#new development Upper East Side | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tsumuhours · 1 year ago

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AMERICAN JESUS PAIRING: suna rintarō x fem!reader TAGS: alternate universe – gang world, smut, oral, flirty suna WORD COUNT: 10k

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Whether it be in the form of finding an injured member of a notorious gang near your apartment, or trading silence for safety, or how he pulls you into a complicated relationship which goes against integrity and... possibly laws.

mature content !

Life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

Not to say you haven't deserved half of the mandated karma – you haven't always been the best person, given the borderline psychopathic attempt of climbing to the top – but a break, or a nice surprise would be a great change in routines.

Whoever said success is a lonely road was, painfully, correct. To think that you spent your high school years working hard to get into an ivy league, spent those four years working at internships to make those desired connections people dream of!

Only to get out at the age of twenty-two and spend the next year as some glorified, under-paid, under appreciated, assistant. And no, that's not what the job description is supposed to entail, you're meant to be an associate – associates are not supposed to run around getting coffee – with the main purpose of developing your career and hopefully making partner in seven to ten years time.

Not to mention, since the city has unbelievable prices of living, you had to move to a neighbouring borough just for the possibility of having a studio apartment that isn't the size of a closet for the same price. Is it the most convenient?

No, not really, considering the fact the commute is over thirty-minutes and you have to go back and forth from work at unreasonable hours because your boss insists on bringing you to every little, insignificant meeting, or post-work drinks at nine at night – which is an excuse for the woman to spiral further into alcoholism – where you will inevitably end up carrying your boss back to her penthouse on the upper east side.

And no, it doesn't get better, because afterwards, after spending two hours at an expensive bar with the drunken, divorced, mess of a boss you have by the time she gets home safe, you're expected to deal with the city's delayed – and inconsistent – subway times at this ungodly hour and spend the next thirty-minutes in a train with rando's and sketchies.

Oh! No, that's not where it ends, because by the time you get off the subway, it's almost midnight, and you have to take a lovely – scary – ten-minute walk alone to your apartment, but walking anywhere at night is terrifying... Except for the rumour, or fact, that violence has been making its way around the borough, and according to new statistics – regarding the quarterly crime rate review – it's been looking a bit too stabby for your liking.

Now, this walk home is nothing different to how it is every day. You stride down the street with purpose, clutching your taser, and eerily aware of your surroundings. Although, remember how life always has a new way of fucking you over through some odd, irrelevant, way of testing your resilience?

This is one of those occasions.

Let's say it's not common for a man to be curled up in the small alley where residents keep their trash, but then again, crime rates have increased by a percentage that can make anyone uncomfortable – still, committing those types of crimes in a residential neighbourhood where people are simply trying to live their lives is ridiculous. Have some class.

Sure, as a law abiding citizen or natural samaritan would help, but no, not you. Living in a densely populated city means one thing, and one thing only, keep your head down. It's a game of see nothing, know nothing. Everyone minds their own business, that's how you stay safe and avoid danger – including scammers, or the random cult recruiters.

So, you intend on reaching for your keys to the front entrance of your small building, until you hear a small groan come from the neighbours dumpster alley. Sighing, you swallow your pride – and maybe your safety – holding your phone in one hand, and taser in another, and go over to look. The flashlight turned on, as you flash it on the curled up body.

You cannot see his face, but you instantly recognize the leather jacket and matching bandana. Of fucking course, out of everyone in the world, you happen to come across a member of a gang – as if this is some cruel joke from the universe. What do they call themselves? The Foxes? That awful group that parades around in black and maroon, with their emblem of a fox printed on leather jackets that they display for the world to see.

You're reluctant to step forward, maybe it's the threatening affiliation this guy has wound himself with, or the blood on his hands – literally and figuratively – as he grips onto the side of his stomach. The thing is, you've got a massive report to read over and playing doctor with someone is not on your list of side-quests – as it doesn't benefit your position, or reputability on the job any better. However, people are always watching, so if word were to magically get out that you saw a member of this notorious, tight-knit gang and ignored him, that could put a dangerous target on your back.

But, if you help him, you can probably lawyer your way into securing safety for your silence. You could exchange saving his life, for him, inevitably, saving yours in turn – ensuring that you're home, your spaces, where you are at all times is a no-go zone. Sure, that means turning your back on the entire legal system you've spent studying is thrown on the backburner, but you need to look out for yourself.

What is success if it means you've got strangers pinning a vendetta against you, and watching your every move before they strike? How could you ever reach partner if you get killed? How could you ever live with the benefits of making partner, if you get killed before you can exercise those benefits?

The short-term pride is not worth it if you don't get to brag about it... and silence for safety seems like the best option on the table. No one ever said that law always has to be good, it's unjust – at times – unfair and just as corrupt. Only ten percent of people who go into this job do it out of the good of their heart, the rest, the majority do it for the money and respect.

And it isn't part of your job description to be a good person, you're not a doctor. You didn't pledge to an oath about refraining from causing harm or hurt, or to act honestly and responsibility. No, you are conducting yourself with dignity and conscience – and as far as you care, freedom of speech and association still exists, and what you're doing isn't necessarily illegal unless you get recruited or actively participate in a crime.

And since when helping someone not die a crime? He's part of the Foxes, for christ sake. They can invoke power anywhere, he can potentially make you untouchable. You can live your life somewhat more peacefully if it means that safety is a guarantee. If you save one of them, they have no choice but to repay you. That's how the system works.

Sighing, you step closer, bending down to get a better look at him. Flashlight illuminating the severe wound on the side of his stomach, the blood surrounding his black top and his hands. "Fuck my life," you mutter. He's practically losing consciousness with every second, you doubt he's capable of standing up by himself, and there's no way you're going to attempt to fix him by a pile of trash.

So, you do what you can, gently lifting up his upper body, draping his arm around your shoulders as you begin to stand. God is he big, and getting him up the stairs will undoubtedly be a struggle. Still, as if on impulse, his feet start moving as you carry more than half of his weight towards the front door of your building, up the stairs to the second floor – where your apartment remains.

Forcefully, pushing open the door, you find all the strength in your body to lead him to the couch – internally crying at the stain that will taint the grey cushions – where he falls over and lays on his back. Absolutely winded, you walk into your bathroom, searching for that old – raggedy – first aid kit in the cupboards along with cotton balls and comically large band aids that you have no reason for owning.

God, it's as if this was planned, fucking written in the stars. Yes, you were meant to end up in this situation because you are one of the only people in the world who thought it'd be fun and convenient to own large band aids that can temporarily cover a stab wound. Good going!

Gathering all the materials in your hand, you walk over to the couch where he remains in limbo. Again, you're no medical professional, no, the most training you have consists of a short one hour life skills lesson and a topic on human physiology that was part of your biology course in high school. So, yes, you're a bit rusty – but that doesn't mean you're incompetent.

Kneeling down on the floor, scattering the items next to you on the floor, reaching for the cotton balls and bottle of disinfectant. But as your fingers graze over the skin on his torso to lift up his shirt, he flinches, and for the first time since running into him, you look at his face with an offended look on yours – as if he's able to see you through his shut eyelids.

He catches you off guard, the delicate and mesmerising features. Strong jaw, dark hair, furrowed eyebrows that mix in well with the discomfort he must be feeling. Yes, he's beautiful, but he's also bleeding out on your couch and part of an infamous gang that got himself stabbed. Letting out a frustrated, hmph, you lift up his shirt to examine the wound – as if you have any idea what you're doing.

First, you need to unarm him. You run your hands through the pockets of his cargos, pulling out a phone, wallet, and pocket knife, then dig through the pockets of his leather jacket finding nothing alarming.

Next, you cover your hands with latex gloves, then get to work. Letting the cotton balls absorb the disinfectant before running it along his skin, in which he finches in response. "Stop flinching, I'm helping you." You mutter, sure, maybe using water would be a better alternative than bathing him in on the shelf disinfectant, but water is not going to effectively clean him up.

You don't even know what you're doing, and your body, mind, even fucking adrenaline knows that by the way your hands shake. Do you need to stitch him up? You don't know how to suture a wound, you don't even know how to stitch! You don't even own string, yarn yes, but you doubt that sealing someone up with lilac yarn is the most sanitary or safe.

So, of course, you do the most reasonable thing and search it up, and given the short research it confirms that you don't have to do anything – then again, how many people get stabbed and don't receive certified medical attention?

Hands still shaking, you dive into the medical box, looking for antibiotic ointment. "I hate you, you know?" You begin speaking to yourself as you uncap the cream, "You're bleeding out on my couch. Is it a good couch? No, it is uncomfortable, and by the way your legs hand off the arm rests, it's not the biggest. But it's my couch, I found it on the street."

You apply the cream around the puncture, hearing his quiet groans and incoherent murmurs. After that, you reach for the band aid – or non-adherent pad as they call it – peeling off the back and gently placing it over the puncture. It's not a good replacement for proper medical care, but it will suffice until he manages to crawl his way back to wherever he lives and gets professionally treated.

"You better pay for a new couch, or a deep cleaning." You continue, beginning to pack up all your things before standing as you remove your gloves, and move to the kitchen to toss them out. "I have things to do, you know?" You say from the kitchen, washing your hands thoroughly.

That's partially a lie, the things you claim to have insist on reading a fucking brief or case while sitting on your couch watching something on Netflix – because cable is a waste of money – with one of many microwave meals stocking up your small white fridge. Still, this momentary distraction has moved those plans to tomorrow night. A Saturday night.

"I don't know who you are, or what your rank is in this stupid gang of yours, but I don't care." You continue your rant, grabbing a glass of water and pain-killers – placing them on the small cushioned ottoman, because who has the space to own a coffee table? – pacing back and forth in your apartment, where you can finally kick off your shoes by the front door and grab the purse you discarded by the small circular dining table next to the fridge. "I have work to do."

You storm towards your bedroom, dumping your purse on your bed and digging through it for your laptop and thick file, then you grab a highlighter sitting on the bedside table. And hopefully by the time he wakes up, you would have done something worthwhile and beneficial to your career.

So, yes, in conclusion, life always has a weird way of fucking you over.

An hour has passed since you fixed up the stranger who lays, practically comatose, on your couch. Since then, you've changed out your clothes, showered, and gone through at least fifteen pages of this case you're supposed to assist with and eventually write a report for. Sitting in bed, music softly plays through your laptop as you bite on the end of a highlighter, re-reading the same paragraph over and over again.

It's safe to say that your mind is a bit distracted, maybe it's the fact you're harbouring a criminal in your apartment, waiting for him to wake up and possibly kill you. The Foxes are notorious for many things, heists, robbery, petty murder, but particularly famous for the sale of illegal goods – whether it be drugs, or unlicensed arms – and you happen to have one sitting in your living room.

All for what? The fear of getting murdered? Having a target on your back? Trading integrity for safety? To be fair, those are all valid reasons why you've decided to take him in. You can call the police, turn him in, do greater good for the grand community. He's docile and helpless right now, you've searched him for weapons and you keep his belongings hostage on your bed. But, what are the cops going to do?

You hear a groan coming from the living room, and immediately shoot up from the bed, swinging your feet over the mattress and feeling them hit the cold wooden floors as you turn around to grab the baseball bat leaning against the mattress.

The first, and big thing he feels is pain. An unbearable type of pain on the side of his stomach. He places a hand over the plaster, expecting to feel blood or an infection, but jolts awake when he's proven wrong. He sits up, painfully, and scans the apartment for any sign that will tell him where he is. The messy decor of the room, the glass encased bookshelf that's filled to the brim with trinkets, novels, DVD's, CD's, and records. Behind him, on the wall are framed movie posters and paintings. Lamps, candles, and a full wall tapestry behind the tv. A plethora of coats and bags hanging on the door. So much clutter in this little living room.

He turns his gaze to the small kitchen, a shelf lined with snacks, spices, a bowl of onions and garlic, and a concerning amount of liquor. On the counter, are dishes, coloured pots and pans, empty jars. Whoever lives here loves their fair share of pink, grey, and light blue cups, bowls, and plates. They apparently also love their fair share of tea and instant chai latte mixes, and colourful string lights.

He has no idea where he is, or who happened to pick him up from the streets. All he knows is that he was ambushed by the Crows and left for dead, talk about sending a fucking message. Understandably, he turns his head to look behind him, where you stand holding a baseball bat to your side. He reaches for his pocket, where his knife always remains, only to feel nothing. You've disarmed him.

