We all masturbate, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It's also something most prefer to keep private. But sometimes, people forget to knock while we're in the middle of things, and awkwardness ensues.
* Post with your character's name and fandom in the subject line * Others reply, stumbling in on you. * You pick a reaction from the list below. (Or roll 1-10!) * PROFIT!
REACTIONS:
➊ EMBARRASSMENT Yeah, someone just caught you in a very private act and you kind of wish the ground would swallow you up. Now.
➋ ANGER How dare someone barge in on you without knocking! You'll give them a piece of your mind right now.
➌ EXCITEMENT/EXHIBITIONISM happens to be a major turn-on for you, so you'll just continue. Maybe even ask them to give you a hand, you never know...
➍ APATHY Big deal, it's not like they've been living in a bubble where they never knew masturbation existed, and if they were they had to find out about it sometime.
➎ SQUICK Either it was a family member who just walked in on you or you just feel so utterly dirty at having been caught doing something so personal.
➏ DELAYED reaction You didn't even notice they were there until after you finished.
➐ DERAILED REACTION Oh no you've been--what is that on their head? Wait, the world's ending now? D-did you just see that unicorn? Worry about being caught later, figure out what the hell is going on first.
➑ FRUSTRATION COME ON, EVERY TIME!
➒ RELIEF Thank GOODNESS someone came by! Otherwise you'd have had to stop and go grab that toy/pillow/remote for the annoying stereo yourself. Also they could maybe swap discs because this movie isn't really doing it for you. What do you mean it's inappropriate? It's not like you're asking them to watch.
[The room is an inversion of its standard infrastructure, the antiseptic-white walls plastered with damask wallpaper and drawn back to house bookshelves stuffed to capacity. From the ceiling a panelled grid illuminates the heart of the room with a constant and tempered light, deviating from the furnishing's old-world aesthetic.
Her shoulders cast a long and uneven shadow from which her hair propagates like broken limbs. Her forearm lays at ease upon the couch, though her other arm has only now become inert in the view of her visitor, the unpunctual boy.
She does not rush to stop, ostensibly it is a pause, her lean middle finger gloveless and delayed inside her. Concealing what was seen is a meaningless endeavour. Her eyelids are shut, a quality which isn't changed by neither his entrance or voice.]
You, [resumes the woman in his stead,] have neglected your schedule. Haven't you.
[It's subtle as a kiss, as a knife between the ribs and yet his discomfort is detectable in every line of his body, his sharp angles subtly refracted by the tension rising up in him, by the desire to excuse himself, to abruptly turn and take those few remaining steps between him and the door. But he can't do that, her presence is like the worst kind of magnetism hooking him down rearing him in, a butterfly pinned under glass. For a moment he can't so much as look away; behind the impassive mask of his glasses his eyes are caught on the deceptive vulnerability of her naked hand and the heat is gaining ground on him, he hopes it doesn't show.
A foolish thought, as if he could hide anything from her.
His eyes lower as she begins to speak and it's just as he imagined it to be, just as he knew it would be her voice is soft and sweet and deadly as a snake, speaking words that find him wanting, shame seeping through him like the spread of blood from a stab wound. But worse than that, worst of all, she isn't dismissing him, the leash of her words holding him there while she carries on.
He has excuses. He could give them to her, but her voice her actions his embarrassment make them tangle in his throat like creeping vines, like barbed wire and he can barely speak at all except to say]
I...yes, Professor. Apologies.
[It's all he can do to prevent himself from stuttering over the words]
[The quartz movements mark the passage of seconds within the skeleton of a mahogany grandfather clock, or so is the impression, it could be silence permeating the room. Time elapses indefinitely, their distance stays unchanged. It is her belief that inaction is action in and of itself: the synthetic model still lingering at the threshold of her study is accountable for its indecision. His tendency to flinch before a fall is engrained in his genetics like an albatross forever wound around the neck. It will be the agent behind his eventual demise.
