K
Kethry
Guest
Original poster
OOC: So, this is something that I came up with after having a rather.... interesting dream. My sister, dear that she is, agreed to help me out with it. Since we're sisters, the more, ah, touchy-feely stuff will be done with a fade-to-black-use-your-wonderful-imaginations type of style. The characters are pre-made. There will be references to death, torture, sex, shape-shifting, suicide, and loss of a child. The entire end-game idea is for the characters to end up in a relationship. All of them. Together. Also! I will be playing two of the characters. So yeah!
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The sex had been amazing, though he was loath to admit it. Sex with someone else was not supposed to be that good. Especially when you're on the run from someone else. It was one of those wham-bam-thankyousir type of deals. By the time Warrin woke up in the morning, the guy was gone. No note, no good-bye. Nada. Just poof, like he hadn't been real. But he had been real. Very real. As Warrin's ass could attest to.
He stretched and rolled from bed, dragging on last night's jeans as he padded to the bathroom to rinse the taste of come and bourbon from his mouth. In the bathroom, Warrin's nose twitched, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he turned slowly in a circle, drawing in a deep breath as he scented the room.
Interesting.
Backtracking from the bathroom, Warrin made his way to the living room. It was trashed. The lamp he and Annabelle had gotten from the flea market downtown was in pieces. The bulb had miraculously survived, though. Fun. The door had claw marks in it. The coffee table had divots from where his claws had dug in and held. His couch was about a foot over from where it had been, pushed up against the leather recliner in the corner of the room. One shirts that had been shed last night lay in a clumped heap next to the front door. Black, like the one he himself had worn out last night, but this one wasn't his. Warrin crouched, lifted the shirt to his nose, inhaled, and frowned some.
Metal. Gunpowder. Old Spice. Sweat. Jack Daniel's. Warrin himself was there. And, oddly enough, blood.
Those were the scents he could pick up from the shirt. So different. Foreign. He was used to leather, blood, and expensive colognes. This shirt smelled almost... Earthy. Normal. Taking a deep breath, he stood easily and made his way back to the bedroom to tuck the shirt into the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept things he didn't want Annabelle's nosy ass finding. Then he turned away from the dresser and put it out of his mind and went to clean himself up. As he stepped from the shower half an hour later, he could hear Annabelle's approaching footsteps coming down the hall, letting herself in, and calling out a horrified "HOLY FUCK, WARRIN! I LOVED THAT LAMP, YOU ASSHOLE!" under her breath, Warrin heard her mutter approvingly "I hope it was good, at least. Jesus." With a smirk, he started drying his hair vigorously.
Six months later, he'd spiraled down, and was attempting to kill himself with aconite. When Annabelle came over and threw plane tickets at him and insisted he go back to Germany, Warrin had packed his bags, and the stranger's shirt had gone home with him, tucked securely into his carryon. And when the news filtered down to the club that the American military was going to start hunting prominent covens, Warrin had insisted that the Master take the others and go, get to somewhere safe. The team that was sent in would get nothing from him, if they could even find him. He was prepared to kill whoever was sent to kill his lover and friends.
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The sex had been amazing, though he was loath to admit it. Sex with someone else was not supposed to be that good. Especially when you're on the run from someone else. It was one of those wham-bam-thankyousir type of deals. By the time Warrin woke up in the morning, the guy was gone. No note, no good-bye. Nada. Just poof, like he hadn't been real. But he had been real. Very real. As Warrin's ass could attest to.
He stretched and rolled from bed, dragging on last night's jeans as he padded to the bathroom to rinse the taste of come and bourbon from his mouth. In the bathroom, Warrin's nose twitched, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, and he turned slowly in a circle, drawing in a deep breath as he scented the room.
Interesting.
Backtracking from the bathroom, Warrin made his way to the living room. It was trashed. The lamp he and Annabelle had gotten from the flea market downtown was in pieces. The bulb had miraculously survived, though. Fun. The door had claw marks in it. The coffee table had divots from where his claws had dug in and held. His couch was about a foot over from where it had been, pushed up against the leather recliner in the corner of the room. One shirts that had been shed last night lay in a clumped heap next to the front door. Black, like the one he himself had worn out last night, but this one wasn't his. Warrin crouched, lifted the shirt to his nose, inhaled, and frowned some.
Metal. Gunpowder. Old Spice. Sweat. Jack Daniel's. Warrin himself was there. And, oddly enough, blood.
Those were the scents he could pick up from the shirt. So different. Foreign. He was used to leather, blood, and expensive colognes. This shirt smelled almost... Earthy. Normal. Taking a deep breath, he stood easily and made his way back to the bedroom to tuck the shirt into the bottom drawer of his dresser, where he kept things he didn't want Annabelle's nosy ass finding. Then he turned away from the dresser and put it out of his mind and went to clean himself up. As he stepped from the shower half an hour later, he could hear Annabelle's approaching footsteps coming down the hall, letting herself in, and calling out a horrified "HOLY FUCK, WARRIN! I LOVED THAT LAMP, YOU ASSHOLE!" under her breath, Warrin heard her mutter approvingly "I hope it was good, at least. Jesus." With a smirk, he started drying his hair vigorously.
Six months later, he'd spiraled down, and was attempting to kill himself with aconite. When Annabelle came over and threw plane tickets at him and insisted he go back to Germany, Warrin had packed his bags, and the stranger's shirt had gone home with him, tucked securely into his carryon. And when the news filtered down to the club that the American military was going to start hunting prominent covens, Warrin had insisted that the Master take the others and go, get to somewhere safe. The team that was sent in would get nothing from him, if they could even find him. He was prepared to kill whoever was sent to kill his lover and friends.