While he should be focusing on that thought. The logical sense that you must know who he is; hence why you've hidden all his belongings and why you're holding a baseball bat for defence, or the fact that you must've called the police by now. But no, his mind is focused on who you are, why you've brought him into your apartment to avoid death, and how those little shorts look on you. Those little black shorts, that tank top, and that big knitted cardigan.

So what if he's about to get arrested, he loves this sight.

"You brought me here?" He asks, watching the way you nod your head.

"You were bleeding out near a pile of trash, and while I considered leaving you for dead, I figured that I could get something out of saving your life." You explain nonchalantly, well as nonchalant as you can given that you've invited a known criminal into your house.

"Who do you work for?" He questions. There are always upcoming rivals or new recruits circling the scene, they love dirty work and favours – an eye for an eye – and will extort, abuse, and come up with the worst reparations. While you don't look threatening at all, especially in that little outfit, he can't underestimate you.

"Specter and Hastings, the law firm." You reply, causing him to laugh out of pure irony. Out of everyone he could have gotten entwined with, it had to be a lawyer. The universe really loves to play games on him, doesn't it?

"What do you want?" He sighs, "Names? Operations? You want me to snitch?" He'd rather die than rat out his friends, his family, just cuff him and take him down to the station because he's not speaking.

"No." You say, "I want safety." A flash of curiosity flashes across his face, allowing you to elaborate. "I want to make sure that wherever I go will be unharmed, untouched, or fall victim to whatever wars you guys get into. I want to be left out of danger, and never have to worry about getting followed home, mugged, or stabbed. I want the guarantee of safety... for my silence."

"What?"

"Is it so hard to understand?" You huff, "I save your life, you look out for mine. And in doing so, I will pretend that I didn't potentially break a law by not turning you in, I will turn a blind eye and ignore that tonight ever happened."

She's looking out for herself. He can't blame her. If anyone were to find out that she left him for dead, she would be a target. However, as someone whose job literally regards the law, you can't blame him for thinking you're hypocritical and maybe the slightest bit untrustworthy. If you can't even stick by your career, how can he expect you not to snitch on him?

"So?" You say, "Is that a good arrangement?"

"I can't guarantee anything sweetheart," he claims.

"Fine, then can you at least keep the stabbings out of this neighbourhood?" You question, "When I get home at night, I'd rather not come across another bloody body and risk getting more blood on my couch out of fear of being targeted."

That he can do. He can tell the guys to avoid this particular area, in exchange for a stranger – who happens to be a lawyer – that saved his life. Not to mention, you didn't call the cops, didn't turn him in, and you're supposedly open to turning a blind eye. In regards to the blood he got on your couch, he can easily fix that. He nods, "That I can do." There's no reason why he should deny anything, you already know he's part of the Foxes – that's the only reason you bothered saving him – and you are well aware about the culture and how no good deed goes without payment.

"Okay, great." You nod, resting the baseball bat against the frame, you've negotiated poorly, and your terms and conditions are promised to be met. Now, you can move along with your life. "Excuse me for a moment," you say, disappearing back into your bedroom to gather up all the things you took from his pockets.

In your short-lived absence, the man glances over at the painkillers and glass of water on the ottoman. He grabs the packet, reading the warning on the bottom half of the box that informs the users of the small percentage of codeine and its addictive properties, only to ignore it and swallows down the pill. It's drugstore painkillers, so of course, it's not going to be the strongest but when it kicks in, it'll help.

You return holding his things, hanging them to him before sitting on the curved back armchair next to the couch. You are unsure of what to do, or say to the brunette. You've never been put in a situation where a gang member is sitting in your apartment, wounded, and you've offered up your silence in turn of safety. Is it time for you to kick him out, or should you try to make conversation?

He, on the other hand, glances down at his phone, texting away to his friends about what happened and how he'll be back soon. There's no doubt that they're all mad about the situation, how he got ambushed by their rivals, and left by a pair of trash bags to bleed out. Though, it's not all that bad, he got saved by a pretty girl who graces him with skimpy shorts and a tank top that loves to plague his imagination. Better yet, this girl happens to be a lawyer, and if he plays his cards right, he can get a run down of loopholes and secure defence.

"So, do I get a name?" You ask, wrapping your cardigan closer around your body. "Or is that confidential? I'm not going to rat you out, I'm barely a lawyer, let alone a narc. And I need a solid ally in case anyone part of your... um, group ambushes me."

"We're allies now?"

"Are you going to give me a name or what?"

You've already seen his face, and he doubts you'll ever be able to say anything to the authorities without ratting yourself out in the process. Also, he's sure he's never going to see you again, or the maximalist, messy design of your apartment... including the row of CD's and records that you keep in that bookshelf despite being in the age of digital streaming.

"You can call me Rin," half a name, but one nonetheless. "Yeah, Rin is good, or Suna, whatever floats your boat." If he could, he'd try and leave, but he doubts he's in a good enough physical state to do so. Also, being stuck in an apartment with a pretty girl makes him want to stay even more. "Do I get a name from you?"

"No."

"Whatever you say sweetheart," Suna shrugs. "So... a lawyer, what made you go down that route?" He questions, wanting to get his mind off the unbearable ache in his body and sharp pain on his side, as he lays back down on the couch. Might as well get some information on you while he's here.

"I'm doing it for the money." You reply, crossing one leg over the other – unaware of how his eyes follow your movements – as you lean back against the seat, finding some sort of strange comfort in talking to a criminal. "I'm an associate, and in ten years I hope to make partner and move out of this place to somewhere closer to my job. I'm aiming for an apartment on the upper east side, maybe west."

"Is that all?" He hums, watching as you glare at him, "Just for the money?"

"Isn't that why we do anything?" You remark, "For the money, so we can sustain ourselves and live. And it's not like I'm doing court law, or criminal justice, I'm mainly interested in business law – contract and tort law – which is what my firm focuses on, including divorce law, because that's where all the money is."

"So, you're just a lawyer who conveniently knows how to bandage up a wound and goes around saving gang members?" Suna comments, "Oh, and how can I forget the whole trading a life thing for safety."

"Well, it's better than running around on the streets causing havoc." You retort, "Besides, becoming a lawyer is in my blood, meaning both my parents are lawyers and I was told as a young girl that I'd be a good one. Whether or not that was a compliment, can be debated. It's a stable career, a respectable one, and once I move up the ranks, I'll be able to order myself town cars."

"And law is something you really want to do?"

You're quiet for a moment before getting up to walk to your kitchen to brew yourself a cup of tea, "Yes. It is. I don't see what else I could do; the arts are a dying career where only one in a million makes a name for themselves, I don't plan on being the next big entrepreneur, and I hated biology and anything medical." You flip on the kettle, hearing it begin to boil as you dig through your tea bags. "Besides, law seemed easy enough, and there's nothing wrong with sitting through prenuptial meetings."

Suna feels a lot better about getting trapped with a lawyer now. He was initially scared of getting trapped with a potential narc with a six-foot pole up their ass, but you, you're just like every other sleazebag lawyer who's in it for the money. It's refreshing.

"Yeah, and I guess there's that whole thing of justice, but I don't even work in that field." You continue, "The justice system is fucked up anyway, and why would I want to contribute to that? I mean, I could get an innocent life out of prison but then again, I could fuck up and let a guilty person run free or risk them getting a reduced sentence. But, I don't work in that type of field, I just praise the people who do."

You wait for the kettle to finish boiling, and once it does, you pour the water into your mug, adding in honey or sugar into the mix before walking back to the living room. Not before grabbing a bag of chips from your shelf, tossing it at him. He is a guest, can't be that rude.

Reluctantly, Suna accepts it. He hasn't been around you long, but the way you've abandoned your baseball bat and returned all his belongings must mean you don't see him as that big of a threat. Well, how could you? You saw him at his weakest, and he hasn't given you a reason to be afraid... or he hopes he hasn't. Additionally, you're not that much of a threat either, you're smart enough to get through law school, attend an ivy, and work as an associate at a well-known firm in the city. And while he doesn't see much of what you do in your private life, he can see the few small framed photographs on the lamp tables next to him.

He can see you partying with friends, clearly drunk at the time when the photograph was taken, which must mean that you do know how to have fun in whatever spare time you have. Also, your refusal to give him a name eliminates the idea of him ever searching you up online. Meaning, whatever worries he's supposed to have can easily be debunked.

"So, what exactly is your role?" You ask.

"I work in the background, I help plan out whatever, I stay on guard, I'm there to protect them." He explains as vaguely as he can, not wanting to give the gorey details of his role or job description. By the way you nod, it's clear you accept that fact since you don't bat an eye or demand an explanation. Both of you know that the less you know the better. "Are you not scared of me?"

You can't blame him for wondering. Usually, you'd be terrified or the slightest bit frightened, but enough has happened tonight to make talking to a criminal the most normal thing. However, he's not exactly the worst presence. Sure, you can see the way he's looking at you, feel his gaze burn into your skin, how they trail up and down your body – and while it gets a piece of your heart racing, at least you know that he isn't planning on harming you.

"No." You shake your head, "I mean, you probably would scare me if I were to be walking alone on the street at this time of night, and I would definitely be terrified if you happened to be with all your friends. But you're alone, in my apartment, I can see your face, and you're wounded. You can't hurt me, at this point in time, I'm a lot stronger than you."

Unfortunately, you make a good point. He doubts he can walk comfortably, let alone act as a proper threat. "Right, of course," he hums, noticing the obvious blood stain on your couch. "Sorry about that, sweetheart." He comments, "I'll get you a new couch."

"Good," you say, biting back a smile. "I'd prefer one in cream, or even this light grey. In terms of style, I'd like one with a wider back and comfy cushions – like a cloud couch – if you can find one that will fit this apartment, that'd be great."

Suna's lips twitch up in a smile as he listens to you give him a detailed description, you avoid his eyes, staring down at the steam coming out of your mug. He tries to sit up to get your attention before it fades away – and for the act of dramatics, he lets out an exaggerated groan, which causes you to rush towards him – you place your mug on the lamp table behind you and crawl onto the floor in front of him.

You push him back down onto the couch, the force being more painful than when he tried to get up, you lift his shirt up to examine the damage you poorly tried to cover up, it looks fine physically, but you can't imagine what he's feeling. "I can't do much, as I said, I'm not a licensed medical professional." You say, moving down his stained shirt. Your touch ignites a trail of flames along his abdomen that takes all his willpower to fight.

"At least, I'm alive and not curled up by a pile of trash." He remarks.

"Yeah, but who's to say that's going to happen again?" You question, "Next time you get into a situation like this, I can't guarantee that someone will be there to patch you up in time."

"If it's not you patching me up, I don't want to live."

"Oh," you say, surprised, backing up from him. "Well, that doesn't give you an excuse to show up to my doorstep all bloody if it does end up happening again."

It has been a week since you've seen Suna.

Last friday you were nursing a gang member back to life with the promise of safety for silence, and a new couch – both of which you aren't sure you're going to get anytime soon. Instead, you still clutch your taser while you walk home, and you've done your best to wash the stain on the couch cushion. However, nothing is getting rid of that disgusting, faded stain, so you've opted to flip it over and hope time will make you forget.

The individual lamps and overhead lights illuminate the apartment, the candles flames are burning– casting a mixed scent of florals, vanilla, and lavender – creating the perfect ambiance for a Friday night in.

You sigh, collecting a mountain of rice – from your ready-made curry – on your spoon, curled up on your couch, gaze fixed on the television that plays an old show you were obsessed with in your teens. Beside you, is a glass of wine filled with ice cubes, and the bottle is placed on the floor awaiting refill. What else is there for you to do than stay home on a Friday night?

"Previously on Pretty Little Liars," you hear play through the speakers, shoving a mountain of food into your mouth, "It's Mona– Hanna won so Mona loses..."

You sink down into the couch, suddenly engrossed in the recap. It's been a while since you've had time to catch up on television, so the recaps serve a well-needed purpose to remind you of the over-the-top drama and plethora of plotholes. There is nothing better than unwinding after a long, long, week at work. Grabbing the wine glass, ice cubes clinking as you bring the drink up to your lips.

