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dashielldeveron · 6 years ago

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Viper V: de Futuro.

Warnings: violence, swears, the law.

Summary: the famous sewer scene, like they have in every rom-com.

Day five of the bomb threat. It was confined to Manhattan now, although no one could be certain. Bomb threats tended not to last so long, but this one had reason to extend: all of the sewers in lower Manhattan were backed up, and so far, no one could locate the cause. Authorities had the inkling that the bomber—Isadora’s kidnapper, your identity thief, twice—had blocked the sewers off somewhere downtown, maybe linked with the subway.

Which meant NYC was in uproar, mostly for transportation issues. The streets never cleared, and all attempted to avoid being outside for long due to the rank smell—but when one lives in an overpopulated, urban area, that tended to be difficult to evade.

All applause for your identity thief. He’d turned the city upside down with a few, simple actions. If he weren’t directly aiming and igniting this in your direction, you’d be impressed.

Too bad Tom was being a little prick. Wanting to be thorough in initiating you to be consigliere, he wasn’t letting you have a spare moment to yourself, and when you collapsed on your bed at home each night, your brain transformed into mush.

“Who should I give this job to?” Tom tossed you three profiles across his desk and kept striding towards his liquor cabinet.

“Sydney,” you said, picking out his file and setting it in front of his chair, “He’s got the subtlety that Moss and Murtagh don’t. Also, Bauman called; he wants to hire you to plan an operation for him across the Hudson, and Judge Le sent you this package in the mail.” You pulled a slender rectangle out of your blazer pocket and threw it his way. “It’s weighted like a fountain pen, probably in thanks for your help last week.”

Tom caught the package without looking away from his liquor cabinet and unwrapped it as he chose his bottle. “Excellent. I want you to look at Bauman’s initial operation to see what your instincts are. If you can’t figure anything out, give it to me. Text Sydney that he’s going to Harlem for the next five days. Tell him to leave his rings at home.” He dug his fingernails into the crack where the tape didn’t cover the cardboard and forced it open, and he tapped the opening into his palm. “You’re right,” he said, holding up the fountain pen, “Engraved. Put it with the rest.” He threw it back to you.

Catching it with both hands, you slid it into the pen cup. “Also, Holland, we should get the New Jersey representatives on the payroll soon. They’re trying to introduce a local law that’d let them gerrymander more often, and we want them in our pocket, if they have that power.”

“Get on it, then,” said Tom, and he poured an unhealthy amount of whisky into a tumbler. He held up a hand. “Wait. I don’t want them if they haven’t passed that law. Get them in our good graces but don’t commit to anything serious.”

You jotted that on your legal pad. “Got it. Are Z and Haz still going to the Heights today?”

“If the streets are manageable.” Tom took a deep drink and winced. “Fuckin’. Fuckin’ bomber.”

“Are we doing anything about that?”

Tom drained his glass. “You bet your arse we are.”

***

“You’re the worst,” you said, attempting to rest your weight by the pads of your index and middle fingers on the grimy wall of the sewer so that the pressure was removed from your heels for even a moment. “I’m not doing this again.”

“Tell me how you really feel,” Tom muttered, waving the flashlight in your direction.

“I could be touching the Gawain diamond right now. Maybe. It’s unclear when it’s coming in.” You pushed off of the wall and rubbed the grit between your fingers. “Instead, I’m living like a goddamn ninja turtle.”

“If you want pizza after this, just say the word,” said Tom, “but stop fuckin’ complaining. Come on. I’m hearing voices in the distance.”

“You could have sent some lame-o soldier to do this.” You leapt over a sopping puddle underneath a grate but managed to land in a deceptively squishy moss.

(Harrison had also voiced this sentiment. Why would the don and his consigliere go perform a humiliating task? “I want her eyes on everything they can be when it comes to this case,” Tom had said as if you hadn’t been present, and he loosened his tie enough to slip it off but keep the knot. “And I’m not letting her out of my sight.”)

“Yet I want you.” Tom peered around a bend, holding out his arm to keep you back.

“Yeah, well,” you said, “You may need my brain, but if it’s scrambled from not relaxing, it may not be on its best behaviour.”

“We’ll see about that,” Tom said under his breath, and he stood upright, dropped his arm, and beckoned for you to follow him farther. Before he could take could take more than three steps, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Viper, if you wanted time off, all you have to ask. Not—not now, of course. Gotta get situated. But once things calm down, you can…” Tom turned towards you, and in his face was an exasperation you hadn’t seen since you missed your mother’s birthday: weak, raised eyebrows with a mouth open simply because it didn’t take any muscles for it to drop and eyes with the suggestion of watering.

You shook your head. “I don’t want any time off.”

Tom shook his head in tandem, biting his lower lip and furrowing his brow. “Then what do you want?”

A series of shouts came from down the sewer, and Tom’s hand shot to his gun over the clatter of running footsteps from the other direction. You hissed at him that he couldn’t shoot in the sewer; he’d ruin their ears. Tom reluctantly withdrew and trudged forth.

You came upon a capacious, underground crossroads with tunnels going in six directions. Tom began to speak, but your hand on his shoulder silenced him as you listened.

“The police,” said Tom, “are down that one.” He gestured towards the one towards your left.

“Agreed,” you said, placing your chin on the back of your hand; Tom took a deep breath. “But listen: what’s the tinny sound? I’d say it’s chains dragging on the floor, but it’s not sixteenth century Spain.”

