more stupid OC RP shit, you don't really need any background do you?
Title: ...eh? Can't decide on one.
Author: Nihilism
Rating: A light NC-17, if that's possible.
Summary: There were, undoubtedly, a long list of reasons for Lee's incapability to get himself off.
Notes: Another blurb inspired by a private storyline I share with the delightful Miss Oozi. And yeah, that's pretty much all I write anymore.
He had never had much luck with this. There were, undoubtedly, a long list of reasons for his incapability to get himself off. Paranoia was one - afraid Lillian would, as was her habit, walk into his bedroom without so much as a warning and then he'd have to deal with her screaming and complaints about his perversion, as if she had any room to throw stones on that account. If not Lillian, then Rose, who might come back with those horrible magazines and reassurances about how every teenage boy went through this.
Another reason could have been his infamously low self esteem. No matter what he tried to focus on, reality always came back to remind him that it was him, Lee, with his hand down his pants and he really found nothing the least bit arousing about that. He was not attractive, he was too small and thin and weird-looking; his eyes too big and lips too thin and hips too sharp, too feminine overall, and while he'd accepted all of this it didn't do much to help him achieve orgasm when it was his own delicate-fingered hand around his erection.
He had thought that when he'd finally come to the conclusion, or been pushed to it by the recently acquired convicted roommate across the hall, that he was attracted to men and not women that it would have cleared some things up. That he would have an easier time of one of the other things that came so naturally to most boys his age. But it didn't, he still could not get himself off.
No, he was about to accept it, he was just a failure at all things. The only time he had managed to masturbate successfully, he'd woken up almost painfully aroused with no recollection of the dream that made him that way, and only because he'd just had to shift against his sheets to come was he able to. And only because it felt so good that time did he continue to try.
Lillian and Rose aren't home yet, so that rules out his first excuse. The only person who is home is the convict, Ruckus, and he is across the hall. Asleep, Lee thinks, because he sleeps a lot. Of course, if he had to be locked in this apartment almost all day every day, he would sleep a lot, too. The lights are off to nullify his second cop-out, aside from the lava lamp on his desk which doesn't provide enough luminance to let him be thoroughly disgusted with himself. And with his new found clarity, he isn't wondering why mental images of big breasts and soft lips don't do anything for him.
It always begins the same, now. He tries to be a good boy, even while doing this, and think of someone relatively socially acceptable. The boy from his art class, the one that had stood him up for homecoming but made it up to him by cuddling and kissing all night. He's laying on his back, hands on his stomach and eyes closed, listening to the Velvet Underground and imagining Josh's hands running over him. Remembering the uncertain way the other boy moves against him, just as confused as he is about the whole thing. The hesitant way they kiss, feeling their way out as they go along.
The images are sufficient to get Lee started, his small hands running down his sides shakily, not unlike his classmate's. They dip under the waistband of his pants, teasing, but then divert to slide up the sides of his ribcage instead as if they're afraid of traversing any lower. He rolls onto his side, back to the wall, squeezing his eyelids down tighter as he continues to picture the scene in his head.
But as per usual, now, Josh's face fades out of view and instead there's a scratchy voice against his throat, the rough hint of stubble that neither of the boys can grow yet scraping over his collarbone. At first, Lee resists, pretends it isn't what he wants. He tries to force Josh's visage back into his imagination, but it always only works for a few moments before he gives in. Before he accepts that it's Ruckus he wants to feel move against him, completely confident in the movements, completely controlling with his kisses.
His hands are too small to mimic the older man's in size, but they grow much bolder as Lee's creativity fills in the blanks. No longer hesitant, they snake down his torso to unlatch his pants, curling into the gap in the material to force the zipper down. Lee's mouth falls open to accompany his heavier breathing and he tries not to get ahead of himself, tries not to think It's working and just focus on the daydream. His pants undone, he wriggles his tiny hips the nervous way he knows he would, if Ruckus were gripping onto him the same way Lee's left hand grips onto his right hip right now. He gives a quiet, uncertain moan as his right hand snakes under his boxers to tease at his tummy and thighs, the type of moan he imagines Ruckus' ether and cancer-burn voice would commend with a Tha's a good boy...