It's an odd combination, putting ice cubes in wine– that's unheard of – but you don't mind the diluted taste, also, you aren't the biggest fan of wine, it just seemed classier than making yourself a sad looking cocktail. Though, given the fact you're watching one of the more questionable teen mystery dramas, wine with ice does not seem like the worst situation.

You could have easily gone out, but all your friends are all too tired to go out, and drinks at bars are far too expensive. And let's be honest, going out by yourself is possibly one of the most depressing things a person could do, also that would mean walking home by yourself intoxicated. Obviously, that's not the smartest or safest decision, given the current rise in crime.

Engrossed in the show, absentmindedly feeding yourself until you're scraping the plastic container with your spoon picking up scraps. Sighing, you slide off the sofa, dragging your feet towards the kitchen where you toss out the empty container and dump your spoon into the sink. Half of your attention is still focused on the television, not wanting to miss anything going on.

Drifting back towards the couch, leaning against the armrest as you refill your wine glass, bringing the bitter alcohol to your lips and tasting it on your tongue. This will be your second glass of the night, the first glass came and went as quickly as the previous episode did.

A loud knock on the door sounds throughout the apartment, causing you to choke on your drink. Frightened, you place the glass down on the lamp table, pushing yourself away from the couch as cautiously and quietly as you can. Walking on your tiptoes back to the kitchen, reaching into a drawer for a knife.

Of course you're not going to open the door, you're not stupid. You're simply going to sit against it, clutching the knife until whoever is on the other side goes away... like a responsible, intelligent, adult. It could be someone with the wrong address, despite how persistent they are on knocking. And no criminal would think of knocking either!

Maybe you should turn off the television, give the illusion that no is home, or alternatively, you could turn the volume all the way up and drown out the sound of their fist pounding against wood. Nevertheless, hiding out in front of this door with a knife seems like the safest option. If things go wrong, and the intruder does break in, you can stab them and leave their body on the street.

Crime isn't news around this area, unfortunate things occur all the time! And the police, being police, won't bother stepping in. It's an accidental murder in a bad part of town, or another victim to gang violence, they won't bother finding out it was a kitchen knife that caused the death. Morally, will it crush you? Yes. It will.

You lean back against the door, the continuous knocks do not falter... Until they do, you hear them rest their head against the wood. Maybe they've finally given up. Slowly, you get up from the floor, the faint noise of police sirens flying by. You backpedal until your back hits the counter, reluctantly, you place the knife on the surface behind you.

Heart racing in your chest, then you hear it. You hear him. "Sweetheart, open the door." His voice is muffled, but a simple piece of wood is not going to hide the exhaustion lacing his tone. "Please," he adds.

You hope that your home isn't the new hideout for gang members running from the police, but you can't stop yourself from quickly striding towards the front door and swinging it open. "Oh my god," you gasp, catching him in your arms before he plummets onto the floor. Stumbling back, you quickly catch your balance and drop him on the couch – the same way you did last week – where he falls back, arms resting on the back cushions.

Apparently, Suna has taken an involuntary liking towards you and insists on showing up outside your apartment, and door every time he gets hurt. At least, this time around, he's not shot, stabbed, or badly wounded, he just looks a little... beat up. Busted lip, and black eye that's beginning to form. You know this is not the time, but god does he look so good.

Lord knows what he's gotten himself into, why he's bruised or why out of all the places he could run, he ran here... to you. What happened? Why is he suddenly out of breath, unable to stand, and exhausted on your couch? You climb over him, straddling his lap, and grab his face between your fingers, forcing him to look at you. "What the hell have you gotten yourself into?" You huff, slapping the side of his face to jolt him awake, "This is no time for a nap Rin, you need to tell me what happened."

Even in this dazed state of mind, even after running five blocks, being chased by both the police and the Crows as a distraction while his team can get away. Getting cornered, beat up (not as bad as the others), picking the lock to get into your building, then running up the stairs, and waiting for you to let him in. He can still appreciate the sight in front of him, including those shorts, his hands running up your thighs, leaning his head back while his lips turn up into a smirk.

"Sorry, sweetheart, I had to run, and believe it or not, this is the safest place for me." He mutters, sitting up to lean in close to you. "And I know you won't refuse me," he hums. Suna's breath is hot against yours, his touch running up and down your thighs setting a fire to burn and a shiver to involuntarily run down your spine. He kicks off his shoes, opting to make himself comfortable on your couch.

"This is not your safe haven," you scoff, pressing a hand flat on his chest to push him back from you as you climb off his lap. You storm over to the kitchen, opening the small freezer hatch on your fridge to pull out a frozen bag of peas for his eye. Sure, it's not your job to care for him, but you can't help doing it – as if it has been engraved in your memory after one experience. You toss the frozen peas at him, which he luckily knows what they're for. "I did you a favour, which you have yet to return, by the way."

He holds the frozen bag of peas up to his eye, this is not the warm welcome he's been expecting, and for your information he has kept up one side of his deal. He has kept your street a no-go zone, and he has been making sure that you are safe. Sure, his methods are a bit stalkerish, he's been trailing you to and from work – lurking from the shadows and wiping out any potential threats that come your way. In terms of the new couch... he's working on it.

"Don't tell me that you're running from the police," you say, beginning to pace back and forth in your living room. "What do you think you're doing?" You exclaim, "You can't keep coming here to hide from the police! Do they know what you look like? Do they know that you came here? Do you know that my entire career can be ruined?"

"Calm down sweetheart," Suna hums. "No one knows I'm here, you're fine. And speaking of the police... yeah, I'm running from them, but I managed to get away through a couple short cuts. Trust me, you're safe." He stands from the couch, one long stride taken to reach you, his hands running down your arms in a somewhat reassuring manner. With one hand tilting up your chin, "And I wanted to see you."

His eyes are mesmerising, a perfect combination of green, yellow, and grey. It's hard to not melt under their gaze. Your hand wraps around his wrist, moving his touch away from your face before turning on your heel to walk towards your bedroom. He hates to see you leave, but he loves to watch you walk away. Maybe this is the universe repaying him for almost dying, it sent an angel in the form of you.

"Wanted to see me," you mutter to yourself, packing up the mess on your bed. The files, loose papers, highlighters, notes, and your laptop. You move them to sit on your cluttered vanity. "As flattering as that is," you continue, "I'd rather you come see me when you're not running from law enforcement. You owe me."

"Sorry to add insult to injury, but I was wondering if I could camp out here for the night?" Suna asks, leaning against the doorframe of your room. He knows you're not going to deny him refuge, whether you want to admit it or not. You don't have it in your heart to leave him out in the rain. Even if you want him gone, he's not going to leave. He's never been that good at taking hints – hence the black eye and busted lip. "Just for the night."

"One night." You sigh, "Only if –" there's always a catch "– you avoid robbing my bank, and stay clear of where I work, and make sure that everyone knows that. And no more attracting police to this side of town," you list. "And if you're going to stay here frequently, I'm going to need some sort of compensation."

"Is that all?"

"Yes." You nod, "now," you begin pushing the brunette back into the living room and onto the couch. Since he's here, may as well check up on how that old stab wound is going. You force him down onto the sofa, his back hitting the cushions – the wind escaping his lungs – as you lift up his shirt. There's still a nasty cut that's bound to turn into an even worse scar, but at least it's healing correctly.

"You sure are quite aggressive," he comments, propping his head up with his hands as he looks up at you. "I don't mind, kinda like it." He purrs, softly laughing at the way you pull his shirt back down and storm up off the ground, grabbing your wine glass and downing the rest of the contents. "I was just teasing babe, no need to overreact."

"Are you aware that you're an idiot?" You comment, placing your glass and the wine bottle on the kitchen counter.

"Do you like that I'm an idiot?" He retorts. He's got a bit of a little infatuation with you. A hot shot associate with a morally grey high ground, and a weakness for criminals like him. It is not everyday a pretty normal girl like you fixes him up and lets him into the apartment while he's running from the cops.

"The same way I like how I continuously find myself harbouring a fugitive." You reply, "It could be better. And can you please either use the frozen peas or put them back in the freezer."

You have better things to do! Sure, the situation could be worse. At least Suna is decent to look at, and he's alright company who doesn't want to kill you, and you have felt the slightest bit safer on your walks to and from work. Though, it's not like you're thrilled to have him in your apartment.

He gets up from the couch, places the peas back where they belong, then slides in next to you. He grabs the wine bottle, taking a swig from the bottle. You watch him intently, the way his Adam's apple moves, the beginning traces of a bruise forming around his eye, and the cut on his lip. He still wears that stupid leather jacket, but at least there's no blood on his hands, legs, or torso. Suna glances at you from the corner of his eye, holding the bottle firmly in his hand, "Take a picture. It lasts longer."

"I would," you say, "but that would mean proving a direct affiliation with you. And lord knows if you ever get caught, I'd rather die than testify in court and risk losing all respect I have in this industry."

"I get it," he shrugs, "I'm bad news, but that doesn't mean I'm necessarily a bad person. I mean, you make money off people's brokens marriages, shouldn't that equate to something? I think that we both do bad things, but we're not bad people."

"Comparing me to you is a low blow," you snort. "That's like comparing apples and oranges."

"They're both fruit aren't they? They both grow on trees, they both make juice." Suna argues, "One is sure, significantly better than the other, but that all depends on personal preference."

You meet his eyes, seeing nothing other than the greyish-green hues. He's got that tough exterior that can draw any girl toward him – including you – the danger that people write about, the allure and flirty personality that makes him less of an asshole and more human. He is the fallen angel that the universe sent to you as a form of twisted karma and dilemma of morals that cross a line. He's beautiful, prideful, a criminal, but has got a strong sense of loyalty and protection. Why else will he make himself the scapegoat to every situation?

"Yeah, well, anyone with a brain can tell who's the better one of the both of us."

"If this is about breaking the law," he says, placing the bottle down on the counter. He steps in front of you, trapping you between his arms, pushing you back against the counter as his body presses against yours. "You're breaking a lot by being here with me, hiding me from the law, trading silence for safety, I'm sure there's something in the constitution that you've broken by not turning me in." He lowers his voice, dipping his head down to yours, "I'm sure if I string enough together, you can be charged with aiding and abetting."

"That's one thing out of the many covering your roster."

He bends down, lips brushing against your own. Heart pounding against your chest. He's so close. Remnants of his cologne fill your senses; oak, wood, musk, sweet amber, cardamom, raspberry. He's addictive in all the ways he shouldn't be. A real fallen angel. Beautiful, perfect, but dangerous, treacherous, and duplicitous. But what does that make you? You're addicting, the light in his dark tunnel, his bittersweet obsession that he cannot indulge in.

"You don't care." He rasps, "If you did, you would have kicked me out. You like me, you like having a dirty little secret, you fucking revel in it."

You don't respond, verbally that is. You break the small gap between the two of you. He reciprocates the action, deepens the kiss, presses you further back against the counter. A hand gripping your hip, while the other travels up your neck, holding under your jaw tight between his fingers. His body against yours, fingers wrapping around the belt loops of his jeans trying desperately to pull him closer. It's messy, driven, and lustful.

Your hands travel under his shirt, feeling the burning skin and the shiver that runs down his spine. The hand he has on your hips, his fingers dig harder into your side while the one around your neck shifts to the nape, reaching up to tug at the roots of your hair. The throaty moan that he elicits from you sends him into overdrive, fuck you're addictive. He wants you, so bad. He needs you.

Palms placed flat on his stomach you step forward, pushing him back onto the couch. He takes in the sight of you, standing over him in those little shorts and tank top that hugs your body so well. You climb on top of him, straddling his lap, and his hands instinctively run up the back of your thighs, sliding under your shorts. Rough hands making themselves comfortable, holding the flesh in his hands, squeezing hard as he helps you grind down onto him. He's hard as a fucking rock, and your moving against him so needy. The friction against your clit, slow and tortuous, small whimpers and staggered breaths that Suna swallows.

Your hands move to move the leather jacket off his body, which he tosses across the living room, leaving him in a black muscle tee that shows off all the hidden, scattered tattoos on his arms you've never had the pleasure of seeing. His fingers grab the front of your tank top, tugging down the fabric to expose you to him. His cold hand cupping your tit, the pad of his thumb running over a hardened nipple as goosebumps scatter down your body and you press down further into the bulge in his jeans.

