The next day rolled around in a fast-forward tumble. Ronan woke early, too little sleep behind his belt for his wake up greeting to be anything other than a dull grunt, and he shuffled across the hall to the bathroom.

Flicking the seat up, he slid his booty shorts and briefs down, pulling and aiming, head falling back as the morning relief flowed. He made a mess. It was almost impossible to aim with morning glory, but-

"Fuck!" he screeched, stumbling back. There was somebody watching him from the shower. Or, rather, something. "Fucking Buster," he cursed. "I'll throw you a blind date with a lawnmower if you keep it...