The pants slide off of his hips with the squirming and he kicks them down, over his boots to pile on the floor. His hands become even bolder, hooking under the elastic of his boxers to remove them in the same fashion, and his empty ego doesn't even register the fact that he's now lying in nothing but Doc Martens on his unmade bed. Because he's recalling the way Ruckus kissed him, gentle but demanding at the same time, his tongue lapping at Lee's lower lip in reassurance even as he rolled the boy onto his back to hover over him and increase the intimacy. He's thinking of the way the convict smelled that close up, dirt and used oil covering his arms and clothes from his court-appointed dayjob, cigarette smoke clinging to his short hair and skin. His small mouth parts farther to release a drawn out whimper of want, and imagined hands rough with callouses slide between his legs to comply.
He curls those thin fingertips around his shaft, drifting languidly up the length of it to let his thumb circle the head teasingly. Ruckus isn't hesitant, no, he knows what he's doing. He just wants to play with the naive little virgin. His efforts are rewarded as the boy gasps, his spine bending and forcing his young, lithe back into a fluid, graceful arch, straining towards a body that isn't there. Lee's right hand grips at the sheets, at Ruckus' skin, as the hand moving over his cock speeds its movements minutely, giving him a little of the friction he craves.
The fourteen year old writhing on the bed does not hear the door open. Were it his aunt, he'd be alerted to her presence immediately by a horrified scream. Were it his aunt's girlfriend, he'd only hear a gasp before the woman ran off to collect some disgusting Playboy to give him along with informative material on human anatomy. But he hears nothing, and the man pushes the door open cautiously, wondering if the low level of light means his young roommate is asleep. He's only seeking company to keep him awake through two hours of horrendous 80's cinema.
But he stops when he spots the figure on the single bed, freezes. He should be closing the door quietly and returning to his room now. His jaw should not be dropping, heart rate should not be speeding up. The sight he's met with should have no effect on him but embarassment. But he freezes, and he watches. Watches as Lee's right hand clenches a fistful of sheets, but more attentively watches as his left moves between his gorgeous, thin legs, clenches a fistful of plaintive flesh and massages it with amatuer experience. More attentively yet, he zeros in on the boy's pale face, the perfect pink tongue running over his forbidden lips, the long dark eyelashes fluttering as his eyes move under the lids, picturing things Ruckus can only imagine, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Ruckus finds himself thinking that he could show the kid how to do this the right way, but he doesn't move to do so, and neither does he feign guilt for that thought.
It was four days ago that Ruckus gave up on pretending he didn't find the boy intriguing. Four days ago he stopped telling himself it was wrong to like the way Lee sometimes crawled into his bed and curled up against him in the middle of the night, stopped telling himself it was wrong to want to pull him even closer than he was. To want to do more than rub his back comfortingly, to want to drag his hands farther down and grip that small, perfectly rounded ass to force the boy's body against his own and thrust against those sharp, tiny hips that moved too sensually for their innocence.
Four days ago he kissed this boy and was shocked by the passion he was met with, shocked with the nervous but bold little tongue that pushed its way into his welcoming mouth. More than shocked by the shift of Lee's impish body against him, aroused by the way he grasped his arms, his neck, and begged for more with his movements. Aroused by the near-silent, confused whines that caught on his teeth before being swallowed and aroused by the blush in Lee's cheeks when he'd pulled away. Fucking disappointed when the phone rang and when Lee agreed to go spend the night with the asshole that had stood him up, the asshole Ruckus wanted to strangle for making his boy cry.
Since that event four days ago, he's gone back to pretending, but not telling himself this was wrong. He never put much stock in doing The Right Thing, wouldn't be here if he had. Lee had at first avoided him like the plague, and then gone back to the awkward uncertainty he'd displayed the first week Ruckus was here. He hadn't yet regained enough courage to crawl into bed with him after nightmares; Ruckus sometimes heard him crying out at night and waited for it but he never came and Ruckus would be damned if he went to him. He didn't ask to be stuck on parole in some crazy lesbian couples' apartment, didn't ask to be attracted to their nephew or placed in the ill-fitting role of father figure. He couldn't avoid those facts but that didn't mean he had to make it easy on anyone.
But now Lee's hand is moving quicker over his erection and he's writhing with more force, and Ruckus can feel that same urge rising up in him, darker now. He wants to go to the kid, slide into the bed next to him and pull him into his arms. This time, however, he doesn't want to dry his tears or convince him that he's safe; this time he wants to shove Lee's small hand out of the way and take over. He wants to be making him quiver, wants to turn those wordless cries into the syllables of his name. Lee rolls back onto his side, curling into his customary fetal position as his thighs start to shiver. He raises his free hand and threads the fingers through his thin hair, hair Ruckus can still feel in his own rough hands, and it's all the man can do to back out of the room and close the door before he acts on that urge.
