❖ moans
7. my muse in nothing but a towel
There had been a few odd things, strange little noises as he showered, soft thuds and creaking hinges, but he dismissed them as doings of his usually boisterous neighbours. Even as he patted on slippery bare soles the short distance between the bathroom and his room, nothing seemed out of ordinary (he never checked, but still, normality prevailed in the short vision field the trip allowed him of the living room). It isn’t until he’s made it into his room, rummaging through the clothes scattered over the mess he dares call bed that he hears the distinct footsteps, along with the click of a turning doorknob.
“What the fuck,” he turns with a start, wet bangs flying off his eyes to blend back with his hair. Quick instincts be blessed, he manages to reach for the bigger of his two pocket knives, the first instrument he casts his eyes on, unfolding the blade as he faces the fellow male, holding onto his towel to cover his hips. Needless to say, it’s the least intimidating he’s felt in a lifetime, but it should do — it kind of has to. “What the fuck?”