(fic) Playtime at Eleven
Playtime at Eleven | radishface
Toy Story → Gen, with some single-handed/minded sexual activity from a consenting teen.
Andy's been coming... of age. The toys react. 934 words. Adult for some mild teenage fapping.
A/N, written for disney_kink for the prompt: what do the toys think when Andy gets to it?
Andy's a good kid.
Home from school at three on the dot, car parked in the front. Does his homework from three until dinner and then washes the dishes with mom. An hour of TV after that; on Thursdays he fights for the remote with Molly but usually surrenders it to her unless NBC has a really good lineup on that night. After that it's back upstairs to his computer, and his homework, and then by eleven it's light's out, and Andy falls asleep in fifteen minutes or less.
Sometimes it takes Andy a little longer to fall asleep.
It's ten past eleven right now and Andy's got the blankets thrown over his hips and his hand right down in there, moving fast. Woody can't really see what's going on from this angle up here in the bookshelf (not that he'd want to) and because Buzz is perched next to him and if he's going to play by the rules, he can't move. Not that he wants. To see.
It's just Andy and Andy's heavy breathing filling the room now, all Woody can feel in the dark box of a room. Buzz next to him, knee twitching a little bit from where it's pressed up against Woody's joints. Or maybe that's just an erstwhile ant, scuttling through the woodwork. Woody doesn't move his eyes to look.
Andy finishes soon enough, in a flash of panting that gets louder, faster, and holds-then a great exhale of breath and it's over. The covers still (as far as Woody can see), and then Andy grunts and flips them up, hoisting his legs over the edge and pulling himself up. His shorts are hanging off his ankles and his thighs are a sticky mess, right hand hanging loosely, shiny and slick. He grabs a few tissues and cleans off his hand, wads them up and chucks them in the direction of the trash can (missing by a mile), then bends over to pull up his shorts.
Thank goodness Andy doesn't have any canine toys, or else they'd have something to howl at.
Andy cracks open the door, peeks outside like he's still ten years old and not allowed to be up past lights out. A light flicks on in the hallway and his footsteps pad down, one, two, three, then turn into the bathroom. There's the familiar squeak of the faucet and a running of water, Andy's mindless humming as he washes up.
Something moves next to him and Woody knows it's not the ants. He elbows Buzz in the ribs and gets a miffed chuckle in return.
The water stops rushing and Andy pads back into the room and flops onto the bed, covers be damned. He's out in five minutes.
Another ten minutes pass, just to be sure, just to be quite sure, and then Bo Peep gives Woody a thumb's up from where she's perched on Andy's nightstand, and Woody lets out a low whistle to let everyone know the coast is clear. Hamm peers out at them from under the bed, shaking the dust off himself and clearing his throat.
"Christ. It's like the sky is falling down under there, and I ain't Chicken Little." Woody can hear the grin in his voice.
"Can we not talk about it? Let's not talk about it," Rex is whining from somewhere, probably still under the bed, and Woody can hear the chirps and burbles of the Mr. and Mrs. arguing about the relative morality of teenage sexuality and masturbation and what will Andy do if he ever goes blind one day. The other toys move slowly, shuffling around, stretching their gears in the moonlight.
Slinky peers up from his station on the shelf below Woody and Buzz. "Need a lift, fellas? This one's going down."
"You go ahead," Buzz stands up, cracking his neck side to side. "Cowboy and I will be down in a minute."
Slinky slinks his way down, crystalline sound of metal coiling on metal strangely moving, and Woody's breath catches a little as he looks down from the bookshelf.
"And what's on your mind tonight?"
"The usual," Woody shrugs.
"Oh ho, better police those thoughts, sheriff." Buzz grins his trademark, million-watt grin.
"Better police yourself, partner. Caught you twitching there. Way to break character."
"Can't say that method acting is my strong suit," Buzz retorts, but there's a catch in his voice, and his fingers tap against his thigh, like he's embarrassed; a gentle click-click-click of plastic.
They're both quiet for a minute, looking at the toys milling around on the floor, at the soft glow of Andy's computer, still on. At Andy, a lump of legs and arms tangled on the bed and sleeping away. And Woody almost reaches out to loop an arm around Buzz, because they're both watching- they're both watching and thinking lonely, lonesome thoughts.
"We knew this day would come," Buzz nods in his usual way, all sage and rational Space Ranger again. "The day that Andy would rather play with himself than with us."
Woody doesn't miss a beat. "You know how that sounds, right?"
"Right on, cowboy."
And they both try to keep their faces straight, solemn, and sober, but really, "right on" sounds like "ride on," and Buzz is just terrible, just terrible. He's got his Space Ranger grin pasted on, really pasted on, with glue and ink and a glimmer of soul.
Sometimes Woody thinks it's the cheesiest thing he's ever seen, but he smiles back anyway his own million-watt cheesy cowboy smile, and they're good.
