pulled his jacket over his head--the jacket he'd only taken off and tied to his waist minutes ago when the world was still dry. And yes it was cold and it was February and he ought to have left it on, to begin with, but sweat cooled faster in the free air. Running wasn't exactly a temperate exercise.

He paused under a tree, which at least minimized the effect of a sudden torrential downpour, estimating how far he'd run from the apartment. Watched an unfortunate courier backed completely against a wall, bike squeezed against his legs, hiding under a miniscule overhang to avoid the worst of it; looked like he was having a bad day. Watched the few other people out and about this early in the morning scurry off under newspapers and briefcases and jackets to the nearest available shelter. Watched the water create little rivers from the sidewalk, pouring down the grassy embankment into the cement ditch below him. Watched a foreigner glaring at the door of a red sports car--

Wait.

He squinted, sheets of rain blurring the half-dozen meters or so of space between himself and the car parked on the curb, but--pretty sure that was Schuldig yanking on the door handle. Sunglasses and headband in one hand, completely soaked and spitting a stream of--something totally incomprehensible.

Schuldig--it had to be him, not like there were all that many redheaded foreigners wandering around Tokyo--pulled back from the car and viciously kicked the tire, shouting something. German, maybe? Sounded like it might be German.

Omi blinked a few times; normally, in this situation, in order to esteem himself with whomever he happened upon on any given day, he would have cheerfully offered this person his assistance. Pardon me, sir, did you lock your keys in your car? Here, let me help--how did I learn to do this? Oh, I regularly break into things and places in my line of work--or rather, I have this friend who is forever locking his keys in. Aren't I a nice, helpful boy?

That, after all, even in stranger parts of town among people he'd never met and would probably never see again, was called building a reputation. The more people in general were absolutely positive that Tsukiyono Omi was a fine, upstanding young man, the more people would never believe that the reality was, in fact, the reality.

Schuldig, now, that was a different matter. It would have been a different matter had any of Schwarz been standing on that particular curb, kicking and cussing at their defenseless car in foreign languages, but this... no, this was a little more specific.

If you know what's good for you, Tsukiyono, he told himself--and Schuldig was leaning up, pushing his hair back and pausing like maybe he'd heard--you'll turn around and go home. Right now.

Schuldig turned abruptly, like Omi had all but shouted in his ear. The most perfect expression of exasperation at the tail end of its limit, so clear and concise it could practically be heard.

Well, aren't you just the cherry on top.

"I know you're there." Voice like a purr, something dangerous around the edges. Schuldig projecting his bad mood in waves.

Omi tugged the jacket a little lower on his forehead. Should've run. He probably still could, but... there was something to this, some kind of cosmic justice to the fact that Schuldig--telepath, professional, and otherwise manipulative bastard, smug sense of superiority tacked to his forehead in neon lights--was locked out of his car. Tugged down to the level of the plebians surrounding him in a moment of unattentiveness.

He laughed a little, just a short chuckle to humor his amusement, wry look at Schuldig from under his jacket. "So, what's this? Are you human, too, after all?"

Schuldig paused--right there with his hand still in his hair and that look melted from exasperation into something less nice. More calculating, maybe, tugging the hand out of his hair and hissing, shaking the damp strands off his fingers. A few steps closer, moving slowly, a minor bit of smile growing across his face along the way. "Now, would that make you feel better--or worse?" The obvious suggestion right there, in Schuldig's voice. Hands and mouth in the dark and-- "If I were just a human after all?"

Should've run. Omi shifted to the side, weight on the balls of his feet--instinctive reaction, he was getting too close and escape was preferable to an altercation in daylight (as much as there was with the rain pouring down, anyway) on the street. Better to be thought a coward than be uncovered, ultimately. But that look--

(Hands on his skin and mouth on his neck, arms pressed against a cold wall perspiring from too many people in the building and hot and hot and ohhh, yes--)

Stop that. Right now.

"It doesn't matter what I think." Tried not to sound defensive--really tried, because the last thing he wanted was to give Schuldig some kind of opening to find a weakness, rip it out and wave it in front of him like a captured prize. Like before, like--(let's not go there). Omi wasn't going to play that game again. "You're the one who took advantage of the situation. I'm sure you're pleased with yourself."

Schuldig was moving closer again, within arm's reach now, close enough Omi had to tilt his head back to see his face, water dripping off the collar of his jacket and onto his nose. Schuldig squinting through the rain soaking him and pushing his hair back, casual, instinctive gesture. Same little smile there, same look and suggestion and that hint of animosity in his eyes. "I took advantage of a situation you created. You wanted to get fucked--I wanted to fuck you." Cold reality to those words; Schuldig licked his lips a bit, a kind of subtle reminder. I know what you feel like naked, how you taste, the sounds you make. And you can't take it back, so there. "And you didn't answer my question--If I'm just a little human, do you feel better or worse?"