If he recoiled and egressed into the halls as recourse for his indiscretion, she would very well know.]
You are a bad son, [says the woman, her conversational cadence untouched by malice, calm and factual.] No good at all.
[Her eyelids lift, expose supine cuts of lucid blue that take purchase on Giovanni's expression. Her professional accoutrement is parted from her clavicles downward, the lean scientist bisected like an Inquisitorial torture, a witch unmade but breathing. Her fingers cross her labia, wrist worries the Aryan blonde hair at her Venus mound. The professor exhales through her nose, wearily, but patiently.]
[Her words rip through him like a bullet to the gut, a needleplunge into his heart and yet he doesn't entirely disagree, he's heard all this before (you pathetic dog, you piece of trash a litany repeated so many times it's tattooed into his bones). He's just the leftovers, the dregs of a life, a pale shade that can never quite live up to what it was made for (can never live up to him) and the cool, detached quality of her voice only makes him feel it with a greater level of certainty.
These are facts he cannot refute, so he says nothing at all, words turning to ash in his mouth like the thick, heavy residue of a funeral pyre.
He just stands there despite his mounting discomfort, a pressure that gathers behind his eyes a pounding sound inside his head and he should leave but he can't. He keeps his gaze lowered to the ground but even then he senses the continued movement of her hand, a flickerflash in the periphery of his vision and he knows she's there, laid bare and open and it does things to him, deep dark things that are better off left alone.
Then there's her command and he's almost grateful for it, turns with knifepoint precision to take the onetwothree steps to the door, bonewhite fingers already curled around the handle (their shaking almost indiscernible) before he thinks to ask her]
If you'd prefer me to return at a more convenient time...
[The professor—if she ever wore the academic title in an official capacity, perhaps in some institution in old Munich—studies him with a neutralness that seems to transform her full lips toward a conceited frown with the mere weight of the supple tissue. The long skirt of her colourless garment moves frictionless across her knee as she crosses one pale leg over the other, a flash of bare thigh culminating the motion. Even so her motivation isn't in concealing her body, her poise is a mannerism independent of the present circumstances.
Her shoulders pull back and she inclines a measure, her neck like a reaching swan's. She parts her lips and gently lifts her pale yellow eyebrows in mimicry of empathy.]
What will you ever do? [she says, the words accompanied with a blasé shake of her head.]
[He asks of her an empty question and of this he is well aware: their situation gave him immediate permission to excuse himself from her study it was courtesy he wished to observe, soliciting her consent now is redundant. His choice has manifested and no tinkering of the door's handle could render him inconspicuous beneath her clear blue eyes.
Her bared hand meets the padded arm of the couch and she raises herself upright. Her gaze is serene, nigh palpable like a pale sensation bothering the thin hairs of the back of his neck.]
[And he feels it, the weight of her gaze like the featherlight caress of fingertips (fourfivesix, all of them) along his Spine, hooking tight around his collar, holding fast. He knows her eyes are on him and he feels small and sickeningly exposed beneath them, just like always. Her voice is soft and light and mild and yet underneath it lies daggers and teeth and shards of bone that rip and tear right down to the core of him. She sees him, this is something he knows.
An empty question, indeed.
Underneath her artificial sweetness there is mockery and perhaps a test or maybe she just likes to watch him squirm. His moment of indecision has cost him something and now her false endearments drip like acid on his skin; it's his fear and hesitance that she's always despised (his inability to live up to what she wants of him, just an inferior specimen) and so he needs to act.
The door closes with a sharp, resounding click that reverberates right down to his bones.
He turns to face her then, though his movements are somnambulist-slow and stiff as rigor mortis. Behind the murkydark sheen of his glasses his eyes remain lowered, not quite daring to look at her but that isn't something she should be able to discern (he suspects she can, nonetheless).
