November 2015




RSS Atom
Powered by InsaneJournal

Sep. 12th, 2014



do the fucking aliens and plagues ever reach Jersey?

Sep. 10th, 2014


Gotham: Russ C & Imogen C

Who: Russ and Imogen
What: Points of view & introductions
Where: Some crummy bar in Gotham City.
When: Now
Warnings: Foul language extremely likely

The break-room still smelled like stale sleep, burned coffee and a fight with his kid brother that still simmered at home, resentment thick like nicotine painting the walls yellow )

Sep. 2nd, 2014


112 days. Let the countdown begin.

Sep. 1st, 2014


NY Loft Hostel: Jack/Imogen

Who: Imogen and Jack
What: Reunions, as you do
Where: NY Loft Hostel, Brooklyn (Marvel)
When: Nowish
Warnings/Rating: I expect only good things

The night was the clearest it had been since she'd ended up in New York, and the lingering sound of things being reknitted only barely reached her ears. Vestiges and echos of workers going home, and it was rather peaceful, and surprisingly so. The hostel was a loud place, even in the wake of Reno and Las Vegas. It was a different kind of loudness. Voices raised in youth and laughter, where Reno and Las Vegas had been tourists escaping lives that had gone rather dull in the everyday.

The courtyard was nearly empty, and the blonde girl sat upon a bench, her guitar in her lap and strap lax at her shoulder. The guitar was more memorable than she was, red-glitter covered and sounding like angels lost in the strings, at least to the girl with the pale blonde hair and the jeans tucked into her boots. The jumper she wore was knit and purl, and it had gaps where the knitter had gone astray. Oft worn, and it was thin places, and the tee-shirt beneath was dulled grey, but there was hardly a lack of money in the once-fine fabric. A contradiction, as it were, and her hair was braided haphazardly in places, as if boredom had guided her fingertips.

She wore her crucifix on a long chain, and it moved against the fret in unintentional percussion, swing and swing. She strummed, and her voice was like bells, soft and clear and entirely without guile. The song was all southern warmth, though a hint of Britannia slipped between the cracks in her voice when the words went slow as traffic at early morning.