(Don't answer that.)

Omi turned his head, maybe a little scoff there, let go of his jacket to leave it hanging awkwardly on his head, but he wanted both hands free. Shifted backwards just slightly--needed more room to move. "How is that supposed to make me feel better? It doesn't change anything." You still killed her (told you not to go there). You didn't pull the trigger but you created the situation. One moment of normalcy doesn't trump a lifetime of depravity.

That probably went for both of them.

"Fine." Omi grit his teeth and spat the rain away from his mouth; the jacket wasn't covering his face so well anymore. "FINE. Yes, it makes me feel better that you can do something as normal and stupid as locking your keys in the car. Yes, it makes me feel better to have proof that you're not really as powerful and in control as you like to think you are, and yes it makes me feel better to know that if you can make one mistake, you could make another, and goddamnit if you hadn't I'd be in my own grave right now instead of her." Deep breath, some kind of shake to his shoulders now; it was getting too cold. "And yes, it makes me feel better that, being human, you must really be shallow and horny enough to randomly decide to fuck someone you'd tried to kill a few months before in the corner of a techno club. Yes, dammit, it makes me feel better."

(Told you not to answer that.)

No smirk anymore. Schuldig looked more like someone had shoved a lemon in his mouth; something tight to the line of his jaw. "Shallow and horny, huh?" And the words sounded just as petty and spiteful as they were probably meant to. Another step towards Omi, viciously shoving his hair back again despite the weight of the water throwing it right back into his face. "At least I knew who I was fucking."

Slut. Never said but oh so very implied.

At some point the jacket had fallen off Omi's head, bare to the elements now, water streaming into his eyes and down the back of his shirt--tried to back up again (he's too damn close) the sopping pile of fabric tripping him up, shifted to the side instead.

A kind of eerie light to Schuldig's eyes. A don't fuck with me sort of aura.

"I didn't decide to kill you--my employer did. It's called a job and you should recognize the requirements." Schuldig spat rain away from his mouth again, voice dropping to a hiss.

A job.

Yeah. Yeah, that sounds familiar. (But what the hell are you trying to prove?) Two months since Weiss was dissolved. Over sixty days and every one of them he couldn't let it go. Couldn’t cut himself loose, drop the pain and the animosity and the daily grind of fight, run, die; and here he was, fighting with an enemy who wasn't even his enemy anymore like he still had a right and an obligation to keep fighting.

There was some kind of divine irony to all this.

Omi opened his mouth, some retort or other on his tongue, something scathing and bitter and not entirely true, one foot moving backwards in preparation to dodge or run or whatever from however Schuldig reacted. One foot back and--

Nothing. Oh, shit.

He felt himself tilting, overbalanced and nothing solid under his foot--grass, mud, way too damn much rainwater--instinctively reached out and grabbed a fistful of Schuldig's shirt but--

This was not going to end well.

There was an instant that almost froze, both of them hanging in midair at odd angles, no longer solidly perpendicular to the sidewalk, floating through middle-space out over the steep expanse of grass that spilled down into the canal. Shallow this time of year but rushing with runoff. Froze and held for seconds, maybe.

And immediately followed by the cold, air-jerking impact with the ground. Half sliding, half rolling, vision alternating gray, green, gray, green, flash of red and--

SPLASH.

It took a moment--just a bare second, really, to process all this. Ache in his shoulder where it hit concrete, another in his side where somewhere during all that it had run into Schuldig's elbow. Lack of air in his lungs from the collision and--freezing fucking cold. Water. Can't breathe. Shit--

Omi pushed up, or where he assumed was up, his body seeming to want to float that way, flailed and spluttered ungracefully at the surface and stumbled, the canal only waist-deep but moving fast. Coughed and caught hold of the concrete ledge, leaning against it and waiting for his breath to catch up with the rest of him.

Cold.

"Scheisse! Blodsinnig Scheissekerl! Arschloch!"

Schuldig was crossing the canal, leaning forward to walk against the current and spitting water and what were probably German curses at the general space in front of him. "My fucking sunglasses!" Bared his teeth at the grassy, muddy slope and continued hissing profanity through his teeth, hoisting himself onto the concrete ledge and climbing out.

Cold. Omi's teeth were chattering, all his higher instincts screaming at him to move, now. He drew in a breath, finally without coughing or gasping, drug himself out of the freezing water and--well, the rain wasn't much better, was it? (Move.) Bit back the shivers in his muscles and stared up hopelessly at the wall of grass and mud in front of him.