They're good.
-|-
Toy Story → Gen, with some single-handed/minded sexual activity from a consenting teen.
Andy's been coming... of age. The toys react. 934 words. Adult for some mild teenage fapping.
A/N, written for disney_kink for the prompt: what do the toys think when Andy gets to it?
Andy's a good kid.
Home from school at three on the dot, car parked in the front. Does his homework from three until dinner and then washes the dishes with mom. An hour of TV after that; on Thursdays he fights for the remote with Molly but usually surrenders it to her unless NBC has a really good lineup on that night. After that it's back upstairs to his computer, and his homework, and then by eleven it's light's out, and Andy falls asleep in fifteen minutes or less.
Sometimes it takes Andy a little longer to fall asleep.
It's ten past eleven right now and Andy's got the blankets thrown over his hips and his hand right down in there, moving fast. Woody can't really see what's going on from this angle up here in the bookshelf (not that he'd want to) and because Buzz is perched next to him and if he's going to play by the rules, he can't move. Not that he wants. To see.
It's just Andy and Andy's heavy breathing filling the room now, all Woody can feel in the dark box of a room. Buzz next to him, knee twitching a little bit from where it's pressed up against Woody's joints. Or maybe that's just an erstwhile ant, scuttling through the woodwork. Woody doesn't move his eyes to look.
Andy finishes soon enough, in a flash of panting that gets louder, faster, and holds-then a great exhale of breath and it's over. The covers still (as far as Woody can see), and then Andy grunts and flips them up, hoisting his legs over the edge and pulling himself up. His shorts are hanging off his ankles and his thighs are a sticky mess, right hand hanging loosely, shiny and slick. He grabs a few tissues and cleans off his hand, wads them up and chucks them in the direction of the trash can (missing by a mile), then bends over to pull up his shorts.
Thank goodness Andy doesn't have any canine toys, or else they'd have something to howl at.
Andy cracks open the door, peeks outside like he's still ten years old and not allowed to be up past lights out. A light flicks on in the hallway and his footsteps pad down, one, two, three, then turn into the bathroom. There's the familiar squeak of the faucet and a running of water, Andy's mindless humming as he washes up.
Something moves next to him and Woody knows it's not the ants. He elbows Buzz in the ribs and gets a miffed chuckle in return.
The water stops rushing and Andy pads back into the room and flops onto the bed, covers be damned. He's out in five minutes.
Another ten minutes pass, just to be sure, just to be quite sure, and then Bo Peep gives Woody a thumb's up from where she's perched on Andy's nightstand, and Woody lets out a low whistle to let everyone know the coast is clear. Hamm peers out at them from under the bed, shaking the dust off himself and clearing his throat.
"Christ. It's like the sky is falling down under there, and I ain't Chicken Little." Woody can hear the grin in his voice.
"Can we not talk about it? Let's not talk about it," Rex is whining from somewhere, probably still under the bed, and Woody can hear the chirps and burbles of the Mr. and Mrs. arguing about the relative morality of teenage sexuality and masturbation and what will Andy do if he ever goes blind one day. The other toys move slowly, shuffling around, stretching their gears in the moonlight.
Slinky peers up from his station on the shelf below Woody and Buzz. "Need a lift, fellas? This one's going down."
"You go ahead," Buzz stands up, cracking his neck side to side. "Cowboy and I will be down in a minute."
Slinky slinks his way down, crystalline sound of metal coiling on metal strangely moving, and Woody's breath catches a little as he looks down from the bookshelf.
"And what's on your mind tonight?"
"The usual," Woody shrugs.
"Oh ho, better police those thoughts, sheriff." Buzz grins his trademark, million-watt grin.
"Better police yourself, partner. Caught you twitching there. Way to break character."
"Can't say that method acting is my strong suit," Buzz retorts, but there's a catch in his voice, and his fingers tap against his thigh, like he's embarrassed; a gentle click-click-click of plastic.
They're both quiet for a minute, looking at the toys milling around on the floor, at the soft glow of Andy's computer, still on. At Andy, a lump of legs and arms tangled on the bed and sleeping away. And Woody almost reaches out to loop an arm around Buzz, because they're both watching- they're both watching and thinking lonely, lonesome thoughts.
"We knew this day would come," Buzz nods in his usual way, all sage and rational Space Ranger again. "The day that Andy would rather play with himself than with us."
Woody doesn't miss a beat. "You know how that sounds, right?"
"Right on, cowboy."
And they both try to keep their faces straight, solemn, and sober, but really, "right on" sounds like "ride on," and Buzz is just terrible, just terrible. He's got his Space Ranger grin pasted on, really pasted on, with glue and ink and a glimmer of soul.
Sometimes Woody thinks it's the cheesiest thing he's ever seen, but he smiles back anyway his own million-watt cheesy cowboy smile, and they're good.
They're good.
-|-