[chuffs and reluctantly lets go of quetzal's hand. instead of chasing that hunger, he has to sit back and pin himself under quetzal's gaze. there's goosebumps on his shoulders— muffin's feeling bold now, but he's not going to make it through this memory without wanting to hide]
Okay.
[he holds the coin at the water, catches Quetzal's eye for confirmation— or motivation — then drops it in.
Muffin can't sleep.
He's laying on his back in bed and staring at the dark ceiling. His blankets are tangled around his knees, kicked off in a fit of restlessness, and his pillow's at the wrong end of the bed. He'd left it there after failing to fall asleep at a different angle. Still, he's too drowsy to get up and do something with being awake. On other nights he might go downstairs or make a cubecall if it wasn't already so late, but tonight...
His eyes go to the window. He watches the feathers hung up in the moonlight and lets his thoughts drift. And as his mind wanders, so do his hands. Idly at first. He plays with a lock of his hair, twists his tanktop's strap around his finger, he pulls his pillow back under his head. Still watching the window.
And as his gaze goes more hazy and his thoughts go further towards dreaming, his hand finds the warm, smooth skin of his shoulder. He follows the muscle up to his neck. It's aimless wandering until he comes back to the join between shoulder and neck. Something about that touch... Muffin pauses, closes his eyes, takes a long deep breath as his grip tightens, and digs his own claws into his shoulder. He tenses and growls thinly, straining under the "bite." But it's his own hand, he can't get free of it until he chooses.
And… Well.
Well. It was originally for the Lust square after all. The memory plays on for as long or as short as Quetzal lets it, until memory-Muffin falls asleep and there's nothing more to recall. The real Muffin's too paralyzed to pause it. ]
nsfw (not safe for woolietown)
Okay.
[he holds the coin at the water, catches Quetzal's eye for confirmation— or motivation — then drops it in.
Muffin can't sleep.
He's laying on his back in bed and staring at the dark ceiling. His blankets are tangled around his knees, kicked off in a fit of restlessness, and his pillow's at the wrong end of the bed. He'd left it there after failing to fall asleep at a different angle. Still, he's too drowsy to get up and do something with being awake. On other nights he might go downstairs or make a cubecall if it wasn't already so late, but tonight...
His eyes go to the window. He watches the feathers hung up in the moonlight and lets his thoughts drift. And as his mind wanders, so do his hands. Idly at first. He plays with a lock of his hair, twists his tanktop's strap around his finger, he pulls his pillow back under his head. Still watching the window.
And as his gaze goes more hazy and his thoughts go further towards dreaming, his hand finds the warm, smooth skin of his shoulder. He follows the muscle up to his neck. It's aimless wandering until he comes back to the join between shoulder and neck. Something about that touch... Muffin pauses, closes his eyes, takes a long deep breath as his grip tightens, and digs his own claws into his shoulder. He tenses and growls thinly, straining under the "bite." But it's his own hand, he can't get free of it until he chooses.
And… Well.
Well. It was originally for the Lust square after all. The memory plays on for as long or as short as Quetzal lets it, until memory-Muffin falls asleep and there's nothing more to recall. The real Muffin's too paralyzed to pause it. ]