“There are so many things I want to say to you right now, but none of them are appropriate for this situation.”

“Tell me later,” you said, “Someone’s gotten to the blockage before we did.” You approached the tunnel, Tom close behind. “Ffffffuck. We won’t see raw evidence.”

Another shout and water rushing—holy shit, more like a fuckin’ deluge—surging your way.

“Oh, my God,” you said, and you grabbed Tom’s hand and ran—which tunnel did you come in? That one, sure. You chose that one.

Tom ran past you, but he came to a halt when you couldn’t keep up. You made the grossest decision of your life to take off your heels and run in the sewers in your bare feet. (“I’m gonna get the plague, and it’s gonna be your fault. I’m gonna get the plague, and hepatitis, and all my organs are gonna fail.”)

Shouts and watery footsteps from behind. An instruction to split up. A gunshot reverberated down your tunnel, the bullet skimming the wall, and you stuck a finger in your ear and twisted to pop it.

You came to a fork in the tunnel and bolted down the left path (“That’s how you get out of a maze,” you said, “you just keep your hand on the left wall.”), and Tom glanced back when you yelped at having stepped in a wet moss. A low pipe struck the back of Tom’s head, and his knees buckled, his hands flying to his scalp.

“No, no, no, it’s okay,” you said, peeking back down the sewer, “Come on. Stand up. We’ll be out soon. Arm around my shoulder. Let’s go.”

Tom put his arm around your waist, and his palm tightened around the spot where it curved into your stomach. Wrenching him upright, you urged him to put as much of his weight as he needed on you, mostly because you were a masochist who wanted to drop dead right there, and if this is the closest to romantic contact you’ll get, you’ll take it.

You came into another open crossroads and let him lean against the sewer wall while you stretched, water trickling in after you, not yet covering your feet but rising.

“Firehoses,” Tom said, his hand flat against the sewer (that had better not be the one he touches you with), “The chain dragging noise. Firehoses. They must be trying to blast out the blockage with water pressure.”

Nodding, you rolled your shoulders backwards. “If you say so. Which is—”

“Don’t say anything,” said Tom, “I hear someone coming.”

From another tunnel approached the manic splash of a runner—panting. Heavy panting. When he entered the crossroad, he doubled over and tried to breathe. Dressed in black. Hiding his face. Gotcha.

His head snapped towards you when you moved towards Tom, who snaked his arm around your waist again for support. He whipped out a gun, and though it’s too dark to make out what type it is, you get the feeling it wasn’t the one fired earlier.

“The fuck are you?” he barks, and it’s natural; it’s not the same person as before, who was very careful to conceal his identity. His gun shook for a second before steadying.

Tom opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You spoke for him. “You don’t know me?”

“You’re not with the police?”

“Are you with the bomber?”

You heard a click. “What’s it to you?”

“Personal interest.”

“A chick with personal interest. Not police.” He cleared his throat. “What up, Viper?”

You reached towards Tom’s holster and aimed his gun at the grunt before he could protest, but Tom did let out a choked sound: the barrel had grazed the outline of his cock—and you cocked his gun, hand never trembling. “Tell me about my identity thief.”

“You already know everything,” said the grunt, edging backwards and stumbling on sewage, “Precision like Mozart and justice like it’s judgment day. And if I can shoot you now, then the first part of my boss’s justice will be served pretty hot.”

“Justice,” you said, staring for a moment at the sludge between your toes, and you flexed them. “Then you know it’s not justice for me to shoot my hostage right here and now.” You pulled Tom into a chokehold and dug the barrel into his forehead. “You wanna get out of here, huh? Go on, then, before I blast this concussed fireman’s brains out.”

Tom’s hands gripped at your forearm, initially trying to pry you off but falling still. The grunt was hesitating, but his gun was lowering.

“C’mon. Don’t make me come over there.”

He bolted. Your grip on Tom’s neck loosened, and your arms fell to your side. Panting, Tom ran his fingers through his hair, only a suggestion of gel left. He shook his head at you, his eyes wide and jaw dropped.

“You are,” he said between breaths, “the craziest woman I’ve ever come across. And that’s why this is working—mmf!”

He inhaled sharply at your return of his gun to his holster, and you, grinning with a glint of wickedness in your eyes, glanced at his belt, jerked the holster back to its place at his side, and lingered with your fingers in his belt loops (the leather kept his pants fabric a little tighter to his skin than necessary, and you bet if you cared to, you could easily feel around for the v of his hipbones).

You were close, so close, and he couldn’t make himself look anywhere besides into your eyes. “Who’s talking here, Viper or the adrenaline?” he asked under his breath.

You yanked his belt loops to your hips. “Are you saying this doesn’t turn you on?”

“Is scared to death in the realm of turned on?”

“Sometimes,” you said, stepping away. It was the adrenaline talking. You had no idea how your aim was; you don’t shoot the guns, and Tom had been helpless in your arms. Pure luck had never felt so sexy. You shifted your foot on the edge to examine the underside, and grimacing, you said, “We’re getting out of here before I obtain several parasites. How’s your concussion?”

“Unsure if it is,” said Tom, his hand flying to the back of his head, “I wish I could see the bruise when it appears. Still not the best on my feet at the moment.”

“Well, lean on me, then, if you need to.”

***

Warm water bubbled up to your ankles. The foot soaker thing had been commandeered from a secretary in the business side of Osseous, and you were going to stay in it until you burned and scrubbed away the first five layers of skin.

