Weiss Kreuz does not belong to me. If they did there would be a SchuSchu/B-
Chan pairing.
Warning: Rated mostly for language.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
He's doing it.
Of course he's doing it.
Because there's expectation in that voice.
There's obligation in his mind.
But most of all, because he's wanted to do this for ages.
So he's on his knees now.
And he's leaning his elbows on the floor.
And there's hands on his hips and nothing else but silence.
There's a neat fucking pile of neatly folded fucking clothes on the neat fucking floor.
Right in his line of vision.
And he wants to hit it, throw a bit of disarray into all of this.
But that's violation of the rules.
And as much as he pretends to be a rebel - he isn't.
So now he's afraid to soil the neatness of this room.
The neat, calm, indifferent, cold fucking.
And he'd be damned if he made a move.
He'd be damned if he asked to fuck on the bed.
So he's fine with the floor.
It suits the filth he thinks himself to be.
And when it's done.
When the neat fuck is neatly fucking done
And the neat fucking pile of neat fucking clothes is neatly fucking gone;
Then he'll storm out of the room -
Like he storms out of everything
Cause he can't be quiet --
Storm out of the room and search for something a bit firmer--
Because this felt like a dream
And dreams are lies and fake images--
Something a bit messy to bring him--
Because he simply can't stand fucking neatness
Simply can't stand solid concepts--
To bring him back to the harsh reality.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Silania: I don't know who the fuck I slept with to conceive this baby, but here it is, born into the world. I like it. But hell, I like most everything I write. Please review.
Farf: Reviews hurt God.
Silania: I can tell you one thing, this isn't his kid.
Warning: Rated mostly for language.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
He's doing it.
Of course he's doing it.
Because there's expectation in that voice.
There's obligation in his mind.
But most of all, because he's wanted to do this for ages.
So he's on his knees now.
And he's leaning his elbows on the floor.
And there's hands on his hips and nothing else but silence.
There's a neat fucking pile of neatly folded fucking clothes on the neat fucking floor.
Right in his line of vision.
And he wants to hit it, throw a bit of disarray into all of this.
But that's violation of the rules.
And as much as he pretends to be a rebel - he isn't.
So now he's afraid to soil the neatness of this room.
The neat, calm, indifferent, cold fucking.
And he'd be damned if he made a move.
He'd be damned if he asked to fuck on the bed.
So he's fine with the floor.
It suits the filth he thinks himself to be.
And when it's done.
When the neat fuck is neatly fucking done
And the neat fucking pile of neat fucking clothes is neatly fucking gone;
Then he'll storm out of the room -
Like he storms out of everything
Cause he can't be quiet --
Storm out of the room and search for something a bit firmer--
Because this felt like a dream
And dreams are lies and fake images--
Something a bit messy to bring him--
Because he simply can't stand fucking neatness
Simply can't stand solid concepts--
To bring him back to the harsh reality.
____________________________________________________________________________ __________
Silania: I don't know who the fuck I slept with to conceive this baby, but here it is, born into the world. I like it. But hell, I like most everything I write. Please review.
Farf: Reviews hurt God.
Silania: I can tell you one thing, this isn't his kid.