(Better start climbing.) Slippery mud; Omi had to dig his fingers in and kick footholds into the clumps of grass. He distantly remembered having an easier time scaling the side of a building with a tether, Ken on the ground with a stage-whisper hiss trying to tell him he was too far right, slow down, wait I think someone's coming, no never mind--all wrapped up in his worry and trying not to blow their cover at the same time.

He wondered where Ken was, what he was doing. Forgot to wonder when he slipped and got a faceful of mud.

Schuldig was nearly to the top already, still cussing with the same peristance as the rain. Muttering at first and then shouting a few choice words, all his movements vicious like he could somehow wound this bit of ground that had offended him. A string of phrases somewhere in the middle intermingled with Japanese, something having to do with 'mud' and 'hair'. There was something--strangely funny about all that. Not with the thought of 'well, it serves him right' that should have been there, in the back of Omi's mind, but it wasn't.

Something else, more complicated. Something...

But this guy--this telepath, this foreigner, he was a pain in the ass. He was vain. Arrogant. Manipulative. Liked to throw his superiority around and seriously could give a fuck about--anything. And he (don't go there, just let it go).

I hate him, Omi told himself. (So why are you staring at him?)

He felt wet pavement under his hand, the next reach up for a handhold. Almost there, still cold (really fucking cold) but there had to be somewhere nearby--Schuldig was already out of sight, probably stomped off still cursing and wrapped in his bad day like a fog, to... wherever it was he'd come from to begin with. To find a locksmith for his car. Whatever Schuldig did when he was pissed off.

Figured.

"Hey."

Omi pulled himself a little further up and saw the shoes on the sidewalk, followed them up, all the way to the eyes squinting down at him, Schuldig's face smudged with mud and dripping rainwater. He made a motion, hand pointing vaguely across the street. "I live over there."

And that was it. Turned his back and walked away.

"You've got to be kidding me," Omi muttered entirely to himself, spitting out the taste of canal water and climbing onto the sidewalk, grabbing his soggy jacket off the ground. Mud, everywhere--knees of his track pants, front of his shirt, forearms, face, under his fingernails. No way in hell any of the businesses around here were going to let him in to dry off and warm up.

