(no subject)
Mike wakes up at dawn with a fairly intense need to pee.
This itself isn't a cause for alarm. He rolls over and brushes a tickling strand of hair away from his nose, and that's the first thing that doesn't add up. Slowly, like rising through molasses, he approaches consciousness, now aware of something being off somehow. Hair. Something about hair.
He opens his eyes just a slit and one of his hands brushes his hip, and aside from it being a little... curvier that he remembers his own being, the next thing that doesn't seem quite right is the way his underwear feels especially silky for some reason.
It's kind of nice, actually. Nice, but puzzling. He closes his eyes again and frowns, trying in a very groggy way to tease the sense out of it.
The hand at his hip moves up to his chest to scratch idly, and meets soft, full curves. His fingers brush a nipple through the cloth of his shirt and a tiny jolt of an entirely new kind of pleasure shivers through him.
His eyes snap open and he's sitting up before he's awake enough to process this, and staring down at himself, at everything, at the swell of his hips in (familiar) green satin just barely covered by the blanket, at breasts. Breasts. Breasts.
And in the corners of his eyes he can see flickers of blond.
Despite the state of numb shock his brain is frozen into, he thinks he might know exactly what's going on here.
"What the unholy fucking hell," he murmurs. In a distinctly British accent.
[ooc: okay, so initially for Jeroen, but he'll be throwing some clothes on and charging outside after that (if a petite blonde can be said to charge), so tag anywhere on the path to the compound. :D]
This itself isn't a cause for alarm. He rolls over and brushes a tickling strand of hair away from his nose, and that's the first thing that doesn't add up. Slowly, like rising through molasses, he approaches consciousness, now aware of something being off somehow. Hair. Something about hair.
He opens his eyes just a slit and one of his hands brushes his hip, and aside from it being a little... curvier that he remembers his own being, the next thing that doesn't seem quite right is the way his underwear feels especially silky for some reason.
It's kind of nice, actually. Nice, but puzzling. He closes his eyes again and frowns, trying in a very groggy way to tease the sense out of it.
The hand at his hip moves up to his chest to scratch idly, and meets soft, full curves. His fingers brush a nipple through the cloth of his shirt and a tiny jolt of an entirely new kind of pleasure shivers through him.
His eyes snap open and he's sitting up before he's awake enough to process this, and staring down at himself, at everything, at the swell of his hips in (familiar) green satin just barely covered by the blanket, at breasts. Breasts. Breasts.
And in the corners of his eyes he can see flickers of blond.
Despite the state of numb shock his brain is frozen into, he thinks he might know exactly what's going on here.
"What the unholy fucking hell," he murmurs. In a distinctly British accent.
[ooc: okay, so initially for Jeroen, but he'll be throwing some clothes on and charging outside after that (if a petite blonde can be said to charge), so tag anywhere on the path to the compound. :D]