Tom clutched an ice pack to the back of his head, and he hunched over to scroll through his phone on his lap. “I can still order that pizza, you know.”

“Let me have some semblance of professionalism around you, Holland,” you said, writing down the sewer events on your legal pad, “Besides, I have leftover hibachi at home.”

“Please order the pizza; I’m starving,” said Haz, untying his boots and removing them.

“Put a vegetable on it, for the love of God,” Zendaya said without looking up from her phone, “How you eat is abominable.”

“I eat vegetables.”

“Potatoes are a starch,” said Zendaya, “Have you guys been on twitter today?”

“What’s going on?” Tom popped his back and folded both his arms behind his head.

She flicked down her phone with her index finger. “A twitter account for Epiales, that political writer, was created this morning.”

“It’s fake,” you said on reflex.

“How do you know? It’s verified.”

“It can’t be.” You began to stand but sat again. “I’m not getting out of the foot bath. Come over here,” you said, frowning.

Z obliged, and she scrolled through the tweets for you. Shaking your head, you said, “It’s bogus. Total bullshit.”

“How would you know?” Haz asked from the liquor cabinet.

Oh. Um. “Look at how the sentences are structured. Epiales has flawless grammar. I don’t even have to go through all of them; there’s a comma splice in this tweet. Rookie mistake. That’s not something you do once you know it’s wrong. Plus, didn’t Epiales say on his website that anything not on the website, in that law journal, or in the Times wasn’t him?”

“Yeah, he did,” said Tom.

Zendaya pursed her lips. “So, who’s this fuck?”

***

When you got home that evening, you smushed your face in Trout’s belly for as long as she would let you. Simple and soft. She wiggled loose and trotted off to your bed before you felt okay again.

After reheating the hibachi, you settled into bed to write down that day’s plant records so that you could watch Netflix. Trout reacquainted herself with your freshly scalded feet.

Normal stuff. A couple of names you missed—you added those to your notes. A standard run-through, except for the conversation that occurred soon after you left.

You trudged through your own conversations; did your voice really sound like that? Z had departed for the day; you listened to her goodbyes, but Harrison and Tom loitered in his office.

“Something’s gotta be up,” came Harrison’s voice, distant but distinguishable, “Viper’s a little too smart for her own good.”

“She already has Dr. Prine,” said Tom, his voice muffled, like he was pinching his lower lip, “Who’s to say she doesn’t have other connections in high places?”

“What if she’s behind the bombs and kidnapping?”

“No. She wouldn’t want herself out in the public eye.”

Harrison sighed. “But how’s she know where everything is? No one’s that clever.”

“She is.” Tom paused. “The latest Epiales article—the one on the website. It did mention something about the mob.”

Shit. Shit! That had been the one you’d written in Tom’s childhood bedroom, the one where you were desperate to finish and needed something. You’d slipped.

“You think she knows Epiales?”

“I’m thinking the interview wasn’t a coincidence and that there wasn’t a burner phone. She’s got to have a way to contact him.”

“What if she’s feeding him information about us?”

“Epiales hasn’t done much with the information so far, if that’s true,” said Tom.

“Tom,” said Harrison, “She knew that the twitter was fake. Completely convinced. She knows exactly what to say to everyone and can act like a chameleon in any situation, seems like. I like the girl, but how do we find out if she’s a snake in the grass?”

“Well, Haz, you know what you do with snakes,” came Tom’s voice after a beat, “Charm them.”

***

de Futuro: concerning the future; at a future date.

***

taglist: @hollandroos @starksparker @pparkerwrites @qxeen-of-hearts @stealth-spiderr @presidentbttrflyfreak @parsleysbaby @madmadmilk @paradoxparker @gryfinpuffs @bi-writes @astronomyparkers @wheremyotpat @infamous-webhead @laurfangirl424 @softspideys @gendryia @plethoraofpuppies @laucontrerasv @shootingstarsaretearsofheaven @spiderboytotherescue

#tom holland #tom holland/reader #tom holland x reader #mob!tom holland #tom holland imagine #tom holland fanfic #tom holland fanfiction #mob au #mob tom #Mob!Tom #viper au #dash it all

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village-skeptic · 7 years ago

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on endings and beginnings

While I’m BEYOND excited for Riverdale to come back tonight, there’s also a little part of me that’s sad that the hiatus is coming to an end. There’s something really special about being part of a fandom that is SO enthusiastic and SO productive, and frequently delivering SUCH a high level of quality. Over the past few months, I have been gobsmacked time and time again by the sheer amount of talent and energy evinced by the brilliant writers, gifted artists, dedicated organizers, clever analysts, and silver-tongued smart-alecks who convene to squee over Maple Syrup Murder Hour. And my point is that there’s something really special that comes when you gather all those people together (albeit virtually) and give them time and space. Time and space to meditate and theorize; to bounce ideas off each other and create an entire battalion of headcanons; to apply and adapt (and deconstruct) beloved tropes. To tell and retell stories through drawings and gifsets and vids, To innovate fic wars and Instagram edits and more AUs than you can shake a stick at. To create fleshed-out versions of minor characters that will stay with me, and crack ships that I would happily fight and die for. To revel in canon-compliance and canon-divergence, and pre-canon and para-canon and extra-canon and even “canon? I don’t know her.” The next months are going to be like drinking from a firehose, and I can’t wait to enjoy the story that our writers, directors, and actors have been working so hard to bring us. I also super can’t wait to see what all the talent in this fandom produces when it has new grist for the mill! But -- and fine, maybe I sound like Jughead delivering a dramatic voiceover here -- there’s also a little bit of melancholy that comes with knowing that this time of endless possible versions of future canon is coming to an end. All of which is to say something along the lines of this: thank you all for making me enjoy (a lot of) the fan culture surrounding a show so much that I actually have slightly mixed feelings about it coming back.