He stood for a moment, shivering and chattering and utterly failing to pull his jacket around him in some matter that might provide a sliver of warmth. Waited until Schuldig was nearly out of sight before running across the street after him.

~~~***

Shivering. Perfect fucking day, really--perfect end to a perfect day (little cold there?) Cold happened about five minutes ago just about the time Omi had been contemplating running away. Cold was a pleasant warm place in comparison--and FUCK. Lost his sunglasses, lost his keys, looked like a fucking moron--and this fucking mud in his fucking hair.

(And that fucking little boy, following you--)

Yeah, well that. That might be useful. (Heating pad with a pulse?) Everyone who had ever seen TV knew that the best way to warm up was body heat. (Except that he hasn't got any--body heat.) Fuck the details. He was tired, he was cold and he was-- (Feeling sorry for yourself? How quaint.)

No, not that. Fumbled with the damn door, got it open, shoving it in hard enough that it cracked against the doorstop with an echo. Make the neighbors bitch, maybe--not that it mattered. Stood in the doorway too long, giving Omi time to catch up (aren't you a nice boy?) And then went for the stairs. Not the elevator, it took too long and it was always drafty. Stairs--too cold, it was taking too long to get up them, and there was fucking mud dripping out of his hair, down his face. Could taste it at the corner of his mouth and raised his hand to wipe it off-- Mud on his fingertips, pure black grit under his fingernails. Just fucking perfect really.

Got to his floor--3--and down the hall, shoes squishing, leaving wet stains and puddles and-- Opened the door--didn't lock it, never locked it. Nothing inside worth locking the door for. Except his clothes--

Stopped at the door, fingers tugging at the fucking buttons on his coat--stiff and thick with cold, too hard to get apart. Yanked at them until they gave; the top three. Then reached over his shoulders and fisted the back of the soaking jacket, yanked it up, felt it drag--heavy, muddy--pulling at his shirt too. Got stuck on his elbows, face inside the damn thing. (Oh, this is perfect, really.) Leaned forward on some kind of instinct, yanked at it harder and felt it give, off his shoulders, over his head, straightened up and shook his head to get his hair over his shoulders. Looked over at Omi, still standing in the door way.

"If you're coming in--lose the clothes here. And shut the door."

(You want me to--what?) Blurry thoughts, they were all blurry. Too tired to focus on it. Voices still there, free floating in an endless crowd-- Nothing coming through stronger than a weak murmur--but Omi stepped inside. Closed the door behind him. The flavor of 'what the fuck' in his mind. Shivering, already dropped the jacket on the floor. "You want me to strip?"

Seemed repetative, really. Repeating the same shit that he'd already said. Popped the buttons on his shirt, shrugged it off his shoulders and tossed it into the bucket next to the door. And his jacket. Was toeing his shoes off when he looked over at Omi. "Yes."

Indignation? Anger? Something--felt the edge of it in Omi's mind. (Something about you can just go--) Or something else. Felt Omi's eyes on his skin, chest, belly, shoulders, watching him as he dropped his hands down to his pants now. Just them and the fucking sopping wet socks now. (Good boys don't stare, you know.) Yeah, whatever.

Whatever kind of anger Omi was trying to build, lost under the shivering weight of his own clothes, and the chill of Schuldig's room. (What was it Nagi said that one time--'Don't you believe in heat?' No, not really.) "Can I at least get a towel or something?"

The pants stuck to Schuldig's thighs, wet material clinging tightly, had to bend over to dig his fingers under and shove the legs down a little at a time, pulled one leg free and then the other. Just socks now, looked up at Omi, still bent over, hair hanging in his eyes, felt the mud on his face and he must look like some kind of fucking ridiculous. (He doesn't look much better--Except for that wet white top--liked that.) Dropped his eyes back down, pulling his socks off with his cold-stiff fingers and then tossing them and the pants into the same bucket. Hit the bottom with a wet flop. "Yeah--whatever," he said. Left Omi standing there, across the front room to the hallway, bathroom--grabbed a towel off the rack. Back across the floor--fucking cold in here. (Your fault, should turn the heat on sometimes.) "It’s the only towel you're getting," Schuldig said. Stood there holding it out for Omi to grab if he wanted. "The other one's for me."

(Yeah, sure, he looks like he’s buying that.) Took the towel though, eyes focusing on Schuldig, roaming a bit over his body, chest—belly—lower-- Heard the mental shriek to stop that and stop it now through the murmuring din of voices. An almost shake to Omi’s head and he toed his shoes off. Towel awkwardly over his arm, dragging on the ground, while he tugged at his socks. Strange balance to his shivering body as he lifted one foot and then the other, straightened back up to tug at his pants, the waist band stretching easily—

Looked up briefly, those blue eyes, looking right at him, caught him looking and his mind gave a little flinch. Wanted to know why he was just standing there, why he was looking—

Pushed his pants down and stepped out of them, still trying to figure out this staring thing. (Oh, but he knew why he was looking, or thought he did.) Cold was winning out; too fucking cold and the clothes were wet and sticking. White tank top tight to the lines of his body and the boxers sticking to his thighs. Stood there and shivered, watching Schuldig. Didn’t want to take the clothes off, but wanted them off—but—