Lee freezes as his eyelids snap open, zeroing in on the doorjamb when he hears the door click shut. His overworked mind quickly whirs through all the possiblities and, given the evidence, he can only come to one conclusion. Ruckus just walked in on him masturbating. Ruckus just walked in on him masturbating. Embarassment, hot and quick, floods red under his jawline and over the top of his ears as he pictures the man opening the door. His mouth would have opened to ask Lee a simple question, but before his voice found its way out, his eyes would've gone wide at the scene before him. He would have-- what?
If Ruckus wanted to taunt him, he surely would have. He never made any allowances for saving anyone's feelings, even if he had been more compassionate towards Lee than anyone else in his short life had. If he'd wanted to laugh, he would have. But he did neither. What did he do instead? He closed the door quietly, and left. It wasn't a respect for privacy that made him do it, he had none. Lee notes did not hear the door open. He thinks about that for a minute, tries hard to recall any slight noise that rose above the heightened beat of his heart and rasp of his breathing, but there was none. He realizes he has no idea when Ruckus opened that door, or how long he stood there before he closed it.
The blush propagates to Lee's cheeks when he realizes he doesn't mind, rather, likes the idea of Ruckus having been watching him. Likes to imagine Ruckus halting, questions dying on his lips when he spots his young roommate curled on his bed, nude. Likes to imagine Ruckus glancing behind him, to make sure no one saw him, before turning to continue watching Lee pleasuring himself. As evidenced by the fact that his erection has not flagged at all and is still screaming for release, he likes it quite a lot. Biting into his thin lower lip and throwing another quick glance at the door, almost praying that Ruckus returned, he allows his left hand to return to its previous place circling the base of his dick, and once his eyes have been closed again, it resumes its activities with new enthusiasm.
Finding it not at all difficult to fall into this new fantasy, Lee's canines release his lip to give another moan, not as soft as those preceeding it, showing off for his imaginary audience. He slips onto his back, keeping one knee drawn up as the opposite leg stretches out for a good vantage point from the door, toes pointing in his boots for the stimulation. He's picturing Ruckus standing in the doorway, maybe slouched against the frame like he does so often, as if it's sole purpose for existing is to sustain his weight. His ankles would be crossed, arms over his chest. And those eyes, those grey-teal eyes that're so light they're almost clear and so entrancing though they reveal nothing, would be roaming over his form, drinking in every movement but still with that perpetually bemused undertone. As if Lee's sole purpose for existing was to entertain him, and he was doing a passable enough job for now.
It's purely for Ruckus' benefit that Lee arches his back again; recalling the way the man's hands dipped along the plane of his thin muscles he's pretty sure he liked that bending. He tilts his head, presses his face into the pillow towards the door and lets his jaw drop open farther, letting him know how good this feels. His tongue snakes over his lips, wetting them suggestively as he gives another whine, a plea of the man's name, and his hand quickens at the sound of it. The opposite stretches over the narrow matress, fingertips curling back towards his body in a silent invitation for the man who isn't standing in the doorway. Alone, Lee finds his body nothing to be impressed by; but through Ruckus' eyes he imagines himself alluring, taunting in his youth and inexperience, a veritable modern nymphet for the recovering convict.
It takes so little convincing for his body to give in that it nearly surprises him when the knot of tension in his stomach suddenly unravels, quicker even than that fateful night long ago when he first managed it. His body drops back to the matress, curling into itself only to extend again as shivers overtake it and he spills over his hand, onto his stomach, as Ruckus does not watch on and does not murmur his approval in his deep, intimate, silk-sandpaper tone. A scream forms in his throat and he bites into his lip again to contain it, but then, thinking that his surrogate Daddy would want to hear it, he gives in and lets it take form. Bashfulness goes just far enough to keep the scream shapeless.It's not loud, the neighbors won't be concerned, but it carries well enough through the apartment. Ruckus groans inwardly as the sound reaches him, and curls up himself, eyes losing focus on The Breakfast Club as his mind races back to what he saw for a brief moment across the hall and his hand, completely confident in its movements, drops to undo his pants.