Now, that being said: bring on Riverdale Season 2: Maple Murder Boogaloo!

#riverdale #riverdale season 2 #fandom #fanon #christ I love this show #christ I love this fandom

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itsyourturnblog · 5 years ago

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What I’ve learned: running during quarantine

Three lessons from running and using guided run coaching as a way to think about life in general

Photo by Jenny Hill on Unsplash

There’s a Chinese proverb that asks the question, When’s the best time to plant a tree? And there are two answers — the first one, Twenty years ago. The second one, If not 20 years ago, then today. Today’s the best time to plant a tree.

Thinking about that, I’ve run on and off my whole adult life — and over the past few years, I’ve fallen away from it. A couple of years ago, I won a coveted spot in the New York City Marathon lottery but I didn’t run the qualifying races or volunteer to help because my life felt too busy. My life was happening all around me, happening to me. I didn’t have time. I wanted to but… Always that pesky but. I didn’t make the space and that opportunity went unused.

Then, last year my family moved to San Francisco from NYC in late summer — which seemed like a good time as any to make other life changes. Weather permitting, I would ride a bike (some of the way) to work in SoMa, we took regular family walks, I even meditated here and there. And then, the novel coronavirus comes on the scene earlier this year. COVID-19 and quarantine ensue, causing everything to be thrown into a swirl, including work, school, habits, even the construct of time itself.

And so what to do in a time of great change and uncertainty? You guessed it, plant a tree. I planted a tree two months ago. I started running again. I mean, why not? And I began with the Nike+ Run Club app using the guided runs feature.

I promise this isn’t a commercial for Nike, I only own one pair of Nike shoes, but the guided runs really have been a lifesaver for me. Previously, when I would run, I would have company — friends, family, and people who might have signed up for the same race later in the year, my dog, some other kind of motivation — but nowadays, these things are near impossible. And so this is how coach Chris Bennett, NRC Global Head Coach, and others — including Sally McCrae, Cory Wharton-Malcolm, Shalane Flanagan — inhabited my headphones as I ran 50,000 meters (a bit over 31 miles) this month. And here’s the evidence:

Screenshots from my Strava (left) and Nike+ Run Club (right) apps — Strava’s a bit lower than NRC because some of the segments I initially logged as hikes so they don’t count as run distances

🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌 🎉🙌

So, let’s get into it. Let’s cross that proverbial starting line and get going. What are three things that I’ve learned from my time running that can apply more broadly to my life and my work?

Start slowly, or go slowly

We’re all in a hurry — we’ve all got to-do lists a mile long, someone’s waiting on something, there’s that email, has the kid eaten lunch?, that thing took longer than we thought and now we’re behind, has the dog been fed?, did you reply to that message from your uncle?— but we all have time. It is something that exists for all of us. Though it does have value, it doesn’t cost any money. And whether it feels like it or not, you are in control of the next 30 minutes, the next hour, all of it. You are in control. And whether you’re running on a trail or you’re staring down a deadline or about ready to begin a design sprint with a client team, you control the cadence. You don’t have to drink from a firehose. And in order to not drive yourself into the ground, you need to start slow. It’s easy to get caught up in the excitement, heart-pounding, trip over the hype, the blood rushing in our ears, to say yes, and jump in.

On the flip side, it takes strength, resolve, and focus to start slow. Because it’s tough to sit in that tension, it’s hard to say no, to really consider the whole effort — especially when it’s in-flight, you don’t know exactly what that entails. How can you know how much fuel you’ll use if you don’t know everything about the journey of which you’re in the middle?

True, you can pick up the pace later, that’s always an option but warm up first. Prep as much as you can. Stretch. Shake it out. Keep your arms loose, keep your legs limber. Then, do the icebreaker before you plow straight in. Start smart. And start slow.

Recovery is important, be easy

Be easy on yourself, even in the middle of a run. That goes for after a run, between runs, before a run. The same goes for life. Life can be hard, it will get hectic, it is crazy at times so be easy on yourself. Being easy doesn’t mean lowering your standards, it doesn’t always mean running slow. But set those things for what you need. There’s a guided run on NRC called Tough Day, Easy Run, it’s been one of my favorites because it speaks to that.

During a speed run, you may run fast, but not too fast. Or try to be the fastest. If you’re running with someone, how are they doing? Are they able to answer simple questions, maintain a conversation? Are you trying to run faster than they are? Are they trying to run faster than you? Are you able to talk to them? How are you feeling? You should feel good. If you’re feeling something else, you’re not being easy. Running should feel good.

Coach Bennett talks about how an easy run should feel, how a recovery run should feel. He says something like:

And easy doesn’t mean slow; it means just that — easy. And easy, when it comes to running, easy doesn’t mean slow. And remember we talked about slow — starting slow doesn’t mean that that’s the pace for the whole route. Taking something easy isn’t a slow run. It’s an easy run. It’s your normal, everyday run. Because if it’s not an interval run, a long run, or a speed run, it’s an easy run. It’s a recovery run. Easy is not a pace or a distance; easy is a level of effort. So go easy.