"Fuck," he groans at your reaction, breaking away from your lips to kiss down your jaw, neck, collarbones, before his lips wrap around your chest. His tongue pressing against you, teeth grazing your skin, while his hand continues to work and massage against the other.

Your back arches, hands tangling themselves in his brown hair, continuously grinding against him as his leaves scatter hickey across your chest. "Sweetheart, you're killing me." He murmurs, reconnecting your lips together. You hum against him, lifting your arms in the air as he pulls off your top, throwing it across your apartment before he does the same with his shirt.

You begin to kiss down his chest, his torso, his stomach, falling down to the floor in front of him – between his legs – as you undo his belt. Suna's eyes fixed on you, the sweetly dangerous glimmer in your eyes as you unbutton and unzip his jeans. He lips his hips, allowing you to pull them down – jeans and briefs – letting his clothes drop to the floor. He shudders the second your hand wraps around his dick, head dropping back and hands gripping onto your hair.

Wrapping your lips around the sensitive tip, you tease the spot hearing desperate whimpers escape his throat. Tongue flat against him, head beginning to bob back and forth, cheeks hollowing out as you literally suck the soul out of him. The salty taste of pre-cum on your tongue, his hands firmly entwined in your hair as he lets out a strain of whimpers, bucking his hips up, controlling your movements making you take him deeper in your mouth, his cock hitting the back of your throat repeatedly.

Tears begin to prickle in your eyes. Head moving back and forth at a faster pace, his hands knotted in your hair as he takes control, fucking your mouth. Looking up through teary eyes, laying eyes on a sinful sight. His abdomen flexing, head thrown back, eyes shut, and Adam's apple moving at every repressed whimper and moan. You grip onto his thighs as he increases his pace.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck." Breathless moans coming out in repeated pleas that chase a high. He's so close, impatient, and seeking a heavy and desperate release. "Just like that baby, keep going."

You don't stop, you continue as a mess of fallen tears, pre-cum and saliva. You can't breathe, throat filled with his cock. He fucks your throat, using you for pleasure. He fucks your mouth, swollen head hitting the back of your throat, shuddering as you to swallow or gasp for air. You feel his dick twitch, and in seconds a hot load is shot down your throat and his grip on you loosens. You swallow down his cum, tongue and lips cleaning him up. Once, your lips remove themselves from his cock, he wastes no time to pull you up and reconnect your lips, tasting him on your tongue. You stand from your knees, and he pulls down your shorts along with the simple black panties, then pulls you down onto the couch, laying you on your back.

He hovers over you, hand wrapping itself around your throat as he kisses you. The other, spreads your leg, calloused rough fingers pressing against your cunt. Using the arousal to rub against your clit, a harsh play of light and rough. Fingers pressing hard against your clit, causing a strained moan to sound through the living room, he rubs against the bud. Playing between teasing movements, to forceful mechanisms. He's fast and slow, teasing you, edging you.

"Rin," you muster out, biting down on his lip which pushes him to give you what you need. Working his fingers swiftly, skillfully, roughly against your clit. You squirm beneath him, he's vicious against you, his free hand kneading your tit in a hard grasp. "Fuck, Rin." You moan, chest rising and falling, as he quickens his pace. Eyes rolling to the back of your head, you grip onto the armrest of the couch, mouth agape.

Legs twitching, as he brings you to an insatiable climax. His fingers are covered in your slick. He brings them up to his mouth, getting a taste of what he's missing out of. He doesn't waste time, wrapping your legs around his shoulders before he buries himself in your cunt. Lips wrapping themselves around your clit, sucking on it, his tongue moving at a rapid pace. He feels how sensitive you are. Fingers digging into your thighs, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You're a mess, a writhing, mess. And the way he looks up at you through half lidded eyes, buried between your thighs. You sink your hands into his hair, looking for something to hold onto. A groan rumbles in his throat, sending you farther over the edge. He increases his pace, devouring you like a starved man who hasn't eaten in years. He's pushing you over the edge, your heels digging into his back, pulling at his hair, forcing him deeper into you.

To add fuel to the fire, he thrusts two fingers inside you, curling into your sweet spot that has you bucking your hips into his mouth. He pumps his fingers in and out of you, perfectly matching the pace of his tongue. He continues until he feels you come undone, pleasure and heat clouding your vision as he pulls away from you. He examines the sight, leaning in close to you.

"I need to feel you." He pleads, the blood already rushing back to his dick, "I need you sweetheart."

You nod, "Please." Whispering, "It's fine, I'm on the pill." You reassure.

He almost collapses right there and then, letting out a whimper as he slides into you. Feeling you raw and whole, he's going crazy, losing his mind at the way you suck him in. Your walls around his dick, warm and so good that he could come right there and then. His find is spinning, he's going absolutely feral over being in you. He slowly moves out, before bottoming out, stealing your breath in the process. That's all he needed, the feeling of having you grip around him.

Suna thrusts into you, picking up a faster speed and your ragged breaths urging him on. He revels in the way your tits bounce, his movements causing the sinful shake of your body. Your nails digging into his back, scratching the skin. If he could save this as a permanent memory in his mind, he would, and he'd replay it over and over again in his dreams. He bottoms out, rolling his hips each time he does so, thrusting in and out at a faster speed and pace.

He then pulls out, the lack of touch jolting you back from your daze, only for him to flip you over onto your stomach, harsh grip on your hips as he lifts your ass in the air. He grips onto the flesh, holding it in his palms while he tugs them towards him in a big thrust. You let out a moan, face buried into the couch cushions, as he pounds into you.

Dick reaches deep into your cunt, watches you shake under him, the couch shakes, and the lamps shake. He holds both your wrists in his hands, pinning them behind your back, as he pushes himself faster, rougher, crazier than he did before. The sound of skin slapping on skin echoing throughout the apartment, mixed in with your strained whimpers and his throaty groans. "You like this?" He mutters.

This is so much better than he imagined. All the nights he spent with his hand wrapped around his dick in the shower and in bed. The thought of you crumbling beneath him, moaning out his name, becoming nothing but putty underneath him. The thought of him pounding into you relentlessly, feeling you bare and raw, the way your walls wrap around his cock. Imagination never could have prepared him for this, it's so much better than he imagined.

You're so wet around him. He fucks into you, in and out so quickly that you can't even grasp onto the feeling despite your cunt quivering and tightening around him every time he fills you. He lands a hard slap on your ass, only to rub over the red spot, roughly massaging and kneading the flesh. Suna continues to go harder, faster, more feral, moving both your hips to meet. Back is arched and he pushes you further down into the cushions, if that's even possible.

"You're no saint sweetheart," his hips stuttering, "you fucking love getting fucked dirty by a criminal." He rasps, tugging you up by your arms, whispers close to your ear sending a shiver down your spine. "Tell me how much you love it," he instructs. "Go on."

"I love it." You breathe out. Suna forcefully pushes you back down onto the couch, harshly pounding into you, "Fuck, so good."

"No one's ever gonna fuck you as good as I will. I'm going to make you mine, I'm going to corrupt you, I'll protect you." His voice falters at the feeling of you tightening around him, his cock twitching in response. "Fuck, you're mine. Mine only, and I'll fucking kill anyone who comes near you."

You listen to him, losing all sense of strength in your body. You're so close, he knows you are. "Rin, please keep going, I'm so close." You whimper, and he endures, picking up his pace and pushing into you faster, deeper, and harder until you become a limp mess, tightening around him, giving him the greenlight to release.

He cums inside you, white liquid filling you and dripping out as he pulls out. Your hips fall to the couch, as you flip over in time for him to collapse on top of you. If you didn't need a new couch before, you definitely need one now. His arms wrap under your body, he lays between your legs, head resting on your rising and falling chest, hearing your heartbeat in his ears. You brush your fingers through his hair.

He meant what he said. You're his, and he will fucking kill anyone who comes near you.

#suna rintarou #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu suna #haikyuu!!#haikyuu #haikyuu scenarios #suna rintarou x reader #suna smut #suna rintarou x you #suna rintaro x reader #suna x reader #suna rintarō #suna rintarou smut #suna rintaro haikyuu #suna rintaro x y/n #suna rintaro fic #✰ workie works

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eretzyisrael · 1 month ago

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By Susan Edelman and Deirdre Bardolf

Activists and foreign actors have infiltrated the city’s public schools with anti-Israel materials, fostering bias and hatred of Jews, according to a new report by a nonprofit think tank.

Teacher groups like NYC Educators for Palestine have collaborated with extremist organizations, some allegedly tied to hostile foreign governments and terrorist groups, to bring “radical, anti-American ideologies” into schools, said the Network Contagion Research Institute, or NCRI, and the advocacy group New York City Public School Alliance, which co-wrote the report.

“The report exposes how the Department of Education’s vetted resources enable radical sympathizers to shape young minds with biased information,” said Tova Plaut, a DOE pre-K coordinator and co-founder with teacher Karen Feldman of NYCPS Alliance, a group of Jewish educators who contributed to the project.

8An “Arab World” classroom map at Brooklyn’s PS 261 that excluded Israel was provided by the Qatar Foundation, an arm of the country’s ruling family, which has donated $1 million to NYC schools.

8The report found a network of “radical” curriculum developers, activist educator groups and foreign influences that have contributed to the infiltration of anti-Israel materials within the NYC public school system.NCRI

Set for release this week, the report cites DOE documents, school events and staff social media posts as evidence of its findings.

It calls on the DOE to immediately conduct a curriculum review; enforce the chancellor’s anti-discrimination policies; adopt a definition of antisemitism and mandate training on it; and increase oversight of foreign funding.

“If these ideas are left unchecked, they will be internalized by a new generation of students, who will then graduate, attend university, vote, enter the workforce, and raise families of their own, further embedding antisemitic beliefs into wider American society,” the NCRI and NYC Public Schools Alliance said.

Among the findings:

The DOE’s recommended resources for teachers include the Zinn Education Project, which provide lessons, workshops and articles highly critical of Israel and the US.

The DOE staff resource list links to the Zinn website, which features a section on “Teaching About Palestine-Israel and the Unfolding Genocide in Gaza” that claims, “Israel has turned Gaza into a ‘graveyard for children.”

Beacon High School in Midtown used Zinn lessons and articles, along with videos from Arab news network Al Jazeera, for a 10th-grade social studies class on the Israel-Palestine conflict, emails reviewed by The Post show.

The content “demonized Jews” while referring to Hamas as “a political party and militant group,” not as terrorists, parents said.

Other resources available for NYC teachers to use at “their discretion” include those from the Teach Palestine project, which gives materials that emphasize “Palestinian victimhood” and frame Zionism as a “colonialist” movement.

Teach Palestine is financially supported by the Middle East Children’s Alliance (MECA), a California-based nonprofit with reported ties to the Popular Front for the Liberation of Palestine, a U.S.-designated terrorist organization.

In May, the PTA of Ella Baker School, a public elementary on the Upper West Side, hosted a “Teach Palestine” webinar, sponsored by Rethinking Schools, the report said.

Materials covered topics such as “anti-Zionism is not automatically antisemitism,” and “Israel’s attacks on children, schools, and historical memory in Palestine.”

These potentially violate Chancellor’s Regulation A-830, according to the report.

The report cites two groups, NYC Educators For Palestine, an arm of the UFT caucus MORE, and Teaching While Muslim, which hosted a virtual “curriculum share” for 80 teachers in February.

#nyc educators for palestine #teach palestine #middle east children's alliance #rethinking schools #teaching while muslim

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hugheswritetr · 10 months ago

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Heartbeat | Jack Hughes AU

MASTERLIST

♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡ ♡

an.: the main character is loosely inspired by Summer Di Laurentis, but the plot is mine:) This is smutty fiction

T H A L I A I N E S M A R I O T T

born : 17th April 2003, New York

♡ Thalia knew who she was from a young age, an heiress to one of the biggest hotel empires in the world. Even though she grew up as privileged kid in Upper East Side, New York, her late father always preached to her about kindness and humbleness. When her father died in 2015, her mother made the decision to move to Michigan for her older brother’s hockey career and to reunite with her childhood friend Ellen for support.

