filius-rex reblogged your post “˜found shirtless”:
Rachel is stooped over by her third-floor window, but she straightens
immediately when the front door closes behind her with a click. Her
shirt is on the floor, in a crumpled white heap of cotton. When she
turns to gaze at him with hooded eyes, dazed confusion on her face,
her bare chest comes to full view. Although she is young, already it
is clear that her body has gone through the customary changes; her
breasts have bloomed. They rest, pert and petite, like soft fruit upon
her body. The nipples are stiff and rosy and begging to be bitten. It
is usually cold in Rachel’s apartment, but these last few days, April
has decided to be charitable and has filled the city with warm sun-
shine and the smell of spring in the air.
“…” She’s so dazed, so stunned that her surprise trumps modesty.
Her hands stay by her side. “…Afternoon.”
What’s that girl doin’ by the window? She’s shirtless; anybody can see her. He watches Rachel closely, gets a good look at her face, her eyes, and his own green gaze narrows. She looks out of it. Not the same ditziness he’s come to expect from her, but like she’s on something. Unless she just wakes up. Unlikely. It’s evening time, so if anything, she may be retiring early, hence the state of undress. He has a weird feeling about it, despite him being the one showing up under unconventional circumstances.
Moana steps forward at a leisure gait, his feet quiet on the carpet. Built like a bear, the man has the stealth of a jaguar on the prowl, something which comes as easy to him as breathing now. He stops in front of Rachel, looms over the small girl with a hard expression, displeased. Moana won’t ask questions. Silences reigns for a moment before he continues pass Rachel, down the hall where he knows her bathroom is.
“I need to borrow your shower.” Already Moana lifts his arm and rows of ink triangles on his skin shift as he pulls his white T-shirt over his head by the back of its collar. Purple bursts bloom on his side and across his shoulders is a dark cloud of similar bruising. Rather than drop his shirt on the floor, he holds it in a loose fist—his knuckles are skinned bright red.