“What? Stop looking at me!”

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow at that. Ran his hand through his hair, dragging it back away from his face—mud, felt the mud against his fingers. Would have smirked but it was fucking cold, and he had no clothes on. Water still dripping down his back and his face from his hair. Gooseflesh everywhere that wasn’t still shivering a bit. “Consider it a compliment,” Schuldig said offhand. Sounded soft and stupid to his own ears—wondered what little Omi would think of it, but didn’t really care enough to stay and find out. “The shower is in there.” Point down the hall, turning and walking toward it. To his room. Passed the open door of the bathroom. “Right there.” And continued on, turning and into his room.

(What is this you are doing exactly? Inviting him in, giving him your shower--) It was called setting a scene. Lull the boy into some sense of security; not that this boy was stupid enough to get secure in this place—give a little, maybe. (Like he’s doing right now, standing in the living room, and thinking about--) His ass. (--the cold and the shower and it really isn’t a good idea to get naked here. But a shower, a shower sounded so nice. Warm or hot and it was fucking cold. Take off his clothes, get into the shower—what if—)

Wasn’t stopping him, all those doubts, the what ifs, and how abouts. Some serious thought in his brain about how Schuldig might want to hurt him. (And some other thoughts that have nothing to do with hurting, right?) Clinging to his towel like some security blanket. But his footsteps down the hall, into the bathroom, closing the door now.

Cold won out. (And yet, your dumb ass is still shivering naked in the middle of his bedroom.) Yes, well. Dragged a pair of pants on, loose sweats, they were just temporary. Didn’t want a shirt. It would just stick to his skin and absorb the water, maybe the mud too, and then he’d have to fucking get it off. (Whining again?) Indulging the urge a little. Bad night, stupid Estet agents and their high and mighty bullshit, pulling rank where they had none; bad day before that. Been awake too long, put up with too much bullshit and kept his mouth shut like a good little boy.

(Yet--) Waited until the shower turned on before he went back out, picked up Omi’s dripping wet clothes, hands wiggling down into the pocket of the pants to pull the little sheathes of shuriken, dropped those on the floor and bundled it all up into one big ball. Held it under his arm and pulled open the door—fucking water dripping down his side, soaking the waist band of his pants already. Shiver running down through his body, all the way to his bare feet on the cold stairs. (What is it you’re doing exactly?) Finishing the scene. Put a little effort into it already, had the boy naked and in his shower (right, because locking those keys in your car and falling down into that canal was all part of your master plan right?) No. But it would be a shame not to take advantage of a situation. It would be a shame to lose it now just because Omi pulled an offended (not quite) virgin act. Stormed out with indignant rage and all the assurance in the world that he would—never (at least not again.)

Dropped Omi’s clothes in the washer in the basement. (Can’t go anywhere if he hasn’t got any clothes, right?) Exactly. Too cold down here, drafty as shit and the floor was freezing—the whole side of his pants wet again and he was just fucking cold. Made it back up the steps as fast as he could manage it, starting to hurt now, his knees and his ankles, his elbows—wrists. Too cold and getting stiff. Kicked the door shut after him, shoving at the pants already sagging down off his hips, they slid down and off—left those in the hallway.

Pushed the bathroom door open, heard the start in Omi’s mind, but ignored it. Warm in here, with the steam, made his skin prickle. Stepped up to the shower, pushed the door open, and stepped in. Half a breath of time—caught the edge of Omi’s stare before the nearly too hot water hit is skin (fuck, that almost hurts.)

“What the fuck?” Omi’s voice, drowning in the spray of water and the tightening itchy burn of the warmth hitting his too cold skin.

“My turn,” Schuldig said. Six seconds of thought to that (nice and warm here, and he was still too cold. Wouldn’t be that bad, could stay—but no) and then Omi was shoving past him to get to the door. Schuldig let him go, slipping into the direct spray, turning around, head tipping back. Hands digging into his hair, pulling where the mud was caked in it, tangled and stringy. Heard the bathroom door bang shut—Omi heading out to where he thought his clothes were. Got the shampoo, pressed it between his hands, and then into his hair—counting the seconds it would take Omi to find his clothes gone, to find Schuldig’s still there and come up with some kind of enraged and offended retort to this.

Almost had his hair rinsed out when the door to the bathroom was pushed open. Quiet and calm and something decidedly deadly about that, soft pat of footsteps and the door to the shower sliding open again. Omi’s perfectly pleasant smile, sweet almost. (Poisonous. Could kill people with that smile on his face.) “Schuldig... where are my clothes?"

Schuldig looked at him, dragging his fingers down through his hair, the last of the soap suds running down his back and chest. “Washing.” And picked up the soap—dropped the eye contact. Still had mud on the back of his arms where the shower hadn’t washed it off yet—and dirt under his fingernails. Worked at those first, rubbing his fingertips into a palm full of soap.