Author: Nihilism
Rating: A light NC-17, if that's possible.
Summary: There were, undoubtedly, a long list of reasons for Lee's incapability to get himself off.
Notes: Another blurb inspired by a private storyline I share with the delightful Miss Oozi. And yeah, that's pretty much all I write anymore.
He had never had much luck with this. There were, undoubtedly, a long list of reasons for his incapability to get himself off. Paranoia was one - afraid Lillian would, as was her habit, walk into his bedroom without so much as a warning and then he'd have to deal with her screaming and complaints about his perversion, as if she had any room to throw stones on that account. If not Lillian, then Rose, who might come back with those horrible magazines and reassurances about how every teenage boy went through this.
Another reason could have been his infamously low self esteem. No matter what he tried to focus on, reality always came back to remind him that it was him, Lee, with his hand down his pants and he really found nothing the least bit arousing about that. He was not attractive, he was too small and thin and weird-looking; his eyes too big and lips too thin and hips too sharp, too feminine overall, and while he'd accepted all of this it didn't do much to help him achieve orgasm when it was his own delicate-fingered hand around his erection.
He had thought that when he'd finally come to the conclusion, or been pushed to it by the recently acquired convicted roommate across the hall, that he was attracted to men and not women that it would have cleared some things up. That he would have an easier time of one of the other things that came so naturally to most boys his age. But it didn't, he still could not get himself off.
No, he was about to accept it, he was just a failure at all things. The only time he had managed to masturbate successfully, he'd woken up almost painfully aroused with no recollection of the dream that made him that way, and only because he'd just had to shift against his sheets to come was he able to. And only because it felt so good that time did he continue to try.
Lillian and Rose aren't home yet, so that rules out his first excuse. The only person who is home is the convict, Ruckus, and he is across the hall. Asleep, Lee thinks, because he sleeps a lot. Of course, if he had to be locked in this apartment almost all day every day, he would sleep a lot, too. The lights are off to nullify his second cop-out, aside from the lava lamp on his desk which doesn't provide enough luminance to let him be thoroughly disgusted with himself. And with his new found clarity, he isn't wondering why mental images of big breasts and soft lips don't do anything for him.
It always begins the same, now. He tries to be a good boy, even while doing this, and think of someone relatively socially acceptable. The boy from his art class, the one that had stood him up for homecoming but made it up to him by cuddling and kissing all night. He's laying on his back, hands on his stomach and eyes closed, listening to the Velvet Underground and imagining Josh's hands running over him. Remembering the uncertain way the other boy moves against him, just as confused as he is about the whole thing. The hesitant way they kiss, feeling their way out as they go along.
The images are sufficient to get Lee started, his small hands running down his sides shakily, not unlike his classmate's. They dip under the waistband of his pants, teasing, but then divert to slide up the sides of his ribcage instead as if they're afraid of traversing any lower. He rolls onto his side, back to the wall, squeezing his eyelids down tighter as he continues to picture the scene in his head.
But as per usual, now, Josh's face fades out of view and instead there's a scratchy voice against his throat, the rough hint of stubble that neither of the boys can grow yet scraping over his collarbone. At first, Lee resists, pretends it isn't what he wants. He tries to force Josh's visage back into his imagination, but it always only works for a few moments before he gives in. Before he accepts that it's Ruckus he wants to feel move against him, completely confident in the movements, completely controlling with his kisses.
His hands are too small to mimic the older man's in size, but they grow much bolder as Lee's creativity fills in the blanks. No longer hesitant, they snake down his torso to unlatch his pants, curling into the gap in the material to force the zipper down. Lee's mouth falls open to accompany his heavier breathing and he tries not to get ahead of himself, tries not to think It's working and just focus on the daydream. His pants undone, he wriggles his tiny hips the nervous way he knows he would, if Ruckus were gripping onto him the same way Lee's left hand grips onto his right hip right now. He gives a quiet, uncertain moan as his right hand snakes under his boxers to tease at his tummy and thighs, the type of moan he imagines Ruckus' ether and cancer-burn voice would commend with a Tha's a good boy...
