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.
[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
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]