Didn’t look up, but felt Omi’s mind—could imagine the smile on his face just as sweet and loving as a newborn kitten. Mewling and innocent (ready to stab you to death in seconds if it becomes necessary. That’s the real definition of Omi’s sweet smile.) “Where exactly are they washing?”

Picked at the stubborn dirt under his middle finger, back still to the spray of the shower—that much of him at least getting warm finally. But the water was starting to cool off. (Can’t catch a break, huh?) Switched hands, right fingertips against his left palm. “In the basement.” Offhand, like it didn’t matter.

"In... the basement. How convenient." And if this were different, if Omi thought he could get away with it—he’d be ever so nicely asking (ordering) him down to the basement to get his clothes. (Soapy and wet not an improvement on muddy and wet.) "Seems how you've been kind enough to wash them for me, would you mind loaning me something to wear?"

Got it. Clean, finally. Had to pick the last of the mud out from under his thumb there sometime around the time Omi was saying something about being kind. Looked up at him—water getting cool on his back and he wasn’t even warm yet. Considered it. Kind of tilted his head a bit, looked at the towel around Omi’s waist, then back up at his eyes. “I find it extraordinarily convenient really,” he assured him. Then turned the water off and cut off any sort of sweet-and-deadly response Omi might have had ready to come out of his mouth. “I’m assuming those eyes in your head work; therefore you are capable of realizing that we don’t even begin to wear the same size of clothes. I might have a shirt—if you really want it.” And stepped out of the shower, right next to him, brushing against Omi—and grabbed the other towel off the rack.

(Should really think about turning the heat on.)

“This way,” he said without turning around, rubbing the towel across his chest and arms as he left the bathroom. Down the hall ten steps and left into his bedroom. Heard Omi’s thoughts, a little louder now (So, why are you standing here balking and fuming now? You know what's going to happen.) Did he? Made things simpler that way. (You knew back when he invited you up here, and don't pretend you didn't.)

Felt it, almost like an audible snap, when Omi decided—his footsteps following Schuldig. Quiet resolution to stop resisting it. Made it to the door about the same time Schuldig was rubbing the towel against his hair, just dry enough to stop the dripping down his back, and then tossed it toward the door, it hit the wall and slid to the ground. Looked over at Omi. “Shirts are in there,” pointing at the closet. “Bed’s right here.”

(All that set up and this is the offer you make?)

He’d take it or he’d walk around shivering in a T-shirt. Up to him, Schuldig was fucking cold and he was getting in the bed. Pulled the covers down and sat on the bed; didn’t look at Omi. Not yet anyway, gave him time to mull it over.

( And that was a blatant invitation, wasn't it? Going to take it? You'll have to--he's not going to push you against a wall and pet you until you say 'yes' this time.) Chewing on that thought, couldn’t quite give in to it, something in his head, saying no. Couldn’t do it. Just couldn’t. ( Sure you can. Just go lay down like a good neko.) Shivering now, cold in that doorway. But no, couldn’t do it. (Fine then, go put on a shirt and find a corner to sit in until your clothes are dry. And later, when you're home alone rubbing one off you think about this moment and remember that you preferred option number one.)

Schuldig cocked an eyebrow, considered saying something, doing something—(make it easier on him so he can blame you?) No. Schuldig was cold, the air was cold and his hair was wet. Slid back onto the bed, dragged the blankets up and looked back over at Omi-- “Well?”

(Second verse, same as the first.)

Omi considering it—not really, a little maybe. Decided against it almost instantly. (Wimped out after all.)

Bad day, remembered that fucker blowing smoke in his face with all the arrogance in the word and some lopsided pervert’s grin on his face, Crawford’s stubborn silence on the matter and that look over at him—let it be, Schuldig. Let it be for now.

Let it be. Fuck letting it be, fuck this boy here that had followed him and knew what he was doing and right here on the threshold of it decided oh, wait—maybe not. Fucking little boy—Was out of the bed, across the floor, hands sliding across Omi’s chest, the other curling around his shoulder, pushing him—three steps to the wall, awkward with Omi stumbling, tensing against it—or not; didn’t have time to get it in his head before his back hit the wall. Schuldig’s hand up off his shoulder, slipping around to the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his cold hair and tipped his face up.

Kissed him. Frustrated maybe, too close and hungry. More than it had been the last time—

Omi’s hesitation (well now what are you going to do?) Gave a push against his chest, tried to slide a little to the right—not really, not enough force to it. Hadn’t stopped kissing him to do it either—had to do it. (Is he still trying to be the good boy?)

Schuldig broke the kiss, pressed his forehead against Omi’s, licked his lips and that close, brushed his tongue across Omi’s mouth—couldn’t see anything except the blue of Omi’s eyes. “Bed,” he said, hand running down Omi’s arm, fingers curling around his wrist. “I’m cold and we did this standing up last time.”

A nod of Omi’s head, not much, just the downward tilt of his chin—might not have seen it but felt the press against his own forehead and felt the lips moving against his. Breathe of a word there, such pretty give in it. “Okay.” That mind, opening up, past the cold and to that other part that lived and thrived on the feeling of skin against skin.