The pants slide off of his hips with the squirming and he kicks them down, over his boots to pile on the floor. His hands become even bolder, hooking under the elastic of his boxers to remove them in the same fashion, and his empty ego doesn't even register the fact that he's now lying in nothing but Doc Martens on his unmade bed. Because he's recalling the way Ruckus kissed him, gentle but demanding at the same time, his tongue lapping at Lee's lower lip in reassurance even as he rolled the boy onto his back to hover over him and increase the intimacy. He's thinking of the way the convict smelled that close up, dirt and used oil covering his arms and clothes from his court-appointed dayjob, cigarette smoke clinging to his short hair and skin. His small mouth parts farther to release a drawn out whimper of want, and imagined hands rough with callouses slide between his legs to comply.
He curls those thin fingertips around his shaft, drifting languidly up the length of it to let his thumb circle the head teasingly. Ruckus isn't hesitant, no, he knows what he's doing. He just wants to play with the naive little virgin. His efforts are rewarded as the boy gasps, his spine bending and forcing his young, lithe back into a fluid, graceful arch, straining towards a body that isn't there. Lee's right hand grips at the sheets, at Ruckus' skin, as the hand moving over his cock speeds its movements minutely, giving him a little of the friction he craves.
The fourteen year old writhing on the bed does not hear the door open. Were it his aunt, he'd be alerted to her presence immediately by a horrified scream. Were it his aunt's girlfriend, he'd only hear a gasp before the woman ran off to collect some disgusting Playboy to give him along with informative material on human anatomy. But he hears nothing, and the man pushes the door open cautiously, wondering if the low level of light means his young roommate is asleep. He's only seeking company to keep him awake through two hours of horrendous 80's cinema.
But he stops when he spots the figure on the single bed, freezes. He should be closing the door quietly and returning to his room now. His jaw should not be dropping, heart rate should not be speeding up. The sight he's met with should have no effect on him but embarassment. But he freezes, and he watches. Watches as Lee's right hand clenches a fistful of sheets, but more attentively watches as his left moves between his gorgeous, thin legs, clenches a fistful of plaintive flesh and massages it with amatuer experience. More attentively yet, he zeros in on the boy's pale face, the perfect pink tongue running over his forbidden lips, the long dark eyelashes fluttering as his eyes move under the lids, picturing things Ruckus can only imagine, eyebrows drawn together in concentration. Ruckus finds himself thinking that he could show the kid how to do this the right way, but he doesn't move to do so, and neither does he feign guilt for that thought.
It was four days ago that Ruckus gave up on pretending he didn't find the boy intriguing. Four days ago he stopped telling himself it was wrong to like the way Lee sometimes crawled into his bed and curled up against him in the middle of the night, stopped telling himself it was wrong to want to pull him even closer than he was. To want to do more than rub his back comfortingly, to want to drag his hands farther down and grip that small, perfectly rounded ass to force the boy's body against his own and thrust against those sharp, tiny hips that moved too sensually for their innocence.
Four days ago he kissed this boy and was shocked by the passion he was met with, shocked with the nervous but bold little tongue that pushed its way into his welcoming mouth. More than shocked by the shift of Lee's impish body against him, aroused by the way he grasped his arms, his neck, and begged for more with his movements. Aroused by the near-silent, confused whines that caught on his teeth before being swallowed and aroused by the blush in Lee's cheeks when he'd pulled away. Fucking disappointed when the phone rang and when Lee agreed to go spend the night with the asshole that had stood him up, the asshole Ruckus wanted to strangle for making his boy cry.
Since that event four days ago, he's gone back to pretending, but not telling himself this was wrong. He never put much stock in doing The Right Thing, wouldn't be here if he had. Lee had at first avoided him like the plague, and then gone back to the awkward uncertainty he'd displayed the first week Ruckus was here. He hadn't yet regained enough courage to crawl into bed with him after nightmares; Ruckus sometimes heard him crying out at night and waited for it but he never came and Ruckus would be damned if he went to him. He didn't ask to be stuck on parole in some crazy lesbian couples' apartment, didn't ask to be attracted to their nephew or placed in the ill-fitting role of father figure. He couldn't avoid those facts but that didn't mean he had to make it easy on anyone.
But now Lee's hand is moving quicker over his erection and he's writhing with more force, and Ruckus can feel that same urge rising up in him, darker now. He wants to go to the kid, slide into the bed next to him and pull him into his arms. This time, however, he doesn't want to dry his tears or convince him that he's safe; this time he wants to shove Lee's small hand out of the way and take over. He wants to be making him quiver, wants to turn those wordless cries into the syllables of his name. Lee rolls back onto his side, curling into his customary fetal position as his thighs start to shiver. He raises his free hand and threads the fingers through his thin hair, hair Ruckus can still feel in his own rough hands, and it's all the man can do to back out of the room and close the door before he acts on that urge.