A U R E L I A D I A N E M A R I O T T

born : 29th August 1968, Missouri

♡ Aurelia never imagined this life for herself, going from middle class girl from St. Louis to multimillionaire was a huge jump for her. Her children were born into the life of luxury but she had to learn to navigate through it. Even though distance separated her from her childhood friend Ellen, she still kept contact. After her husband’s death in 2015, she moved to Michigan to be reunited with her friend to have some support and to support her son’s hockey development in USNTDP

M A T T H E O L U C A M A R I O T T

born : 9th October 1999, New York

♡ Mattheo was the original heir to the hotel empire, but due to his love for hockey he gave it up for his younger sister, he and his father were close, but the passion for following his footsteps was always in Thalia. After the move to Michigan, Mattheo closely bonded with Quinn.

H U G H E S F A M I L Y

… as they are

PLAYLIST

Little Bit - Drake ft. Lykke Li

-I know you told me break their hearts, but it’s you I wanna take apart

Enchanted Waterfall - Tory Lanez

- Look up, it’s a full moon outside, there’s things we both can’t deny

Preach - Drake feat. PARTYNEXTDOOR

- I’m on that wave tonight, I hope you not the crazy type

Break from Toronto - PARTYNEXTDOOR

- Tight jeans on so she feel my shit

Been Away - Brent Faiyaz

- If I put my trust in you, what would you do?

Heartbreat - Childish Gambino

- I wanted you to know that I’m ready to go

#jack hughes #nhl #nhl imagine #quinn hughes #nhl fic #jack hughes fic #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x reader #luke hughes #new jersey devils #jack hughes smut

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stephensmithuk · 6 months ago

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The Sign of Four: The Strange Story of Jonathan Small (Part One of Two)

I will split this in two parts as I've got a lot to cover here.

CW for discussions of nasty prison conditions.

The depth of the Thames is about 6.5 metres at low tide in Woolwich, near to the Plumstead Marshes as they were then. However, the river has strong currents and very little visibility, so it would be a risky operation even with 2024 diving technology for some rather small objects.

The rupee originally was a silver coin dating back to ancient times in India, becoming something of a standard currency during the Mughal period. The East India Company introduced paper rupees and while there was an attempt by the British to move their territory to the pound sterling, they soon gave up, minting their own rupees with the British monarch's head on. The currency was also non-decimal. India retained the currency post-independence and went decimal as well.

Mangrove trees are very common in equatorial coastline regions - they can remove salt from the water, which would kill many other trees.

Prisoners set to the Andaman Islands penal colony were forced to work nine to ten hours a day to construct the new settlement, while in chains. Cuts from poisonous plants and friction ulcers from the chains would often get infected, resulting in death.

The convict huts on Ross Island were two-storey affairs, with the bottom as a kitchen and took area, the prisoners sleeping on the upper floor. Designed this way as an anti-malaria measure, they however leaked and the prisoners themselves were constantly damp from the rainfall, offering them little protection from the mosquitoes in any event.

Ague is an obsolete term for malaria; adults experience chills and fever in cycles.

The British would conduct experiments with quinine as a malaria treatment by force-feeding it to the prisoners. This caused severe side effects.

The British would make use of locals as warders, who wore sashes and carried canes. I'd imagine they could probably be quite brutal.

Pershoe is a small town on the River Avon near Worcester. It has a railway station with an hourly service to London, taking just under two hours today.

"Chapel-going" in this context means that the people attended a non-conformist church i.e. not one part of the Church of England.

"Taking the Queen's/King's shilling" was a historical term for joining the armed forces - for the army this was officially voluntary, but sailors could be forcibly recruited, being known as "press-ganged" until 1815. You would be given the shilling upon initial enlistment or tricked into taking it via it being slipped into your opaque beer. You would return the shilling on your formal attestation and then receive a bounty which could be pretty substantial in terms of the average wage, although a good amount of that would then be spent on your uniform. Some enlisted, deserted and then reenlisted multiple times to get multiple payments. The practice officially stopped in 1879, but the slang term remains.

The 3rd Buffs refers to the latter 3rd Battalion, Buffs (East Kent Regiment), a militia battalion that existed from 1760 to 1953, although it effectively was finished in 1919. However, in reality, they did not go to India to deal with the rebellion, instead staying in Great Britain to cover for the regular regiments who did.

The British never formally adopted the Prussian "goose step" instead going for the similar, but less high-kicking, slow march.

The musket would possibly have been the muzzle-loaded Enfield P53, a mass-produced weapon developed at the Royal Small Arms Factory in Enfield. It was itself was the trigger of the Indian Rebellion in 1857 due to the grease used in the cartridges. They would also be heavily used in the American Civil War on both sides, especially the Confederate one as they smuggled a lot of them, with only the Springfield Model 1861 being more widely used. As a result, they are highly sought after by re-enactors. The British used them until 1867, when they switched to the breech-loading Snider-Enfield, many of the P53s being converted.

The crocodile would likely have been a gharial, which mainly eat fish. Hunting and loss of habitat has reduced their numbers massively, with the species considered "Critically Endangered" by the IUCN.

"Coolie" is a term today considered offensive that was used to describe low-wage Indian or Chinese labourers who were sent around the world, basically to replace emancipated slaves. Indentured labourers, basically - something the US banned (except as a riminal punishment) along with slavery in 1865. In theory they were volunteers on a contract with rights and wages, however abuses were rife. Indentured labour would finally be banned in British colonies in 1917.

Indigo is a natural dark blue dye extracted from plants of the Indigofera genus; India produced a lot of it. Today, the dye (which makes blue jeans blue) is mostly produced synthetically.

I have covered the "Indian Mutiny" as the British called it here in my post on "The Crooked Man".

The Agra Fort dates back to 1530 and at 94 acres, it was pretty huge by any standards. Today, much of it is open to tourists (foreigners pay 650 rupees, Indians 50), although there are parts that remain in use by the Indian Army and are not for public access.

"Rajah" meaning king, referred to the many local Hindu monarchs in the Indian subcontinent; there were also Maharajahs or "great kings", who the British promoted loyal rajahs to the rank of. The Muslim equivalent was Nawab. However, a variety of other terms existed. The East India Company and the Raj that succeeded them used these local rulers to rule about a half their territory and a third of the population indirectly, albeit under quite a bit of influence from colonial officials. These rulers were vassals to the British monarch; they would collect taxes and enforce justice locally, although many of the states were pretty small (a handful of towns in some cases) and so they contracted this out to the British. As long as they remained loyal, they could get away with nearly anything.

562 of these rulers were present at the time of Indian independence in 1947. Effectively abandoned by the British (Louis Mountbatten, the last Viceroy, sending out contradictory messages), nearly all of them were persuaded to accede to the new India, where the nationalists were not keen on them, with promises they could keep their autonomy if they joined, but if not, India would not help them with any rebellions. Hyderabad, the wealthiest of the states, resisted and was annexed by force. The ruler of Jammu and Kashmir joined India in exchange for support against invading Pakistani forces, resulting in a war. A ceasefire agreement was reached at the beginning of 1949, with India controlling about two-thirds of the territory; the ceasefire line, with minor adjustments after two further wars in 1965 and 1971, would become known as the Line of Control, a dotted line on the map that is the de facto border and one of the tensest disputed frontiers on the planet.

India and Pakistan initially allowed the princely rulers to retain their autonomy, but this ended in 1956. In 1971 and 1972 respectively, their remaining powers and government funding were abolished.

Many of the former rulers ended up in a much humbler position, others retained strong local influence and a lot of wealth. The Nizam of Hyderbad, Mir Osman Ali Khan was allowed to keep his personal wealth and title after the annexation in 1948 - he had been the richest man in the world during his rule and used a 184-carat diamond as a paperweight, at least until he realised its actual value. The current "pretender", Azhmet Jah, has worked as a cameraman and filmmaker in Hollywood, including with Steven Spielberg.

#letters from watson #history #sherlock holmes #factoids #acd canon #the sign of four #sign

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justinspoliticalcorner · 1 month ago

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Edward Helmore at The Guardian:

The founder of the Proud Boys, the far-right group that played a major role in the January 6 riot at the US Capitol and was memorably instructed by Donald Trump to “stand back and stand by”, told the makers of a Trump documentary that his group wasn’t responsible for what happened that day. In the film, Gavin McInnes, the UK-born British Canadian citizen who co-founded Vice magazine and was influential in the New York hipster scene of the early 2000s before becoming a far-right militia figure, says: “It was you. If anyone should apologise … it should be the corrupt leftwing media, and I’ll accept your apology now if you want to do it.” McInnes was quoted in the documentary, which has aired on the BBC’s Panorama strand, as saying: “We want to make America hate again.” The program – Trump: A Second Chance? – talks to ardent Trump supporters about their enduring support for the New York property developer and reality TV show figure who faced two impeachment inquiries during four years in office and has been indicted in four separate criminal cases since, including being found guilty of 34 felony counts.

Polls suggest an exceptionally tight US presidential race, with the final few days of campaigning before next week’s vote characterized by Democrats’ claims that a second Trump term would plunge the US into a period of neo-fascism. At a packed Trump rally in New York’s Madison Square Garden on Sunday, the speakers rotated between patriotism and grievance, including a podcaster who called the unincorporated US territory of Puerto Rico a “floating island of garbage”, made lewd comments about Latinos, depicted Jews as cheap and Palestinians as rock-throwers.

McInnes, described by Vanity Fair as “one of our era’s most troubling extremists”, was not at the January 6 protest. But about 50 members of the Proud Boys group – designated a “terrorist entity” by the Canadian government – faced charges for their part in the insurrection, which was staged to prevent the certification of the 2020 election. The Proud Boys chair, Henry “Enrique” Tarrio, 39, of Miami, Florida, was sentenced to 22 years in prison last year after being convicted of seditious conspiracy and other charges.

The US attorney general, Merrick Garland, said the sentences that the Proud Boy members received reflected “the danger their crimes pose to our democracy” and Tarrio had “learned that the consequence of conspiring to oppose by force the lawful transfer of presidential power”. McInnes resigned from the Proud Boys in November 2018 after 10 members were charged in connection with a brawl on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. But in 2022, he was pictured in a black hoodie embroidered with the gold Proud Boy logo. McInnes said on his Get Off My Lawn podcast that he was wearing the Proud Boy regalia “as an homage to our brothers behind bars”.

Pathetic assclown Gavin McInnes is so whack and out of touch.

#Gavin McInnes #Proud Boys #Fascism #Capitol Insurrection #Enrique Tarrio #Trump: A Second Chance?

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the-gone-ton · 1 year ago

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The dead malls of York

Continuing on the theme from my last post about York Galleria, I'm going to talk more about the four now-closed malls in York that came before the Galleria.

The York Mall

The York Mall opened in 1968, developed by the famous Kravco Company of Philadelphia. It was a fairly large mall for its era (about 700,000 Square feet of retail space, I believe). It was primarily a single-level mall, though in this rare interior photo you can see stairs leading up to a small 2nd level that included a community room and some offices. The opening anchors were JCPenney, Montgomery Ward, and Maryland-based Hochschild-Kohn (seen in the above picture). The mall also featured a Trans-Lux Theater and a flagship location of McCrory's variety store. In fact, the McCrory's distribution center was located directly next door to the York Mall, and a concrete ramp led straight from the distribution center's parking lot right up to the back of McCrory's store around the rear side of the mall. The ramp still exists today as a relic of this bit of McCrory's history. The layout of the mall had Penney's at one end and Wards at the other, with Hochschild-Kohn right in the middle. You'd have to walk through the Kohn's department store to get from one end of the mall to the other.

Hochschild-Kohn's declined in the 70s, closing their York Mall store in 1975. York's own local department store, The Bon-Ton, opened in this spot that same year. The York Mall remained the largest mall in town for 21 years until George Zamias built the 2-story York Galleria practically next door in 1989. Both The Bon-Ton and JCPenney left the York Mall for the York Galleria when it opened, but it wasn't a total loss because The Bon-Ton kept their store open as a new discount concept called "Bon-Ton Express" on the ground floor and put their corporate offices on what had been the 2nd floor of the department store. Still, the new competition from the Galleria badly hurt the York Mall and forced it to go more downscale. Looking to replace JCPenney, the York Mall signed a lease with Arkansas-based discount store Walmart in 1990 - it was the first Walmart in the state of Pennsylvania and was then the largest in the country at 130,000 square feet. Walmart also built a new Sam's Club right next to Montgomery Ward. At the time, the destructive tendencies of Walmart were not as widely-known.