I remember one of the NRC trainers pointed out — don’t recall who it was— that runners typically have slower paces the third and last quarter of a run. And that’s not necessarily a good thing, it probably means that runner has exhausted themselves — it means I’ve been running too hard for the first half. That means I wasn’t running slow, really pacing myself, and I didn’t make it easy for myself. I’m making it harder than it needs to be. That’s me, making it hard.

How many times have we complicated something in our lives? If you’re anything like me, a lot. Whew, it’s easy to lose count. And many times, I make things in my life and my family’s life a lot harder. Why? Any number of reasons — pride, ego, stubbornness, some rigid idea that something has to be a very specific way, not accepting help, not asking for help, all sorts of reasons. If we’re easy about these things, even just a bit more, it won’t be so hard.

It’s okay to fail

The intention at the start of the run isn’t always how it plays out. Like how the best-laid plans for some Tuesday lunch or a family bingo game night or a client retro not turning out the way it was intended. What is the joke — do you want proof that god/God has a sense of humor? Make a plan.

You might start out on a run and think, I’m going to run 10K today and I’m going to crush it, but if you listen to your body and listen to what’s going on with you, that may not be the best way to run. Sure, you can dig deep and pull something out in the last quarter and thug it out but you should still start slow and be easy with yourself. Digging out that low gear, keep that in your back pocket. There’s always time for that.

In 2007, Arianna Huffington woke up in a pool of blood with a broken cheekbone and a cut over her eye. She had been at home on the phone and was checking emails when she passed out and fell. Huffington had been working 18-hour days building the Huffington Post website. She didn’t know what had happened and after weeks of medical tests, doctors came back with a simple answer: she was exhausted.

Arianna Huffington attending the premiere of The Union at the 2011 Tribeca Film Festival, photo by David Shankbone

Huffington took personal steps to stop this from happening again in her own life. And then, she became a champion for getting more sleep, urging others that instead of bragging about our sleep deficits to see how we can do more with more sleep. She did one of the most popular TED talks in 2010 on the subject— it’s been watched over 5 million times — and wrote Sleep Revolution in 2017.

I say all of that as an example of what it means to reset your expectations. Listen to yourself, listen to others, the thing that you had in mind might not be the best thing or the right thing to do just now.

There’s a ton more I could say. There are things I’ve missed, sure— running on narrow trails in this time of COVID-19 precautions puts a whole new spin on politeness, how, and when to yield (bikes, runners, walkers, horses, etc.), a lesson is there to be learned in kindness. For sure. Or staying focused on the path in front of you as a metaphor for remaining present. Because there’s always a crack in the sidewalk or an exposed root that’s visible after the fact. But I’ll stop here and appreciate the fledgling tree.

Thanks for reading. Let me know what you think.

You can find the Strava and the Nike+ Run Club app on the web, in the iOS store, and in the Android store. Maybe other platforms, though I couldn’t find any others. You can find Arianna Huffington’s book, Sleep Revolution, in any major book retailer, but I would suggest getting it from your favorite local bookstore.

What I’ve Learned: Running During Quarantine was originally published in It's Your Turn on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

by Skipper Chong Warson via It's Your Turn - Medium #itsyourturn #altMBA #SethGodin #quotes #inspiration #stories #change #transformation #writers #writing #self #shipping #personaldevelopment #growth #education #marketing #entrepreneurship #leadership #personaldev #wellness #medium #blogging #quoteoftheday #inspirationoftheday

#ItsYourTurn #It's Your Turn #IYT #altMBA #Seth Godin #Inspiration #Stories #Change #Transformation #Blog #Medi

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baymaxmuses · 13 days ago

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"Your involvement pretty heavily influences Tails' mannerisms, and just because you yourself aren't doing it, doesn't mean that there isn't a version of you in the multiverse that isn't responsible for it. It might not be you in the literal sense, but it could be you in the figurative sense."

{{ L }} " Excuse me? Just because my Tails is troubled doesn't mean it's my fault others are too. Geez. Can't catch a break. "

#last protector (muse: knuckles)#drink from the firehose (crack)#cxffeeshxp #he just wants to heckle sonic for the meme

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nadiineross · 8 years ago

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title: darkened nights and violent things, vaudevillian girls and violin strings

pairing: jade/tori

note: incomplete and old as hell so the quality of fic is not the best but im clearing out my folders

The first time they meet, Tori almost pisses her pants.

Tori yanks her door open, ready to give Trina a piece of her mind, because goddammit, Trina, I don’t need your help with moving, I’m all set and, anyway, you’re just here to use my TV.

“God, Trina, stop. I don’t care if mom and dad are hogging the TV – Oh.”

The woman standing in front of her isn’t Trina.

She’s, well, she’s a lot angrier. And she has Edward Cullen skin, minus the sparkles. So, yes, she almost pisses her pants.

“Coffee.”

“I, um, what?” Tori manages dumbly, because she doesn’t know this gorgeous woman and also, what?

“Look, you seem like the type of happy-go-lucky neighbour I’d avoid, but I need coffee before I jam a fork into someone’s chest multiple times,” the woman says frankly.

Tori blinks, mind barely registering the words before the woman – her neighbour? – peers into her apartment without even trying to be subtle.

“Do you have coffee or what?”

“Oh. Yeah.” Tori glances over her shoulder at the pot brewing in her kitchen. “Do you want to come in?”