[The cold din of the lock's mechanism travels the hall beyond like a poltergeist, a noise subdued to their ears as a muffled shout. Were it not simple superstition many restless souls would inhabit the infrastructure of her steel nest. The woman chooses to raise her chin a small degree, she punctuates her child's judgement with an intrigued "Oh?" The rectangular panels overhead saturate her hair with light, blonde suffused lament platinum in impious parody of stained glass paintings.]
We make progress.
[She abandons the glow of her figurative alter for the corporeal and present him; her even steps bring them face to face. Her countenance inhabits his eyeware as a gaunt interpretation of her unusually symmetrical features. She is beautiful within the framework of modern aesthetics, the structure of her face lacking inconsistency or flaw. However one cannot but sense an ugliness in her perfection not unlike the uncanny valley effect associated with beings which merely imitate life.
She crooks her neck as though peering at a much smaller child from below, her lips half pursed in an amiable smile.]
Nothing to say—mm? That's all right. This was quite difficult for you.
[Her divided coat exposes an ample and pale bust laced in an intricate brassiere at contrast with the plain surfaces of her work assemble, the coordinated underwear left discarded at the foot of the furniture. She lifts her arms, their nakedness a peculiar sight further emphasised by additional fingers which set out to traverse his hair. Her limbs fold in the manner of a cross, they cradle his skull to her chest, glasses and all. Her body vibrates barely in concord with a quiet hum.]
There, there. I hadn't made you devoid of these stimuli.
[Progress she says, and it makes him dare to think that this time maybe (just this once) he hasn't done the wrong thing, that his decision not to turn and flee with his tail between his legs like some quivering puppy reduced to the parameters of his own fear might be the correct one. And yet this glimmer of possibility does nothing to still the frantic beating of his pulse as she rises with all the magnanimity of a goddess (the only one he'll ever need) her steps across the floor counted out in time with his anxious heartbeats.
Only when she's standing right in front of him does he dare to raise his eyes, careful to keep them from straying beyond the perfect symmetry of her face but even then his traitorous mind fills in the gaps, turns his throat sandpaper-raw as something sickly stirs in him, just as she knew it would. It's reminiscent of the thrill that comes from the crack of bones under his hands the scent of blood and gunsmoke thick and heavy in the air and yet somehow completely different, something bigger, darker, uglier than that could ever be.
His face is a blank mask with lips turned down despite the too-loud clamour of the thoughts scrabbling frantically inside his head like claws like teeth that rip and tear in an effort to get out. But then she's reaching for him, pulling him close, the soft swell of her ample breasts a crushing pressure that makes his rabbit heart sing. Her terrible proximity, it frightens him. It excites him.
He's still stiff and filled with tension in the pliancy of her arms, hands hanging limp and heavy at his sides and yet the soft exhalation of his breath speaks plainly of a desire fulfilled. There's only one word, thick and quietly muffled by the press of palewhite flesh against his lips]
[Her conduct moves toward buoyant and innocuous, if not for the underground complex obscuring her features from the public eye her deeds would not match her face. However the inhabitants of her house, those whom outlasted their peers, are disillusioned to the warmth behind her immaculate smile. She does not dress herself in pretence so to make her affection a malignant lie. What lies closer to the truth is more intricate and disconcerting: her unpredictable acts of fondness are genuine. But what place they spring from in her heart is beyond cursory analysis like the question of why good men submit to evil and the reverse.
Her fingers are long, their progresses disarranges his Mod cut and smooths his hair right back in their wake like the meticulous extremities of a spider. She lists her head and ever slightly presses her lips to the plane of hair at his temple.]
Mmhm.
[Her answer is nonchalantly hummed as if to say her role in his existence is self-evident, her nails plucking a thread of dust from his scalp and flicking it astray.]
Would you say it's coincidental that you have my face? Although it has been wasted on you.
[She sees no need in letting him contemplate the resemblance in her presence; after all, it is only "progress" and not stagnation if momentum is sustained.]
U-p.
[The professor's directive calls for his chin to rise. Her smile is reflected in his glasses, her pupils upon his as if the barrier was not there at all.] You must behave as a man now. [She looms in not in increments but one calm and fluid movement, and locks her lips over his.]
