I know I may be old-fashioned, but I still believe...
Characters: Gabriel and Jinx
When: July 21.
Where: The Chateau
Rating: LOL. PG-13 to R depending on where their mouths go. NOT LIKE THAT.
Summary: Gabriel gave Jinx his jacket during last week's storm. Jinx feels compelled to give it back.
The searing heat had almost made Gabriel forget that a particular army jacket had been missing from his wardrobe from the past week and the fact that he was still powerless made it easy to forget the little things. Still, having only one outfit, especially when that outfit was getting mildly rank and was in desperate need of a washing (thus why he'd given in to some fortunate soul willing to do laundry and ferreted up some clothes that were even bigger and gawkier on him) meant that you... Kinda start realizing that something's missing.
Of course, the heat index made him less inclined to care and his dedication to showing Michael you could commit suicide by pure sloth was more important than racking his already rattled brain for what he did with said jacket. Thus why he was currently flopped on a couch in the chateau with his face buried in the cushions, dressed in a shirt that was probably made for a man three times his height and body weight and what were unmistakeably red silk boxers.
Fuck the police. He'd wear what he wanted.
When: July 21.
Where: The Chateau
Rating: LOL. PG-13 to R depending on where their mouths go. NOT LIKE THAT.
Summary: Gabriel gave Jinx his jacket during last week's storm. Jinx feels compelled to give it back.
The searing heat had almost made Gabriel forget that a particular army jacket had been missing from his wardrobe from the past week and the fact that he was still powerless made it easy to forget the little things. Still, having only one outfit, especially when that outfit was getting mildly rank and was in desperate need of a washing (thus why he'd given in to some fortunate soul willing to do laundry and ferreted up some clothes that were even bigger and gawkier on him) meant that you... Kinda start realizing that something's missing.
Of course, the heat index made him less inclined to care and his dedication to showing Michael you could commit suicide by pure sloth was more important than racking his already rattled brain for what he did with said jacket. Thus why he was currently flopped on a couch in the chateau with his face buried in the cushions, dressed in a shirt that was probably made for a man three times his height and body weight and what were unmistakeably red silk boxers.
Fuck the police. He'd wear what he wanted.