“No.” It’s blunt and there’s a sense of finality in the way the woman says it.

Tori clears her throat. “Okay. Um, I’ll just pour you a cup and bring it out?”

The woman grunts.

Tori coughs in her hand once more before turning to pour the coffee – door still open. “I’m Tori Vega, by the way,” she introduces after pouring two cups of coffee and handing it to the woman.

She takes it and sipping once before giving Tori a raised eyebrow. “Did I ask?”

“Did I – Did I do something wrong?” Tori frowns, she can’t remember doing anything bad to any of her new neighbours (and the one time she made neighbours mad in her old building was when she interrupted them in the middle of sex; they forgave her after she baked them cookies).

Instead of an answer, she gets a, “Stop talking.”

“What?”

“Your coffee isn’t entirely shit, but you’re ruining it, so stop talking.”

With that, Tori slams the door. (She thinks she catches a smirk on the other woman’s face as the door clicks shut.)

The second time they meet, it’s disastrously awkward.

Trina (it’s always Trina) has taken it upon herself to annoy the crap out of Tori by singing on the top of her lungs and lounging in her living room.

Tori leaves the moment Trina starts trying to reenact another musical using kitchen appliances as props.

“Hey, Tori, I’m calling this cute guy I met last week over, so don’t bother us,” Trina calls just as Tori closes the door behind herself.

“Don’t go into my room!” she yells through the door, getting a screech that resembles the chorus of One Short Day in return.

Great.

André, the man who lives in the apartment beside her, is out of town for the next week for a music festival. Cat, the eccentric redhead living in the third apartment, is visiting a brother who had apparently been put in a coma after an accident to do with a firehose (she doesn’t ask).

She has nowhere to go. She glances at the apartment opposite her. The fourth and last apartment on her floor.

She’s tried knocking before, but no one opened the door. She sighs and hopes to god it isn’t the coffee woman who opens the door. (But she hopes someone opens up, because she doesn’t want to sit outside her apartment while her sister does god knows what in her living room.)

Taking a deep breath, she raises her knuckles and raps on the door.

A shuffling comes from behind the door, but minute’s ticks by and no one opens the door.

She knocks again.

This time there’s a growl and the door’s swinging open.

It’s the coffee woman. And her hair’s messy. “What?”

“Um, my sister’s in my apartment waili- I mean, singing, and probably having sex on my couch, so-”

“No. I’m busy.”

“But-”

The coffee woman groans. “Leave before I find out how many scissors I can fit inside your body.”

A man appears behind the coffee woman. “Jade, don’t be rude.”

The coffee woman – Jade – elbows him in the stomach with a scowl. “She’s annoying.”

The man’s hair is also a mess and Tori notices his shirt’s hanging open. “I’m Beck.”

“Tori. I’m Tori Vega,” she says with a smile. Itching to get away. It seems everyone is having sex, Christ.

“Great. Can you go, now?” Jade snaps.

“Yes! Bye!” Tori takes a step back with a frantic nod, wincing as the door slams shut and a muffled moan makes its way into the hallway.

She ends up crossing town to hang out with her (weird) friend, Robbie, and his (creepy) puppet, Rex.

The third time, it’s Trina fault again (no surprise there).

She’s belting out the lyrics to, well, Tori doesn’t exactly know, but she’s sure no one could have come up with something this bad.

Just her luck, no one she knows is in town. So, she sucks it up and knocks on apartment 6D.

It takes ten minutes for the door to crack open and Jade’s at the door with a withering glare and a pair of scissors in her hands. “I will impale you, Vega.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, but can I please come in?”

The door swings shut, but Tori’s foot is faster. She winces when the door crashes into her foot.

Jade yanks the door back with her scissors in Tori’s face. “Give me a good reason why I shouldn’t stick this pair of scissors into your eyes right now.”

Tori grimaces, shifting on the spot. “Okay. Um, listen.”

“What?” Jade spits after a while of silence.

“No, I mean, listen.” A beat. “Do you hear it?”

Jade’s eyes twitches.

“Listen. My door.”

Silence. Then, a dying cat. No, nails on a board. No. Tori Vega’s sister.

The woman eases up with a slight cringe. “Your problem.”

Tori sighs. “She’ll only get louder and she’ll even try to do instrumental by herself with my pans.”

Jade pushes Tori away, marching to the door and banging on the door.

Two good threats and a bleeding finger later, Trina’s storming out of Tori’s apartment and Jade’s closing the door to her apartment with a satisfied smile.

The next morning, Jade opens her door to find a cup of coffee at her door. She drinks it, because it’s not entirely shit.

Third time’s the charm.

Tori sits up suddenly in a flurry of sheets and limbs. She fumbles for her phone, charging on her nightstand, and squints at the screen. 12:03 AM blinks at her.

“Fuck you!”

She squeezes her eyes shut and falls back to bed.

“What do you want, Jade?”

Sighing, she yanks the covers away and stumbles to her door.

“Oh, what I want, Beckett, is f–”

The fighting couple pauses when they both notice Tori’s door open.

“I’m sorry, did we wake you?” Beck asks just as Jade glares and flips her off with a snarl.

Jade scowls at her boyfriend. “Are you flirting with her, too?”

Beck groans, clenching Jade’s door frame tightly. “I’m not and I wasn’t flirting with that girl at the bar.”

“Really? It seemed an awful lot like flirting, Beckett,” Jade grits out.

