(no subject)
Hughie starts to itch again. He feels the impending change coming on. And in just a few moments, he'd be human -- a naked human.
Darting through the door as fast as his stubby little pony legs can carry him, he races up the stairs to his room. The doorknob is horse-mouth-sized, so after a deft turn, the door opens, and Hughie tumbles inside--
PWROM.
--He lands sprawling on the floor, completely starkers. He toes the door shut.
"Buggerall," he mutters, rubbing his knees and elbows as he gets to his feet. But hey, he's bipedal again, which is most excellent.
And luckily he's left his leather trench coat here. He can cover up with that. So he pulls it on and wraps it close around him, and as he goes downstairs in his bare feet, he feels vaguely like a crusty flasher. This is not helping his mood.
"Bar, y'know I love ye, but I'm thinkin' I'm owed one right now. Ye could replace my favorite green hoodie, could ye not, then?"
A green hooded sweatshirt appears on the countertop, neatly folded.
"Thankye, lass."
Tucking it under his arm, he heads straight for the door -- and home.
(Unless someone happens to strike up a conversation with the barefooted flasher in the leather trench coat.)
Darting through the door as fast as his stubby little pony legs can carry him, he races up the stairs to his room. The doorknob is horse-mouth-sized, so after a deft turn, the door opens, and Hughie tumbles inside--
PWROM.
--He lands sprawling on the floor, completely starkers. He toes the door shut.
"Buggerall," he mutters, rubbing his knees and elbows as he gets to his feet. But hey, he's bipedal again, which is most excellent.
And luckily he's left his leather trench coat here. He can cover up with that. So he pulls it on and wraps it close around him, and as he goes downstairs in his bare feet, he feels vaguely like a crusty flasher. This is not helping his mood.
"Bar, y'know I love ye, but I'm thinkin' I'm owed one right now. Ye could replace my favorite green hoodie, could ye not, then?"
A green hooded sweatshirt appears on the countertop, neatly folded.
"Thankye, lass."
Tucking it under his arm, he heads straight for the door -- and home.
(Unless someone happens to strike up a conversation with the barefooted flasher in the leather trench coat.)