[Pressed body-close like this she fills his world until there's nothing else only her scent her skin her fingers moving with the honed and delicate precision of scalpels through his hair against the outline of his skull; her touches echo there. She's all he ever needs and wants, to leave would be unthinkable, that he'd ever dreamed of anything else rings hollow like a distant lie (independent desires crushed out of him by years and years of living this pathetic shadow of a life).
His heart beats so hard it hurts, a dull and shallow ache in his chest that only deepens with the casual derogation of her words (worthless trash, he knows he'll never measure up to the high bright pinnacle of her exacting standards). But there's no time for him to linger over that. Not with her voice commanding him and like a marionette on a string his chin rises without pause or hesitation. There is never any question that he'd have it in him to disobey.
Like some small animal caught in the headlight's glare he meets her eyes and the reflective shield of his glasses serves as no protection at all (she sees him, she has his measure knows him right down to his core). For the briefest moment her words hang heavy in the fraction of space that remains between them, thoughts a frantic scrabbling as he tries to formulate some kind of response but then just like that (the graceful swoop of a hunting bird) her lips are pressed against the irregular line of his mouth and he feels lost.
Something jumps and jitters in him, the uncertain lurch from stomach to throat, that sensation that comes over you the moment before a fall. He stands there pinned and paralised by the depth and width of his own fear, hands curling and uncurling at his sides in an act of abject defenselessness but he can't have that, oh no. Her instructions had been clear.
And so he returns the press of lips with the kind of tentative uncertainty that speaks all too plainly of his inexperience]
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bakerstreet2013-06-25 08:28 pm
Not at all.
Her shoulders cast a long and uneven shadow from which her hair propagates like broken limbs. Her forearm lays at ease upon the couch, though her other arm has only now become inert in the view of her visitor, the unpunctual boy.
She does not rush to stop, ostensibly it is a pause, her lean middle finger gloveless and delayed inside her. Concealing what was seen is a meaningless endeavour. Her eyelids are shut, a quality which isn't changed by neither his entrance or voice.]
You, [resumes the woman in his stead,] have neglected your schedule. Haven't you.
awesome
[It's subtle as a kiss, as a knife between the ribs and yet his discomfort is detectable in every line of his body, his sharp angles subtly refracted by the tension rising up in him, by the desire to excuse himself, to abruptly turn and take those few remaining steps between him and the door. But he can't do that, her presence is like the worst kind of magnetism hooking him down rearing him in, a butterfly pinned under glass. For a moment he can't so much as look away; behind the impassive mask of his glasses his eyes are caught on the deceptive vulnerability of her naked hand and the heat is gaining ground on him, he hopes it doesn't show.
A foolish thought, as if he could hide anything from her.
His eyes lower as she begins to speak and it's just as he imagined it to be, just as he knew it would be her voice is soft and sweet and deadly as a snake, speaking words that find him wanting, shame seeping through him like the spread of blood from a stab wound. But worse than that, worst of all, she isn't dismissing him, the leash of her words holding him there while she carries on.
He has excuses. He could give them to her, but her voice her actions his embarrassment make them tangle in his throat like creeping vines, like barbed wire and he can barely speak at all except to say]
I...yes, Professor. Apologies.
[It's all he can do to prevent himself from stuttering over the words]
no subject
If he recoiled and egressed into the halls as recourse for his indiscretion, she would very well know.]
You are a bad son, [says the woman, her conversational cadence untouched by malice, calm and factual.] No good at all.
[Her eyelids lift, expose supine cuts of lucid blue that take purchase on Giovanni's expression. Her professional accoutrement is parted from her clavicles downward, the lean scientist bisected like an Inquisitorial torture, a witch unmade but breathing. Her fingers cross her labia, wrist worries the Aryan blonde hair at her Venus mound. The professor exhales through her nose, wearily, but patiently.]