The Latina sighs, closing the door and shuffling back to bed.

Fourth night of fighting and counting.

Beck doesn’t come back the next morning. Or the one after that.

Christmas rolls around. Tori’s got a secure job working as a music tutor and Trina’s tagging along to some European country with her parents.

She had a get together with her friends and Beck (apparently Beck has been friends with André for a while) at a bar a week before the 25th and they exchanged presents and wishes.

She sits alone in her apartment with presents pushed to a pile on her coffee table.

She sits alone and she’s so bored.

Then, there’s a knock at her door and she’s up before the person has even finished knocking.

Jade quirks her eyebrow and Tori marvels at the glint of silver, it’s the first time she notices the eyebrow piercing and she can’t say she doesn’t like it. “Hi.”

“You’re still here.” It’s not a question.

“Yeah.”

Jade just leans against the door frame. “Coffee.”

“You know, I might just start charging you,” Tori teases as she heads into her kitchen anyway, because she’s bored and she might just be a little bit gay for her hot neighbour. (See: incredibly, undeniably gay.)

After she hands Jade the coffee she smiles. “Would you like to come in?”

Jade pauses. “Do you have more coffee?”

Before Tori can finish her ‘yes’, Jade’s shoving past her and making herself at home on her couch.

They both down their coffees in silence until Jade puts her cup down and scrutinizes Tori’s movie collection.

“Entertain me,” she lets out after picking through her movie collection. “You also need more horror movies.”

“I can’t stand horror movies.”

Jade snorts. “Figures.”

They lapse into silence again.

Jade stands silently, sweeping out of the apartment without as much as a glance back at Tori.

Tori stands to close the door after her, but Jade shoves her way back in with a CD.

They binge watch horror films until Tori’s sure she’s going to have nightmares for the rest of the year.

Tori thinks they genuinely become friends on one faithful Monday night when she’s woken up at an ungodly hour again by furious shouting.

She stands immediately, ready to yell at whoever it is (she needs proper rest if she’s going to deal with the annoying kid with the potato nose tomorrow).

Her door swings open and her scowl set on her face, already knowing it would be Jade, because, really, Cat and André wouldn’t be keeping her awake at this time.

“Get the fuck out,” Jade hisses.

Tori just catches the back of Beck’s head as he storms into the elevator.

“Don’t come back,” Jade’s voice cracks, and Tori doesn’t say a word as she goes back into her kitchen to turn on her coffee maker.

When she comes back, Jade’s leaning against her door with her eyes downcast and her chest heaving. Her eyeliner is smudged and her shirt is crumpled and she looks so tired.

She’s not steel and stone, she’s not sharp and cutting, not anymore. She looks human, less like an abusive, stalkery vampire, so Tori steps out of her apartment still dressed in pajamas with a cup of coffee.

Jade glances at the steaming cup for a second before taking it and shuffling past Tori into her apartment without permission.

Tori pours more coffee and throws a pile of blankets onto the couch while Jade fluffs a pillow and buries herself in the cushion.

All this is done wordlessly, it’s still barely two in the morning, they’re both cranky, and the Mean Girls CD Tori put in acts as their background music.

The Latina snorts as Jade swipes the remote off the table and mutes the movie with a wrinkle of her nose.

“Scissoring.”

“Thanks, Jade, but I’d prefer dinner first,” Tori mutters, still half-asleep.

Jade throws a pillow at her head. “Shut the fuck up, Vega. Get the movie.”

Tori huffs, but doesn’t argue. She brings her laptop closer and finds an online version, pressing play and immediately leaping backwards when loud instrumental blasts through her speakers.

“Scared?” Jade taunts, she slaps Tori’s hand away when she tries to adjust the volume.

“No.” Tori brushes Jade away and turns the volume lower. The title flashes onto screen with a sudden drop and Tori jerks back. “Yes. I am very much scared. I prefer Regina George over this.”

Jade laughs, a rumble in her chest, and pushes the blankets more fully over Tori’s balled up form. “I don’t.”

Tori pouts, burrowing into the blankets (and into Jade’s shoulder). “You’re mean.”

Jade nods and hums in agreement. “It’s my post-breakup mope session, Vega.”

Point.

The first night of their friendship (Jade will deny that they were friends to her last breath) is also the first night they have a sleepover.

Jade shoves Tori on to the floor at seven in the morning, takes the coffee, and leaves.

Tori huffs and throws a pillow at her – it misses her retreating form entirely.

She’s tired and hungry.

The orange juice is a nice change to her diet of coffee and take out.

She responds to the knock on her door with a glass of juice basically glued to her face.

André’s chuckle greets her and he watches her chug juice before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand unattractively.

He gives her attire a raised eyebrow. “Did you forget about today?”

“What’s today?” Tori responds with a furrow of her eyebrows.

“We’re hanging out today. Finished writing my song and we’re celebrating. Remember?”

Tori groans. “Oh, right. God, I’m sorry, André. It’s just this annoying kid called Ryder keeps trying to hit on me and I’m just trying to teach him how to play the freaking piano. He’s, like, barely 17 yet.”

André laughs again. “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, chica, but I have alcohol and you have a couch, so can you shut up and let me in?”

Tori giggles, stepping aside and letting him through. “Where’s Cat?”

“She’s coming over soon, I think,” André replies, pulling glasses from Tori’s kitchen and pouring the drinks into cups. “And Beck is busy avoiding Jade.”

