InsaneJournal

Tweak says, "Padded rooms are comfy."

anders is always up for a spot of (iconoclasm) wrote in rooms,
@ 2014-09-12 02:01:00

Entry tags:

!marvel comics, *journal, *log, amelia thorne, clementine murphy, evangeline sablier, graham ross, imogen cymbeline, marina savain, russ campbell, shane alexander, tess alexander

public
do the fucking aliens and plagues ever reach Jersey?

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	Re: Imogen C/Shane A iconoclasm 2014-09-12 08:35 am UTC (link)
	real fucking funny, smartass (Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

	Re: Imogen C/Shane A tinieblas 2014-09-12 08:39 am UTC (link)
	I thought so too. (Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

	Re: Imogen C/Shane A iconoclasm 2014-09-12 08:47 am UTC (link)
	[Eyeroll.] yeah, okay. stay fucking put. (Reply to this) (Parent) (Thread)

In-person: Imo/Shane

tinieblas
2014-09-12 09:13 am UTC (link)

[The night was cold, and the chill in the air reminded Imogen of waiting outside to see Evita with her dad. It had been a risk, and it was more public than they liked, but they had fake papers and more security in sheets of white that weren't real, and they'd risked it. It felt like tonight did, and she missed the people that had raised her. Drunkenly, she wondered if biology had been worth anything. All these years spent compromising morals, just to find someone that hadn't wanted to be found.

But she was drunk, and so the thought slipped like water in a drain.

Her camisole was no greyer than it had been when the night began, but it had been white once, and there was eyelet on the straps and the neckline scooped, and her jeans were low and tight. Her Uggs were faded, and her jeans were tucked in, and her pack was at her feet, between the fuzzy boots and safe from theft.

She wasn't bald, and she'd pulled an equally faded beanie out of her pack and tucked it onto her head, pulled low and covering her cold ears, and her mess of pale blond hair peeked out from underneath, going all over and fighting to keep her arms warm from the New York chill.

The violin, in sheer disobedience, was on her shoulder. Her chin was against the guard, and the song she played was entirely secular, and it drew the kind of attention one would expect in Brooklyn at three in the morning.]

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Re: In-person: Imo/Shane

iconoclasm
2014-09-13 12:31 pm UTC (link)

[Shane had never had much to begin with, yeah? He'd moved to Vegas all those years ago with the fucking shirt on his back and a beaten up black duffle that held not much more than a stolen copy of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and an already open carton of cigarettes, all carted cross-country on his bike. But, after a while, after establishing himself in godforsaken Sin City, he'd worked his way up to an apartment with a ratty TV, a black cat, and a mattress. Then came the hotel. In Georgia, he'd been reduced to a crossbow and his bike. And after that, even less. These days, he was back to the shirt on his back, a copped leather jacket, and a hat he pushed down over his ears now, in the unannounced end of summer.

He didn't have his bike anymore and he didn't have the money for a cab, so he walked. Yeah, okay. He stuck his nose behind the lapels of the jacket, a cigarette burning away between his fingers that poked out, just barely, from his sleeve. It wasn't that goddamn cold, yeah? But after the heat of the day, the cold breaking with the sunset was startling enough that the few New Yorkers now wandering drunk—or the opportunists hiding in shadows—all tugged their collars up, buttons done up to the last.

Shane heard that fucking streak of string a few blocks away and under the protection of leather, he frowned. He could tell from the way she wrote she had to be young. So now she was some fucking young, drunk girl playing a goddamn violin and busking at 3AM in Brooklyn. And if she was bald, well, fucking maybe that would help, but otherwise, the older brother part of Shane, which, really, was the majority of him, was in full fucking gear. He stomped down the sidewalk toward the music, boots hard against water-cracked concrete. He mumbled under his breath as he rounded the corner, the song getting louder and louder with each clunky step.

She wasn't fucking bald, yeah—she had a halo of white-blond hair forced under her cap—and she was young, Sam's age, fucking maybe. Some skinny little white girl with a violin. Around her, people had started to puddle—just a few, a homeless man Shane mistook in some useless fucking flash of confusion as a walker—he was thin enough, some kind of walking scarecrow dressed in onion'd layers of stinking coats, a couple of men drunker than the girl, hooting amongst themselves, a handful of others Shane noted, but didn't look much at.

He stuck his cigarette between his lips and shoved through the ogling enclave roughly.] Fuck off, [he growled at those gathered. To the girl, Imogen, he just said, with no trace of humor:] You fucking kidding me, ET?

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Re: In-person: Imo/Shane

tinieblas
2014-09-14 08:29 am UTC (link)

[Imogen lost track of time when she played. It had always been like that for her with music. There was nothing but the sound of the strings, even with the boozy missteps, and her eyes were closed to the encroaching hoard of homeless and horny. She was a dirty thing, disheveled, and she'd only just begun to realize men were interested in what lived beneath fabric. Oh, she knew all about sex. A person learned about sex young on the road, in tents that didn't block out sounds, and in the woods where parents snuck away to moan where the sound carried less. She knew perfectly, and Vega had taught her what she lacked. Her papi had never gone there, not wanting to see her mami naked for other men, and Imogen hadn't understood at the time that it was all for her.

But she still hadn't thought that kind of attention was for her, not until New York and her job. She'd went in to see if they needed someone to take coats, but she'd come out with something completely different, and still she forgot.

She heard the growl, though, even through strings and haze, and she opened her eyes in confusion. Men didn't growl, and she looked at him with unfocused hazel eyes as her bow screeched to a stop. She'd forgotten, you see, about being fetched.]

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