If you cannot leave you will shut the door.
no subject
[Her words rip through him like a bullet to the gut, a needleplunge into his heart and yet he doesn't entirely disagree, he's heard all this before (you pathetic dog, you piece of trash a litany repeated so many times it's tattooed into his bones). He's just the leftovers, the dregs of a life, a pale shade that can never quite live up to what it was made for (can never live up to him) and the cool, detached quality of her voice only makes him feel it with a greater level of certainty.
These are facts he cannot refute, so he says nothing at all, words turning to ash in his mouth like the thick, heavy residue of a funeral pyre.
He just stands there despite his mounting discomfort, a pressure that gathers behind his eyes a pounding sound inside his head and he should leave but he can't. He keeps his gaze lowered to the ground but even then he senses the continued movement of her hand, a flickerflash in the periphery of his vision and he knows she's there, laid bare and open and it does things to him, deep dark things that are better off left alone.
Then there's her command and he's almost grateful for it, turns with knifepoint precision to take the onetwothree steps to the door, bonewhite fingers already curled around the handle (their shaking almost indiscernible) before he thinks to ask her]
If you'd prefer me to return at a more convenient time...
[It's a question, semi-formed]
no subject
Her shoulders pull back and she inclines a measure, her neck like a reaching swan's. She parts her lips and gently lifts her pale yellow eyebrows in mimicry of empathy.]
What will you ever do? [she says, the words accompanied with a blasé shake of her head.]
[He asks of her an empty question and of this he is well aware: their situation gave him immediate permission to excuse himself from her study it was courtesy he wished to observe, soliciting her consent now is redundant. His choice has manifested and no tinkering of the door's handle could render him inconspicuous beneath her clear blue eyes.
Her bared hand meets the padded arm of the couch and she raises herself upright. Her gaze is serene, nigh palpable like a pale sensation bothering the thin hairs of the back of his neck.]
The clock ticks away, my little Giovanni.
no subject
[And he feels it, the weight of her gaze like the featherlight caress of fingertips (fourfivesix, all of them) along his Spine, hooking tight around his collar, holding fast. He knows her eyes are on him and he feels small and sickeningly exposed beneath them, just like always. Her voice is soft and light and mild and yet underneath it lies daggers and teeth and shards of bone that rip and tear right down to the core of him. She sees him, this is something he knows.
An empty question, indeed.
Underneath her artificial sweetness there is mockery and perhaps a test or maybe she just likes to watch him squirm. His moment of indecision has cost him something and now her false endearments drip like acid on his skin; it's his fear and hesitance that she's always despised (his inability to live up to what she wants of him, just an inferior specimen) and so he needs to act.
The door closes with a sharp, resounding click that reverberates right down to his bones.
He turns to face her then, though his movements are somnambulist-slow and stiff as rigor mortis. Behind the murkydark sheen of his glasses his eyes remain lowered, not quite daring to look at her but that isn't something she should be able to discern (he suspects she can, nonetheless).
He's standing there, steeped in guilty silence]
no subject
We make progress.
[She abandons the glow of her figurative alter for the corporeal and present him; her even steps bring them face to face. Her countenance inhabits his eyeware as a gaunt interpretation of her unusually symmetrical features. She is beautiful within the framework of modern aesthetics, the structure of her face lacking inconsistency or flaw. However one cannot but sense an ugliness in her perfection not unlike the uncanny valley effect associated with beings which merely imitate life.
She crooks her neck as though peering at a much smaller child from below, her lips half pursed in an amiable smile.]
Nothing to say—mm? That's all right. This was quite difficult for you.
[Her divided coat exposes an ample and pale bust laced in an intricate brassiere at contrast with the plain surfaces of her work assemble, the coordinated underwear left discarded at the foot of the furniture. She lifts her arms, their nakedness a peculiar sight further emphasised by additional fingers which set out to traverse his hair. Her limbs fold in the manner of a cross, they cradle his skull to her chest, glasses and all. Her body vibrates barely in concord with a quiet hum.]