Tori gnaws at her lips. Jade. She hasn’t talked to that grump in a week, after she was pushed to the floor on her face. Come to think of it, she’s barely talked to Beck either.

André sets the glasses down on the counter and turns to Tori. “You leaving the door or what?”

“Oh, sorry,” Tori mutters as she shuts the door and plops down at the counter opposite her friend.

“So…” Andre starts. Tori raises her eyebrows, waiting. “I was thinking, you’re beautiful and I–”

“I’m gayer than a pride march, André.”

André stares.

“Oops.” She wasn’t planning on coming out like this, but hey, she feels like she’s going to collapse, so give her a break.

She gulps the wine down before trudging to her fridge for a chocolate bar she’s pretty sure she has stashed somewhere in there.

When she pulls away with half a Mars bar in her mouth, André’s leaning over the fridge door with a smirk. “Want to be gayer than a pride march in front of me?”

Tori gives him a dirty look, ripping into her chocolate bar. “Don’t be gross.”

André laughs, and with a cup of coffee and the rest of her chocolate bar supply, she’s awake and less hungry. “Joking, Tor.”

A knock on the door brings a wide eyed Cat with a plate stacked with cookies, and Jade (Tori doesn’t know what to make of that).

Jade shoves past the two of them without so much of a greeting and plops down beside André.

“Just set the cookies down on the table, Cat.”

Cat does as told and the group elapses into a silence with André and Tori sneaking glances at Jade who is looking incredibly bored and a clueless Cat who seems to be admiring Tori’s beige walls.

Jade growls. “God, you guys are so boring. Do you just do this all day, sit and stare?”

“Well, Jade, what do you want to do, then?” Tori snaps back with a puff of air.

“You know what?” Jade snarls, she pushes off the couch and takes the plate of cookies. “I’m leaving.”

“Those are our cookies, Jade, and you weren’t invited in the first place,” Tori hollers as she scrambles to her feet after the cookie thief, only to be greeted by her own closed door. Typical.

They end up watching Luke Cage off of her Netflix account and tipsy baking.

By the time it’s twelve in the morning, Cat’s conked out on André’s lap and he’s dozing, sprawled out over the couch, leaving Tori picking blankets off the floor. She drapes a blanket over Cat and shoves them around so André’s got one too, and goes to clean herself up.

Tori reckons its due to the shirt barely over her head and the alcohol still in her system that she’s so slow to open the door, but she gets to it. Jade doesn’t appreciate it.

She wordlessly lets Jade blow past her, not even giving their friends a second glance, and nudges her over to her own room.

Jade locks the door and kicks her boots off.

“Is…” Tori blinks and runs a hand through her hair. “Is there something you wanted?”

Jade lies on her back in the middle of Tori’s bed and shrugs. “Writer’s block.”

Tori raises her eyebrows and gingerly sits herself down on the edge of the bed. It’s kind of weird, thinking about it. She’s really only known these people for a handful of months and she knows next to nothing about Jade.

“You’re a writer?”

Jade makes a face at her, a cross between annoyance and disapproval. “What do you think writer’s block means?”

Rolling her eyes, Tori moves to her headboard, so Jade is eyelevel with her knees. She lives in LA too, so she’s not exactly surprised all her friends are the artsy types.

“And you?” Jade asks after a moment, lips quirking up a little at Tori’s confusion. “What’s your pimp’s numbers? I’ve got some complaints.”

“I’m a piano and voice coach,” Tori says, indignant. “Why are you here?”

“Writer’s block. Pay attention, Vega.”

“I thought you hated me.”

Jade shuffles back, sitting next to Tori. “I’m bored.”

“Wanna play I Spy?” Tori smiles, not even fazed when Jade elbows her. “20 questions?”

“Truth or dare,” Jade says.

Tori raises an eyebrow. “Sober, like high school freshmen?”

She ignores Tori. “Truth.”

Of course. Okay, well, Tori’s drunk-ish and tired, so she’s not the most creative right now. “What’s your favourite colour?”

Jade scoffs. “Really?” She rolls her eyes and moves all her hair onto her left shoulder, so she can look at Tori better. “Red.”

“Truth,” Tori replies.

“Boring. What’s the kinkiest thing you’ve ever tried?”

Tori flushes and bites her lip. “Um. I once got handcuffed in the back of an empty classroom.”

Jade guffaws and her hands curl loosely on her stomach as she cackles. Tori rips her eyes away from the curve of Jade’s neck, huffing.

“Who knew Sweet Sally Peaches was an exhibitionist?”

“In my defense, it was a performing arts college, people were very experimental, and no one caught us.” Tori’s stretching the truth, because she’d just barely buttoned her jeans when a professor walked in. Her college girlfriend, on the other hand… “Fine. What’s your craziest kink?”

Jade smirks. “Oh, but how could I follow up after that, Whore-i Vega?” Tori’s just about to say something else, but Jade picks at her nails and continues, “Exhibitionism isn’t something I’m particularly interested in, not after a shitty under-the-table experience at Maestro’s, but you’ve seen Beck, haven’t you?”

“Your kink is mauling people,” Tori deadpans.

“Truth or dare?”

Tori blinks. “It’s your turn.”

They play for an hour, only truths, because Jade seems to realize Tori’s pretty tame, and Tori lets Jade sleepover.

She’s lonely. That’s why she’s here. Tori sighs and ends up sleeping till noon.

#jori #victorious #jori fic #victorious fic #this is so bad im embarrassed

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