The York Mall still did alright for a few more years with its new configuration. But stores in the mall noticed a drop in business after The Bon-Ton Express closed in May of 1992. Bon-Ton executives attributed the closure to Walmart, whose cash registers only faced their parking lot entrance (in other words, you could enter Walmart from the mall, but you have to leave out towards your car). Burlington replaced Bon-Ton Express in 1993, but it didn't do much to help sales at the small shops. Around the turn of the century, the demise of Montgomery Ward and McCrory's left gaping vacancies in the north end of the mall while an expansion of Walmart into a 240,000 square foot supercenter swallowed up the entire south end of the mall. It didn't take long after that for the remainder of the mall to be demolished.

North Mall

The North Mall - "the first completely carpeted, enclosed shopping center in the East!" - opened in 1969, as the 2nd enclosed shopping mall in York, PA. It was a smaller mall that was sort of split level; the upper level was fully enclosed and anchored by The Bon-Ton and a G.C. Murphy's variety store. At the end opposite of Bon-Ton, an artistic ramp took you down to a lower level that turned into an open air strip mall. This section was anchored by a J.M. Fields discount store, which included a Pantry Pride discount grocery store inside. The whole mall was owned by Food Fair Properties, which shared the same parent company (Food Fair) as Pantry Pride and J.M. Fields.

Food Fair became a pretty large company in the 60s and early 70s, having expanded its subsidiaries Pantry Pride and J.M. Fields nationally. But the business then began to suffer, leading to bankruptcy and the closure of all J.M. Fields stores in 1978. The Pantry Pride at North Mall closed as well. The anchor building that had housed Fields and Pantry Pride was large and difficult to find a replacement tenant for. It housed women's apparel store Marianne's for a few years in the late 70s/early 80s.

1981 brought the opening of West Manchester Mall, a project of famous developer Crown American Corporation. Compared to the nearby North Mall, West Manchester was much newer and larger. The North Mall had never updated, and was still very much a fully-carpeted, flower-patterned product of 1969. The Bon-Ton closed at North Mall to open a new store at West Manchester when it opened. The Bon-Ton was quickly replaced by the 4th location of discount department store Mailman's. Ironically, Mailman's had a collaboration with The Bon-Ton wherein Bon-Ton would supply their own apparel merchandise at Mailman's stores, so Bon-Ton never totally left the North Mall after all. At that point, the North Mall felt pressured to go downscale, so the mall became known as the "North Mall Factory Outlet Center". Burlington opened in the former J.M. Fields location in 1983, and the mall kept afloat for a while. In 1984, G.C. Murphy's closed their store, apparently in violation of a 20 year lease they had signed which did not expire until 1989 (this prompted a lawsuit from the mall). In 1988, the collaboration between Mailman's and Bon-Ton ended, so the North Mall Mailman's lost its whole apparel department. By the end of that same year, Mailman's closed after failing to reach a lease deal with North Mall management. This was the last staw for North Mall, which by 1990 was slated for redevelopment into "Manchester Crossroads," a strip mall. It was the first mall in York to be de-malled.

Delco Plaza Mall

The Delco Plaza Mall was a small, discount-oriented mall opened in 1974 in west York, not far from the North Mall. It featured Hills and Grant City (both discount department stores) as anchors as well as a United Artists movie theater in the mall and a Pathmark grocery store in the parking lot. The UA theater was the first 3-screen cinema in York and drove a lot of traffic into the mall. The name of this mall has always confused me because "Delco" is common shorthand for Delaware County, PA, a county which York is very much not located in. The first issue for Delco Plaza was the bankruptcy of W.T. Grant Co., the parent company of Grant City. This resulted in what was then the largest retail bankruptcy liquidation in American history when all of the Grant's stores closed in 1976. Many former Grant Cities, including the one at Delco Plaza, were snatched up by Kmart for new stores.

In 1981, the West Manchester Mall opened, hurting smaller, older malls like Delco Plaza. At some indeterminate time after this, the UA cinema in the mall was downgraded to a cheaper, second-run theater, which had an adverse effect on mall traffic. The Pathmark also closed, and slowly the stores inside the mall began to go under as well. Though the addition of some new tenants like a post office branch and liquor store helped keep the mall open, it was not enough to save it. Hills, struggling in face of competition from Walmart in particular, was bought out by Ames discount department stores in 1999. Ames, in turn, went out of business in 2002. Kmart closed shortly thereafter. The mostly vacant mall faced demolition in 2005.

West Manchester Mall

The West Manchester Mall was developed by Crown American, one of the nation's largest privately-owned real estate developers, in 1981. It was located in west York, nearby the much smaller North Mall and Delco Plaza Mall. It was a modern, single-level mall, about the same size as the York Mall on the other side of town. It featured The Bon-Ton, Hess's department store of Allentown (which at the time was a subsidiary of Crown American itself), and Gee Bee discount store of Johnstown as its anchors. West Manchester had little drama in its early years as it enjoyed dominance in west York while being far enough from the York Mall on the east side of town to maintain a delicate balance. That balance was only really upset in 1989 by the opening of George Zamias' York Galleria. The Galleria was much larger than any other mall in York, and drew a lot of business away from the York Mall in particular.

In 1992, Gee Bee, which had just survived a bankruptcy filing, was bought by rival discount store Value City. Then, in 1993, Hess's department store was circling the drain after recklessly opening too many locations too far from its home base. It closed at West Manchester, and Crown American signed a lease with Walmart to fill the space. Crown also expanded the mall in 1995, adding a new wing leading to a new Hecht's department store of Maryland. A few years later, they renovated the mall again and added a 13 screen Regal Cinemas to occipy vacant store space and keep the West Manchester Mall competitive. But the decision to bring in Walmart turned out to be a long-term curse for the mall itself, as Walmart chose to expand into a supercenter in the early 2000s. Just as it did at the York Mall, the West Manchester Walmart took over what used to be a whole wing of the mall when it expanded. Hecht's became Macy's in 2005, and Value City went out of business in 2008, to be replaced by Kohl's. A big nail in the coffin came when in 2011 The Bon-Ton announced that their store at West Manchester was "not performing as well as it should" and would close at the end of their lease the following January. At this point, Regal was mostly the only thing keeping people coming into the mall. The mall was sold in 2012 to new owners who pledged a nearly $50 million renovation to transform it into the West Manchester Town Center, an open-air retail center. With this closure, the York Galleria became the only surviving mall out of five in York, PA.

#photography #dead mall #retail #dead malls #deadmall #mall #malls #shopping mall #shopping malls #retail apocalypse #york mall #west manchester mall #delco plaza mall #north mall #dead mall series #history #pennsylvania

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ms-nesbit · 1 year ago

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Good jay hunting (chapter three of empire records)

Chapter one and two found here (x) (x)

Rating: 18+ (say it with me: minors, fuck off!)

Summary: y/n and jason go on a date at the gotham cemetery, where jason tells y/n about his tenure as robin. Her feelings for him deepens, so much that he receives a surprise when the date is over.

Trigger warning! This chapter dives into Jason Todd’s history, which includes: d0mestic vi0lence, r@pe, pr0stitution, substance @buse, child @abuse, and neglect. PLEASE be advised.

ao3

Note: I fucking loved writing this chapter. I will take a break though because it hit a little too close to home for me. I hope you all enjoy and, as always, reblog and refrain from being a dickhead and reposting my work elsewhere. Thank you!

A cold front ushered into Gotham quicker than the summer heat could pay its sorrowful respects, Gothamites struggling to acclimate to the drastic change in temperature. On the Gotham News Network, gas leaks and lawsuits were reported, detailing the inhumane treatment landlords provide for the elderly; it was nothing new to the godless city, each sin managing to top another.

Jason was desensitized to it, too. He recalled his time in an apartment on the upper East side of Gotham, near Murphy Ave. - his biological father stumbled through the door, fury steaming from his lips in the scent of bourbon, as he picked which target to his unfathomable wrath; Jason’s mother sacrificed herself when Jason’s motor skills were still developing, and skull fusing together from his ripe birth; yet, when Jason began reading, gaining ideas that inspired him to do good, he stood before his mother, fists balled and chest puffed, a zeal of a thirty year-old in a nine year-old’s body.

His father was why Jason’s mother dipped her toes into medication - he injured her so severely, she visited the doctor, who abruptly prescribed her narcotics without questioning the source of her injuries, and sent her on her way. Each tablet was a sense of bliss to her, something she missed so dearly, it enveloped her in endless bliss when she re-experienced it, so she became erratic for more, bargaining with the local shadows to entice her, indulge her, give her what she needed.

And Jason was learning from this. He blinked his deer eyes as he saw his mother dive into the pill bottle face first, and how his father’s silhouette looked carved in chalk. I’m okay, he told his teachers when they noticed his missing assignments, or unexcused absences from school. I was just sick. I forgot.

Never could he step down from his position as son, mother, and father - he was all a nuclear family to himself, and couldn’t afford to jeopardize his position. With his father dead, he was man of the house at ten, and grew three sizes to accommodate; with his mother paralyzed by chemically-induced numbness and familiarity in the shape of ovular bliss, Jason adapted rapidly, cooking meals for himself and his mother. And without the income, he stole what he could; after being arrested a few times, he feared not his own record becoming tarnished with demerits, but the judicial attention being shifted to his mother, whom he dearly loved and missed, and instead sold his soul to the streets, begging to give whatever he could so he could feed his mother, care for his mother, rear his mother as she needed.

After that dreadful night, though, when he visited his friends after school instead of checking on his mother, he re-entered the apartment, dirtied and covered in neglect. The air was thick with news he believed he had the power to prevent, the poor boy, his last light of innocence taken from him with her final breath before she lay lifeless on the bathroom tile floor, becoming one with the grime and mildew that accumulated.

He shed no tears that night. He cradled her, listened to her in lament, but remained a soldier for the mother he wished he knew. Jason held her as he rocked her to sleep, hoping the embrace could restore her soul to eternal happiness in the afterlife. With her, a piece of his soul died, too, and his smiles were in vain, voice seeming a bit tainted with a poison others in his life couldn’t quite identify.

It was quite ironic that he loved the theatre tenderly, as he became an actor at a young age, playing the role of a century. He performed at Apollo Theater as Lady McBeth, his mourning in tow each day he spoke of his mother and her life, as if she wasn’t a ghost haunting his mind post-sunset. His tongue was burning and heart lonesome as he performed exquisitely, so well that even he was convinced that his mother would be at home, waiting upon his arrival.

One night, after escaping from the hands of his disparaging foster parents, Jason picked up his equipment used to steal - or boost, if you will - automotive parts for cash. He used the pieces as relics to restore value to himself, whether it be in form of wrinkled, used money, or bartering for shelter, transportation, or a favor; that night, however, proved to be different in many ways: the moon entered its final phase, the quarter presenting itself behind passing clouds, Jason’s best friend had been missing for days, only to have his body recovered from the lake that day (another day of grief for Jason, no doubt, although he was anesthetized to death).

Jason found an abnormally shaped vehicle in Crime Alley, and he snickered to himself when he approached the profile, it was…the Batmobile. He kneeled and began his workmanship, spinning the car jack to loosen the lug nuts. Before he could finish, though, a presence bestowed itself behind him, the Fool, and it was the caped crusader himself.

The following months were a quick haze for the pre-teen - the vigilante revealed his identity as Bruce Wayne, and Jason, although ecstatic to belong in a home once again, didn’t shake his misfortune, the baggage worn around his neck like a lagahoo. If it wasn’t in his days as anxiety attacks and hoarding, anticipating the next loss, then it was carried through in his subconscious, the most unsuspecting of all in forms of nightmares and shapeshifting creatures lurking with a liquor bottle and belt.

Screams and pleas entered the halls of Wayne Manor, carrying all the way to Bruce’s chambers, and sometimes, on the most unforgiving nights, into the Batcave. It brought heartbreak to the home, especially to Bruce’s butler, Alfred, who served Jason much closer than Bruce could. Although Jason’s older adoptive brother, Dick, was polite and respectful of Alfred, Jason saw Pennyworth eye-to-eye, restoring some youth into the mature man when Jason assisted him in the kitchen, or with chores, with such glee (and it was a delightful task for Jason to partake in! He longed for mundane tasks that other children took for granted, gruelled about, resented their parents for, and Jason smiled with each load of laundry completed, or dinner prepped with Alfred.).