Stepped away, pulling Omi’s hand, tugging him fast enough that forward inertia quickened his step—almost like a push—and Omi’s knees hit the mattress first, half look back over his shoulder, Schuldig right there behind him, hands up against his shoulder blades, smoothing up to his shoulders and pushing. (Don’t stop now.) Omi leaning forward, knee up on the mattress and his hand—crawling up into the bed, Schuldig following him.

Kicked the blankets down past his feet then sat up to drag them up, over him and Omi—(body heat or no, he was still fucking cold)—and shifted closer, cool skin to Omi’s cool skin, their thighs, bellies and his hand on Omi’s chest. Looking down at him for a minute, watching him look. Listened to the nearly rhythmic rise and fall of his thoughts, drifting out of focus now, just another whisper in the din of voices. Schuldig leaned down, kissed him again, laying against his side with the blankets heavy across his shoulders.

Omi starting to move under him. Kissing him back, opening up more—the feel of his tongue against his. Rolling a little toward him to press back, one of his legs pulling up, knee tenting the blanket. Chilly fingers up on his shoulders, and higher, one around the back of his neck and a breathy gasp into the kiss.

(His mind, though.)

Schuldig shifted again, one leg between Omi’s. Getting warmer now, the heavy blankets and the body against his. Rubbed his hand up and down Omi’s chest, and belly—no mistaking the intent in it. Not the same slow and sweet touches as the last time. Something more immediate—(had a bad day, too cold and now I want something that feels nice and warm.)

(Could have just slept.) Could have, but wasn’t this a nicer alternative?

Moved, shifting his weight now, onto that leg between Omi’s, hand going down, tugging at Omi’s thigh, wanting him to move his leg, give him room—pulled his leg over between Omi’s. Nice shiver running through the body under him; had nothing to do with the chill. With the fingers across his skin, maybe, the palm flat and pressing.

Omi’s hands moving now, down from his shoulders, on his back, fingernails against skin. Low down, around his ribs, pulling against him and then around the front. Soft touches, still hesitant, his thumbs rubbing in against skin.

Schuldig pulled out of the kiss, his cheek against Omi’s as he dipped his head lower, tongue and lips against his jaw, and lower, down his neck, teeth nipping at the skin, tongue soothing it. Strange how it tasted like his own soap— Let his hands drag, heavy touch, friction over skin—still too cool to sweat. Omi pressing up against the touch, another gasp, hands moving around to his back again, petting up to his shoulders. That blanket slipping down, somewhere around his hips now—the air cool but it was starting not to matter much.

Pressed against Omi like this, mouth sucking on his skin and those thighs against his side—getting warm now. Listened to Omi’s breath catching; short whine there. Or a whimper or something—could feel it under his mouth, in Omi’s throat. (And his mind—hovering around that thought. Wanted to touch his hair, probably shouldn’t, but wanted to.) Fingers still up on Schuldig’s shoulders, restlessly rubbing against him.

Schuldig let one hand press against the bed, dropped it down to his elbow, so his belly was pressing against Omi, and move down, thighs against the bottom of his ribs now—mouth trailing lazily down Omi’s chest. (Awful lot of preshow for a quick warming fuck.) Free hand sliding down, over the slim line of Omi’s belly, felt the muscles moving, and lower, round the curve of his hip, and fingers digging into his thigh. Light squeeze, and release, rubbed, curling around, fingertips against the inside—just rubbing.

Shivering there again, felt it everywhere against him, looked up at Omi through the fall of his still wet bangs. Tremble to his jaw, his head tipping back, mouth open with a little gasp—another almost whine. (Loves it, felt it in his mind and it almost made him echo that gasp.) Felt it in the fingers in his hair, petting, and on his shoulders, dipping down against his back—restlessly moving. Pressing harder now.

Lower, tongue trailing down across Omi’s ribs, hand pressing against his thigh, rubbing still and pushing the leg up and out of his way—licked the skin down, down, over his shivering belly. Muscles fluttering under the skin and hips shifting under his chest. His body pressed against Omi’s left leg, trapped between his arm and his side. Bent his head in, tongue following the line of Omi’s hip—another gasp there, hands curling in his hair tighter. Mind wide and bright and full of all the possibility. Schuldig’s fingers curling in tighter, palm rubbing harder against that thigh, slipping down, closer to his hip, shiver of sensitive skin.

(He’s warm now--)

Yes. Looked back up at Omi, his own mouth open, panting a bit. (Oh, look, you’re getting warm too. Now fuck him before you pass out. Sex and no sleep for almost two days don’t mix well.) Completely willing now, that mind and the look in Omi’s eyes. All half lidded like that—fuck—and the fingers on his shoulders still. Absently petting or tugging at his hair.

Could have taken more time—could have kept touching with his mouth and his tongue and seen how far he could push him—and oh that idea had merit. (And oh, the last time you had sleep was somewhere around twenty eight hours ago. Let’s be realistic. You’re pushing your luck now.)