There, there. I hadn't made you devoid of these stimuli.
no subject
[Progress she says, and it makes him dare to think that this time maybe (just this once) he hasn't done the wrong thing, that his decision not to turn and flee with his tail between his legs like some quivering puppy reduced to the parameters of his own fear might be the correct one. And yet this glimmer of possibility does nothing to still the frantic beating of his pulse as she rises with all the magnanimity of a goddess (the only one he'll ever need) her steps across the floor counted out in time with his anxious heartbeats.
Only when she's standing right in front of him does he dare to raise his eyes, careful to keep them from straying beyond the perfect symmetry of her face but even then his traitorous mind fills in the gaps, turns his throat sandpaper-raw as something sickly stirs in him, just as she knew it would. It's reminiscent of the thrill that comes from the crack of bones under his hands the scent of blood and gunsmoke thick and heavy in the air and yet somehow completely different, something bigger, darker, uglier than that could ever be.
His face is a blank mask with lips turned down despite the too-loud clamour of the thoughts scrabbling frantically inside his head like claws like teeth that rip and tear in an effort to get out. But then she's reaching for him, pulling him close, the soft swell of her ample breasts a crushing pressure that makes his rabbit heart sing. Her terrible proximity, it frightens him. It excites him.
He's still stiff and filled with tension in the pliancy of her arms, hands hanging limp and heavy at his sides and yet the soft exhalation of his breath speaks plainly of a desire fulfilled. There's only one word, thick and quietly muffled by the press of palewhite flesh against his lips]
Mother.
no subject
Her fingers are long, their progresses disarranges his Mod cut and smooths his hair right back in their wake like the meticulous extremities of a spider. She lists her head and ever slightly presses her lips to the plane of hair at his temple.]
Mmhm.
[Her answer is nonchalantly hummed as if to say her role in his existence is self-evident, her nails plucking a thread of dust from his scalp and flicking it astray.]
Would you say it's coincidental that you have my face? Although it has been wasted on you.
[She sees no need in letting him contemplate the resemblance in her presence; after all, it is only "progress" and not stagnation if momentum is sustained.]
U-p.
[The professor's directive calls for his chin to rise. Her smile is reflected in his glasses, her pupils upon his as if the barrier was not there at all.] You must behave as a man now. [She looms in not in increments but one calm and fluid movement, and locks her lips over his.]
no subject
[Pressed body-close like this she fills his world until there's nothing else only her scent her skin her fingers moving with the honed and delicate precision of scalpels through his hair against the outline of his skull; her touches echo there. She's all he ever needs and wants, to leave would be unthinkable, that he'd ever dreamed of anything else rings hollow like a distant lie (independent desires crushed out of him by years and years of living this pathetic shadow of a life).
His heart beats so hard it hurts, a dull and shallow ache in his chest that only deepens with the casual derogation of her words (worthless trash, he knows he'll never measure up to the high bright pinnacle of her exacting standards). But there's no time for him to linger over that. Not with her voice commanding him and like a marionette on a string his chin rises without pause or hesitation. There is never any question that he'd have it in him to disobey.
Like some small animal caught in the headlight's glare he meets her eyes and the reflective shield of his glasses serves as no protection at all (she sees him, she has his measure knows him right down to his core). For the briefest moment her words hang heavy in the fraction of space that remains between them, thoughts a frantic scrabbling as he tries to formulate some kind of response but then just like that (the graceful swoop of a hunting bird) her lips are pressed against the irregular line of his mouth and he feels lost.
Something jumps and jitters in him, the uncertain lurch from stomach to throat, that sensation that comes over you the moment before a fall. He stands there pinned and paralised by the depth and width of his own fear, hands curling and uncurling at his sides in an act of abject defenselessness but he can't have that, oh no. Her instructions had been clear.
And so he returns the press of lips with the kind of tentative uncertainty that speaks all too plainly of his inexperience]