“We must do something, Bruce.” Alfred begged Bruce with broken eyes. “Not that cloak.” he spoke vehemently, with such disgust that the man could ever dare coerce Jason back into danger, this time with less protection and a daring purpose.

Yet his concerns were dismissed by Bruce’s concoction of arrogance and stubbornness, a deadly duo that ultimately led Jason to his demise by the clown prince of crime. His lifeless body lay on the concrete, and Bruce was taken aback by the woeful fate of the boy, despite the stern admonishments made by his aid at home. He vowed never to risk another boy’s life after this, to allow Jason to rest after sixteen years of distress.

The truth unfolded after the detective unmasked details of his son’s death: the clown had tempted him with the unveiling of his mother’s existence, his true mother. The pictures the clown’s unhinged partner took, which were messily glued to Todd’s tombstone, left little to Bruce’s imagination: the torture his son endured at the hands of a criminal, the look of terror in the boy’s eyes in one photo, with a shadow of a man’s arm in the air, crowbar in hand…

It was the first time since Martha and Thomas’s deaths that Bruce wept, shoulders slumped as he hiccuped. The boy died in vain. For nothing. There was no rest for his tortured soul, no restitution, requisition for the last breaths laborly drawn.

And when Jason arose from the dead, vindication sharp on his tongue, and life stolen from his green eyes, it only instigated heavier burden on Bruce’s aching bones, remorse deep in his voice when he faced the revived Jason returning back to Wayne Manor, distraught from uncovering that shortly after his death, Bruce replaced him.

��

“So…you were Robin?” y/n asked.

Jason nodded sadly, face pointed at the starry sky. “Yeah.”

Silence cursed them again, the night drawn out from Jason’s confession. Y/n didn’t expect it to be this tragic, although she appreciated it quietly. “Do you miss her?”

The words caught Jason off guard. He was used to y/n’s surprising angle on conversations, scoping out a person differently than the status quo. No small talk, no pleasantries, just rawness. “I talked with Bruce’s shrink about it - he said she could help or some shit,” his face warped in disapproval. “But I don’t. I romanticized the idea of her, but to be honest, she chose drugs over me. It hurts sometimes to think about, but that’s that. It was easier for me to think of my dad as a piece of shit, because he basically hit me more than he talked to me.”

“Makes sense. Guys are often stupid pieces of shit. No offense.” y/n raised a hand.

Jason shrugged. “None taken, we’re sacks of fucks.” he scoffed at his own comment. “I still kinda resent Bruce for wanting me to be Robin, I mean…why did he think that was any bit okay to do?”

“Maybe because that was the only way he could handle grief?” y/n offered.

Propping himself on his arms, palms flat behind him, he breathed deeply. Y/n had a point, though: when Bruce introduced the idea to Dick, Dick felt the same type of grief Bruce had; however, when the mantle was passed to Jason, the mourning was different, if at all: both Bruce and Dick had someone to lose, whereas Jason hadn’t.

And it showed when Jason worked the role. He showed sympathy to petty criminals, sometimes aiding and abiding them, to Bruce’s disapprobation; his demeanor soured as intel regarding trafficking rings and abusers surfaced, knuckles bruised and teeth clenched as perpetrators’ blood spurted onto the Robin costume, tainting its bright colors into a deeper, richer tone.

It was worse when Bruce pushed Jason to attend the Wayne galas. The upper class flocked their wealth and acquitted crimes, which burned Jason’s ears as he heard someone’s misfortune reduced into a witty anecdote paired with hor d'oeuvres and sparkling champagne.

Jason knew of the children who were taken by the boogeymen and women in the dark. He knew of their lives and tales that were once short, stout, and sweet. The attendees spoke of their deaths apathetically, muttering insults under their breath as they attempted to justify their ill motives. Almost as if these were the boogeymen and women, simply dressed up in thousand-dollar gowns and heirlooms that cleverly disguised their sharp talons and venomous taste for the vulnerable, their souls containing all moral onus were snatched from their now-empty vessels. He argued with them at the galas about the children, urging them ferociously about their contributions, as if nobody dare exist outside of them.

How could they? A life so lavish, how could they know of any decision made out of self-preservation and greed rather than sympathy and the greater good? They were the one-percent, top of the socioeconomic chain, the bourgeoisie glaring down from their terrace views at the filthy proletariats below them - and while one could argue that the view from up high could be so grand that even the diamonds in the filth could be mistaken for fool’s gold, the wounded mistaken for the parasite that would consume the rich had they attempted to so much as inspect the streets, why would they then take measures to ensure their own safety, stuff more money into their pockets, knowing what they’ve seen?

The pasta salad Jason was poking at lost its flavor. A shame. “I know that Bruce couldn’t understand, but…Dick? I mean, you said he was Robin, too, right? And it wasn’t like he came from a wealthy background.” Y/n spoke between munches of lettuce that hung out of her mouth.

“Dick traveled a lot, and his family didn’t have a ton, but they were…a family.” Jason’s words were a sad string playing into the cemetery.

It was the truth. Jason was a true reflection of the city in which he was raised: impoverished and tattered, the result of a godless, greedy, unfiltered city full of beasts whose sins remained unpunished, unanswered for. His heart pumped true - as that of Dick and Bruce - but in deep red, different than the blue blood that his adoptive elder brother and father carried in themselves; they could never understand him, really, their path vastly disparate than Jason’s living tragedy.

All y/n could think to do was kiss the man beside him, spilling his life before her atop the delectable array of desserts he prepared for her. She cupped his cheek with her hand and pulled him toward her, their lips clashing into a deep but slow kiss. As y/n’s lips moved to hold Jason’s, she felt a tear on her thumb, the one on Jason’s cheek, and she inched her body closer to his, to ensure that she wasn’t another chapter in his story, either.

She hadn’t disclosed her sobstory - the one filled with angst, betrayal, and the anguish of abuse and torment year after year from those closest to her; she was just as tired as he, and finally felt a bond, vulnerable with someone besides the weeping albums she listened to when her nightmares resurfaced.

When they broke their kiss, only the faintness of the ghosts from their graves divided Jason and y/n. They held their hands, fingers interlocked, as they stayed close. Y/n hummed when Jason wrapped his arm around her shoulders, and Jason smiled (for the first time in hours) when y/n reached up to kiss the white patch of his hair, now knowing its origin.

Instead of parting ways after their food finished, they laid down, hip to hip, and counted the stars as they relished in the caress of each other’s skin. It was the first time Jason saw y/n so disarmed, which was jarring compared to her all-plaid, studded outfit. He liked her anyway, a bit too much for his liking, afraid that he was diving too deep.

And before y/n drifted to sleep in Jason’s arms, she felt the same fear subside, until it quieted to nothing but a puny whisper.

—-

Jason’s administrative account was open on his laptop when he arrived back at his home, securing each lock before he removed his leather jacket and set down his biking helmet.

He glanced at a notification on his phone, which was from y/n. He was glad she wasn’t insecure and reached out to him first. The innocent grin on his face quickly turned amorous as he opened the notification, which brought him to a video y/n sent of herself.

Naked.

Masturbating.

Determined, Jason shuffled to his armchair, unbuckling his jeans and wriggling his cock free from them as he sat and watched the video. Y/n ran a hand up and down her body suggestively, showing Jason what he was missing; then, after brief teasing, she opened her legs, sitting up as she revealed her wet cunt on full display for the camera. Jason’s cock twitched when he saw her swollen clit aching to be touched, and the thought of his head between her legs, thigh on either side of his shoulders, almost made Jason explode there.

Instead, he took the fuel and set up his webcam and account, enabling bluetooth on his phone and connecting his wireless headphones to privately hear y/n’s noises. He pressed a key on his laptop, beginning the livestream.

On one hand, he held the phone, the content away from the webcam’s view; his other hand stroked his cock, quickly, as he followed y/n’s every word.

“Put your cock in me, Jay.”

“Fuck! Yes, eat me out just like that.”

The phrases were too much for Jason to handle, who was moaning incoherently, fitting in garbled, “So hot” and “Gonna make you come.” His hand moved rapidly on his cock, and he was getting close, noises crescendoing. “Y/n, y/n, so good.”

It wasn’t until y/n exploded, dildo inside of her and fingers circling her clit, that Jason’s orgasm was ripped from him, his body tensing as he nearly screamed, eyes squeezing shut as he rocked his hips into his hand. “God, fuck.” he yelped, sucking a breath in as he felt his body tense up again after he thought his climax was over.

He had forgotten he was live. He didn’t know he said her name aloud in the dazed state. Nor did he know that he continued to say her name, over and over, as cum shot from his cock.

“I’ve been seeing someone. Hope none of you are jealous.” he admitted, blushing. “I’ll see you all later. Till then, take care.” he ended the livestream abruptly, finally taking a breath after logging out of his administrative account.

He closed his laptop and set it on the end table beside the wingchair, heading to the bathroom to shower and masturbate again to y/n.

#jason todd x reader #jason todd/reader #jason todd x plus size reader #plus size reader #smut #fluff #TW abuse #TW substance abuse #TW rape #red hood #robin #dick grayson #bruce wayne #batman #nightwing #ao3 #my post #mine

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elliemarchetti · 1 year ago

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Enchanted to Meet You

Hello @corcracrow, your Secret Santa here! I know I haven't filled you with questions as I would’ve liked, and you probably have the feeling of not knowing me that well, but unfortunately real life has hit hard both on my creative process and my free time. Anyway, I don’t want to spoil the mood for I'm very happy to reveal myself and I hope you likethe first chapter of the fic I have prepared for this year’s @acotargiftexchange

Plot: The Archeron sisters are prominent members of the Upper East Side, as are the Vanserras. Elain is fresh out of a disappointing relationship, while Lucien is the neglected seventh child of a couple who haven’t loved each other for a long time. Will they be able, after a chance meeting at a Christmas party, to build something they could cherish or will gossips and meddling families stifle the budding interest they feel for each other?

Words: 2241

Elain looked around, a glass of champagne held firmly in her right hand. The celebrations were going well, Feyre was having fun, laughing at a joke delivered by her new boyfriend, while Nesta twirled on the dancefloor like a ballerina in a music box, barely noticing her partner. It was the second Christmas party they attended this year, but since their business was booming, she guessed it wouldn’t be the last. At least the host picked some quality wine, a competent catering and classy live music. All the participants belonged only to the best families of the Upper East Side although, and she suspected not by mere coincidence, the Nolans were missing from the guest list. Some had already begun to whisper ill-will about their absence, but since the event was being held on one of Rhysand’s properties, Elain had the privilege to screen out those who were no longer welcome in her vicinity. She was aware she shouldn’t have been so naïve, a marriage proposal so hasty and at such a young age could only come from the heart when net worths like theirs weren’t at stake, but since she still struggled to figure out what to do with her feelings about it, she thought it wiser to let those social climbers stay in the dark place they called home.

Graysen had defined the architecture of his house as designer modern brutalism, but Elain, for the short time she had spent within its walls, had thought it nothing more than a luxurious prison. There were few windows, practically no natural sunlight, it didn’t have a balcony, a veranda, or even a garden, and although the underground swimming pool and spa had done their duty when she needed to relax, everything, including the obsessive order kept in the rooms by a bevy of maids she had never met, appeared fake. Like the love of its heir, after all, like the glittering gifts of his mother. There was no sentiment in everything they did, and since nothing was more distant from the teachings of her father, Elain had decreed that what happened before it was too late was for the best. Not that she would’ve completely ruled out the idea of a divorce if she found out after she married him that Graysen had joined their families only for financial benefit, but it was a nuisance she preferred to avoid, just like the fast-approaching gossips.

Luckily, someone was ready to save her, or so it seemed from the twinkle in the russet eye she met.

She knew Lucien Vanserra only by name, but his story was almost legendary and the reason most rich parents won’t let their kids go to public schools anymore, even if they were renowned and the courses were the best in the US: coveted heartthrob while still in college, a young professor not in her right mind developed a crush on his socially anxious best friend. When he’d rightly rejected her, she had decided to disfigure him with a kitchen knife. Lucien had been quick to push his mate away from the blade, but had been hit in turn, losing his eye and, despite countless surgeries, finding half his face permanently disfigured by a deep white scar, in stark contrast with his amber skin.