Lee freezes as his eyelids snap open, zeroing in on the doorjamb when he hears the door click shut. His overworked mind quickly whirs through all the possiblities and, given the evidence, he can only come to one conclusion. Ruckus just walked in on him masturbating. Ruckus just walked in on him masturbating. Embarassment, hot and quick, floods red under his jawline and over the top of his ears as he pictures the man opening the door. His mouth would have opened to ask Lee a simple question, but before his voice found its way out, his eyes would've gone wide at the scene before him. He would have-- what?
If Ruckus wanted to taunt him, he surely would have. He never made any allowances for saving anyone's feelings, even if he had been more compassionate towards Lee than anyone else in his short life had. If he'd wanted to laugh, he would have. But he did neither. What did he do instead? He closed the door quietly, and left. It wasn't a respect for privacy that made him do it, he had none. Lee notes did not hear the door open. He thinks about that for a minute, tries hard to recall any slight noise that rose above the heightened beat of his heart and rasp of his breathing, but there was none. He realizes he has no idea when Ruckus opened that door, or how long he stood there before he closed it.
The blush propagates to Lee's cheeks when he realizes he doesn't mind, rather, likes the idea of Ruckus having been watching him. Likes to imagine Ruckus halting, questions dying on his lips when he spots his young roommate curled on his bed, nude. Likes to imagine Ruckus glancing behind him, to make sure no one saw him, before turning to continue watching Lee pleasuring himself. As evidenced by the fact that his erection has not flagged at all and is still screaming for release, he likes it quite a lot. Biting into his thin lower lip and throwing another quick glance at the door, almost praying that Ruckus returned, he allows his left hand to return to its previous place circling the base of his dick, and once his eyes have been closed again, it resumes its activities with new enthusiasm.
Finding it not at all difficult to fall into this new fantasy, Lee's canines release his lip to give another moan, not as soft as those preceeding it, showing off for his imaginary audience. He slips onto his back, keeping one knee drawn up as the opposite leg stretches out for a good vantage point from the door, toes pointing in his boots for the stimulation. He's picturing Ruckus standing in the doorway, maybe slouched against the frame like he does so often, as if it's sole purpose for existing is to sustain his weight. His ankles would be crossed, arms over his chest. And those eyes, those grey-teal eyes that're so light they're almost clear and so entrancing though they reveal nothing, would be roaming over his form, drinking in every movement but still with that perpetually bemused undertone. As if Lee's sole purpose for existing was to entertain him, and he was doing a passable enough job for now.
It's purely for Ruckus' benefit that Lee arches his back again; recalling the way the man's hands dipped along the plane of his thin muscles he's pretty sure he liked that bending. He tilts his head, presses his face into the pillow towards the door and lets his jaw drop open farther, letting him know how good this feels. His tongue snakes over his lips, wetting them suggestively as he gives another whine, a plea of the man's name, and his hand quickens at the sound of it. The opposite stretches over the narrow matress, fingertips curling back towards his body in a silent invitation for the man who isn't standing in the doorway. Alone, Lee finds his body nothing to be impressed by; but through Ruckus' eyes he imagines himself alluring, taunting in his youth and inexperience, a veritable modern nymphet for the recovering convict.
It takes so little convincing for his body to give in that it nearly surprises him when the knot of tension in his stomach suddenly unravels, quicker even than that fateful night long ago when he first managed it. His body drops back to the matress, curling into itself only to extend again as shivers overtake it and he spills over his hand, onto his stomach, as Ruckus does not watch on and does not murmur his approval in his deep, intimate, silk-sandpaper tone. A scream forms in his throat and he bites into his lip again to contain it, but then, thinking that his surrogate Daddy would want to hear it, he gives in and lets it take form. Bashfulness goes just far enough to keep the scream shapeless.It's not loud, the neighbors won't be concerned, but it carries well enough through the apartment. Ruckus groans inwardly as the sound reaches him, and curls up himself, eyes losing focus on The Breakfast Club as his mind races back to what he saw for a brief moment across the hall and his hand, completely confident in its movements, drops to undo his pants.