Moved back up, hand slipping off Omi’s thigh, up and pressed against the bed as he shifted his body weight back up, hips pressed tight to Omi’s and rubbing. Mouth back on his. Greedy needy kiss, filled with some noise rising out of his chest. Pulled away again, breath heavy, hips pressing down— Omi’s mind shuddering with it—felt good that. Teeth bared and let his head drop forward, just briefly, and then reaching back across the bed, tugging open the drawer of his bedside table. Omi made a little noise—didn’t like that. (Hoping that he’d left the lube there—could have moved it to the bathroom or lost it in the couch or—)

“Fuck,” he said. It wasn’t there. Shoved the hair out of his face. And pulled a bit farther away from Omi—wiggling closer to the edge of the bed, reaching his hand down, feeling around under the bed—couldn’t find it. Kept looking because it had to be there. (Today? Right, because your luck has been so fucking good today.) Reached up higher, closer to the wall—felt the edge of the tube and grabbed it. Looked back over at Omi. (You saw nothing, right?) No he saw, first your keys, then your tumble, now your quest for the lube.

Fuck.

Kissed Omi again, moving back between his legs. Pressing him down into the mattress with the weight of his body and rubbing against him again. (Yes, distract him with the tinglies and he’ll never remember.) Hand on his shoulder now, broke the kiss to breathe and flipped open the top to the lube. Had to shift his weight again. Omi helpfully moving his legs up. Shivered at the chill to the lube—fucking cold and hadn’t they just gotten warm? (Condom?) Didn’t have one, didn’t care to find one—handful of lube and hissed at the cold of it against him, hard pant of breath.

Omi making some noise, Schuldig looked down at him, snapped the lube shut again, tossed it at the wall and kissed him again, hand down between them, felt his forearm rubbing against Omi and heard the stutter of breath at that—pressed against him, slipping with the lube— Omi broke the kiss, head rolling back, whimper or whine, muscles tightening and releasing, and a shuddering breath out. Schuldig’s forehead against Omi’s damp shoulder, breath puffing against his chest, hands curling in the sheets. Still for now. Eyes closed—feeling it. His mind, his voice, his body shifting and shivering—legs up against his sides, curling around him.

Turned his head, ran his tongue across the mark he’d left earlier, pressing in, grinding his hips against Omi’s, shifting on his knees a bit, rubbing him inside—those hands in his hair again, or on his back. Schuldig pushing himself up, hand still fisted in those sheets, moved then. Short little rock of his hips, Omi moving under him, wriggling, trying to pull his legs up farther—Schuldig helped, wrapped a hand around his knee to pull it up higher, pressed against his ribs again.

Pressed in again—gasping whimper there, Omi’s head rolling back, neck bare again, eyes closed. (Think he wants more of that.) Yes, watched Omi’s face—rocking against him. Muted urgency to the moves, pushed himself up more, watched Omi’s face, blush creeping up from his neck. Mouth open—those noises. The pink of his tongue across his lips. His hands falling out of Schuldig’s hair, on his shoulders now, fingernails digging in—on his arms.

More now, needed more, wanted more—those noises, fuck, those noises. His hair swaying with the movements, tips brushing back and forth across Omi’s chest, his shoulders, against his neck— Legs slipping again as they tried to stay up, sweaty and slick now-- Schuldig pressing in harder, breath panting hard through his clenched teeth.

Omi’s fingers tangling in his own hair now, head tipping back, body shivering with it, rocking back against him and pulling him down with his legs. The tight muscles of his thighs flexing against his waist. Schuldig dropped down, on his elbow, hand moving down, slipping under Omi’s leg, holding it up, hand against his knee again.) Kissed him—sloppy, breathy and wet. Short and quick, another one and then another. Rocking in time with the thrusts, Omi’s whimpers-- Schuldig’s belly rubbing against him now and he could feel it in that mind.

Touched everywhere like that, inside and outside, and wanting it. (Oh, fuck, that mind.) Grated out a word that could have been fuck or Omi’s name or something else. Came out as a moan. Omi scratching at his back now, or grabbing his hair—rubbing back, eager and wanting and so close—

Schuldig’s mouth against his neck again, tongue against his skin, sweat and soap. Omi’s back arching, pressed up against him, head rolling back, soundless gasp and his mind-- Sunburst.

Felt fingernails in his shoulders and breathed a needy curse, pressing in—faster, no rhythm, just the need of it—feeling Omi all around him, shivering and shuddering and gasping at him again. Moment held and made longer, Schuldig's teeth clenched, (oh fuck yes) pressed to his neck.

Shivering with it, pulse still throbbing with it, but let his hand slid off Omi’s leg, down, to his hip, and then onto the bed, resting against him, muscles tired and languid. Just catching his breath now. Warm.

Cool air, but warm skin and warmth under him, turned his head so he could hear Omi’s heartbeat while it slowed back down, fingers against his back and hair. Yawned.

(Fucking exhausted.)

Wiggled a little. Moving off Omi, toward the inside of the bed, still against him, but his head on the pillow, one palm resting on Omi’s chest. Wanted the blankets, wanted to stay where he was. (Lazy bastard. You should shower.) No. Could do that later. Tired now. Warm again.

Caught the blankets with his foot, dragged them up high enough to get at them with his hand, and then pulled them up to his shoulders, over Omi—another yawn.

Sleep.
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This River Is Wild