“I wanted to wait for some mutual acquaintance to do the honors, but given the situation it seemed like an appropriate time to come and introduce myself,” he said by a way of greeting, extending a manicured hand. The sleeve of his green jacket ran up a little, showing off a probably priceless watch, matched with the eccentric gold prosthetic with which he had replaced the missing eye.

“We’ve really lost our manners these days,” Elain joked, offering him a firm shake. It was her mother who told her, before she died all those years ago, that a weak hand was a sign of a weaker character, and after the misunderstanding with the Nolans, she was determined to convey confidence in every detail of her being. That was why she had chosen the dress she was wearing, with a neckline not too exaggerated but not even as chaste as she would’ve once preferred, the skirt narrower on the hips, where previously would’ve been tulle and wide pleats.

“Who do you think is the rudest?” Lucien asked, scanning the people by the bar. Being caught red handed, those who had distracted themselves from their conversations to glance curiously in their direction suddenly turned back to their interlocutors, making Elain smile bitterly. She could already imagine what they would say about them at the next brunch they were going to attend, she could already hear them referring to Lucien as the Beast to Elain’s Beauty regardless of the fact he was extremely charming, his disability just a means to spout malice.

“After careful consideration, I think Keir wins the prize,” Elain admitted, glaring at a blond-haired man who was displaying his voluptuous daughter like a beast at the farmers market to a group of older guests. The young woman seemed incredibly uncomfortable but didn’t leave her father’s side until a scary guy, all cradled in black, asked her to dance.

“He has been trying for nearly a year to convince my father that she and my brother would be a good match, but I think Eris’s interest lies elsewhere,” Lucien replied, nodding at Nesta’s current dance partner. His hair was a little more orange than Lucien’s, way shorter but still long enough to be tied at his nape, and although his skin was lighter, the resemblance was uncanny despite the age difference.

“She’s a though nut to crack,” Elain warned him, wondering if at least this bachelor would last a few months with her. The previous suitor didn’t get to the end of the third, retreating in his chase because of her cold and detached attitude.

“Who knows, they might have found each other, then,” Lucien muttered, drawing a surprised laugh from Elain. She was happy not to be an only child, but sometimes being three sisters and with such different characters was a real challenge. She couldn’t imagine how Lucien managed to get along with everyone in his large family, although, being the seventh, it probably meant nobody paid him much attention.

“Are you as difficult as him?” she asked, once the silence stretched for a little too long. She was enjoying their conversation, the ease with which Lucien opened up, as if he wasn’t used to be associated with the same high-class circles as the rest of the presents. His quick remarks had the same taste as notes passed under the desk during boring lessons, thrilling and personal, even if they talked about nothing of substance, and his presence was grounding, capable of freeing her mind from unpleasant thoughts and calming her anxiety.

"If I want to, but fortunately it’s not something I have often to retort to,” he replied, before downing the glass of liquor in his right hand in a single sip. “And are you the gentles of the bunch as is rumored?”

Elain thought about it for a second. Regardless of how she wanted to behave, her nature wasn’t as wild and showy as Feyre’s or as relentless and demanding as Nesta’s: her qualities lay in diplomacy and understanding of her surroundings, she liked to observe more than act, and make thoughtful decisions to prevent mistakes. She was reserved, always composed, and knew how to keep her opinions to herself, but that didn’t make her any less dangerous, just easier to underestimate.

“I suppose so, or maybe I’m just really good at my job,” she replied, finishing the champagne herself and depositing the flute on an empty tray.

“Which, if I’m not mistaken, is sadly required,” he murmured in her ear, sending a shiver down her naked back. Elain followed his line of vision, and saw her father suspiciously pale and unsure on his legs.

Her eyes involuntarily rolled back in her skull. It was always the same damn story: he was the CEO of a multi-million-dollar company, not a small-town carpenter unfamiliar with open bars, therefore he should’ve known better than to get wasted before midnight, but punctual like a Swiss clock, he proved to be unable to complete even such a simple task. Elain didn’t expect him to suddenly stop drinking, despite all the help his daughters offered and the professionals they were handsomely paying, but she felt like it wasn’t too much to ask for him to not make a fool of himself at public events.

“I could show you where the backdoor is,” suggested her interlocutor, offering his arm with a wink of his good eye. “That’s where I usually sneak out from anyway.”

Convincing her father to move away from the corner of the room where he had retreated, probably in vain search of the poorly positioned bathroom, wasn’t as simple as it may sound, but once they succeeded, Lucien helped her to keep him upright, to make as few guests as possible notice his state.

“After you,” he told her with a polite smile, when they finally reached their destination, before opening the plastic door and bowing to let her pass like the humble usher of one of the luxurious hotels where he too surely used to stay when he did something his parents wouldn’t have approved of.

As soon as she stepped out, the acrid smell of New York immediately flooded her nostrils, and she was sure that if it hadn’t rained so heavily a couple of fat rats would’ve welcomed them back into the real world too.

“My usual luck,” Elain muttered, trying to keep from shivering in the cold. Her jacket had remained in the wardrobe, as to attract as little attention as possible, but the taxi Lucien had kindly called was at least a couple minutes away, so she could only hope that the thin fabric of her dress didn’t show off her nipples hardened by the winter air.

“My mother told me cream goes great with green,” Lucien whispered, and before Elain could ask him what the hell he was talking about, she felt the weight of his blazer settle on her shoulders.

“Thank you,” she murmured, meeting his gaze perhaps for the first time since they’d taken shelter under the tiny plastic canopy. He wasn’t pitying her, he wasn’t amused nor even annoyed, he simply seemed used to helping strangers in need and vaguely sorry that their time together had come to a premature end.

“No need to thank me Cinderella,” he replied, very tenderly, the corners of his mouth slightly raised. “But now we have to load your father into the carriage.”

The taxi had indeed arrived at the only exit of the dead-end street, as close as possible to its future passengers. The pouring rain didn’t take long to soak her hair, and Lucien’s white shirt stuck to his arms, the muscles tense from the effort. The cold seemed to have brought her father a little back to his senses, but his tremors, mixed with an innate lack of coordination exacerbated by the alcohol, weren’t helping.

“Your jacket…” Elain started, once she was seated, but the owner shut her with a shrug.

“See it as a reason to look for me if you ever want to see me again,” he replied, and with that, he closed the door, gesturing for the driver to start moving.

“Where am I taking you, miss?” asked the man, who was already taking the road furthest from the entrance of the venue to avoid the paparazzi camped nearby despite the adverse weather, when he realized she wasn’t going to give him directions soon, the girl too focused on the encounter she just had. Blushing for the embarrassment, and with her mind focused mainly on the heat emanating from Lucien, whose shadow remained on her in the form of his velvet jacket, she absentmindedly provided him her address.

In a moment of clarity, Elain forced herself not to be delusional. Such a handsome and charming guy was certainly already taken, or at least he had a roster of sexy lovers. But then why be so nice? Why help with her father? She was still up wandering the kitchen and asking herself questions she couldn’t know the answers to when Nesta returned home, fortunately alone.

“Judging by your state no redhead was lucky tonight,” she tried to joke, but Nesta’s expression was deadly grave and she plopped down on one of the chaises longues in the living room dimly lit by the fireplace.

“Do you think we should send him back to rehab?” Elain asked, sitting down on the expensive rug the subject of their conversation had bought on his last trip to the Middle East.

“I say give him a second chance, but only one,” she replied, her gaze following the dancing flames.

“You should’ve stayed at the party,” Elain scolded her, resting her head on her thigh, left bare by the deep slit of her dress. “The situation is under control.”

“I can’t have fun when I know you’re shouldering his addiction alone,” Nesta replied, stroking her still damp hair, destroying definitively the elaborate hairstyle. Elain didn’t say anything else, but for some reason, as Nesta recounted her version of the evening, her eyes kept slipping to the door in hope a certain gentleman would ring the doorbell just to say goodnight.

#acotar gift exchange #elucien #modern au #enchanted by taylor swift is the main inspo behind this #elain archeron #lucien vanserra #nesta archeron #neris if you squint #but they danced in canon too so if it's not your cup of tea you can ignore it #if it is tho let me know and i'll put together a little spin off in the blink of an eye

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citiesborn · 3 months ago

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HEART SRISEVOK, THE OWNER OF NEXOS NIGHTCLUB

OOC INFORMATION

your alias, timezone, & pronouns: rainie, est, she/her muse’s name: heart srisevok tagging system link: tbd. [ baifern pimchanok, cis-woman, she/her ] Look who just landed! CHALIDA “HEART” SRISEVOK, I sure hope you packed all you need. Perhaps you’re not worried as THE OWNER of NEXOS NIGHTCLUB. The city has plenty of spots for a 33 year old HUMAN like you. You’ll be known in the city soon enough as THE HEDONIST, being CHARISMATIC and NARCISSISTIC. ( rainie, 23, EST, removed for discretion )

STATISTICS

full name: chalida zhong, heart srisevok nickname: while "heart" was originally a nickname she legally changed her named to heart upon arrival to mars. date of birth: may 27th, 2372 gender: cis female pronouns: she/her sexual orientation: lesbian romantic orientation: lesbian current age: thirty-three modification: human affiliation: nexos nightclub birthplace: new york city, new york, earth current neighbourhood: sora occupation: owner of nexos nightclub, information broker known languages: english, thai, mandarin

TRADITIONAL BIOGRAPHY

WHEN CHALIDA ZHONG FLEES EARTH in the dead of night she has three things in her bag. 1. twenty-thousand dollars in liquidated bills, a handle of kentucky bourbon - aged twenty years, and a pair of bedazzled dior sunglasses. when she lands on mars chalida zhong is dead and heart srisevok is born. raised on the upper east side of manhattan heart's childhood was a heady mix of swedish boarding schools, lunches at le bernandin, and sneaking out of the marble penthouses her father kept at different points in the city. her mother, much like her daughter was a bored socialite who had even less interest in having a daughter than she did in being married. her father was old money - fortune 500 conglomerates and caviar for breakfast. and in the middle of it all a young chalida desperate for some sort of attention. but her father's attention is domineering at the best of times and cruel at the worst. still she acts out, lashes out at anything she can - ruins business dinners and ends up on the cover of the social papers in handcuffs. when she was eighteen he demanded this behavior come to an end. she was getting married whether she wanted to or not. from that point on it became near impossible to leave the house. heart knew that just leaving new york wouldn't be far enough. so she liquidated her trust fund shoved what she could in boxes and bags and bought herself a first class ticket to mars. after she landed she shook off her old name. taking on her mother's maiden name and the nickname she'd had growing up. she quickly blew through her trust fund partying and in need of quick cash began escorting. due to heart's life in new york high society she blended seamlessly into the upper echelons of sora. her rates skyrocketed and more than money she began collecting information. by twenty-four heart had blackmailed her way into the upper ranks of sora. she'd amassed enough money to quite escorting entirely and opened nexos. it wasn't enough to run the most successful nightclub in new jakarta though. rumors ran through the place like water so heart gave her staff an objective. hear something? come tell her and reap a healthy bonus on top of an already generous salary. heart developed a reputation for knowing things. after all who wouldn't trust a beautiful woman in a pair of designer heels? what could she possibly do to betray some man who thought himself far more intelligent and savvy than her. for the right price she'd tell you the rumor she heard. of course if you wanted to thank her by sending her some sort of gift she'd never be upset by that.

INSPIRATIONS

pinterest: right here quote: "i will always be the virgin prostitute, the perverse angel, the two faced sinister and saintly woman." -anais nin. label: the hedonist tropes: ethical slut, loveable alpha bitch, hard-drinking party girl media parallels: samantha jones ( sex & the city ), faye valentine ( cowboy bepop ), brooke davis ( one tree hill ), ramona vega ( hustlers ) theme song:��crazy girls by toopoor

PERSONALITY

positive traits: charismatic, intelligent, effervescent, loyal neutral traits: cynical, unconstrained, honest, outspoken negative traits: selfish, vindictive, narcissistic, jealous peeves: boring people, business meetings, slow walkers fears: spiders, being forgotten, her father skills: manipulation, drinking a whole bottle of top shelf tequila without dying, bitching goals: to become so rich and powerful she's untouchable

APPEARANCE

faceclaim: baifern pimchanok height: 5'5 eye colour: brown hair colour: brown clothing style: heart prefers skirts and dresses over pants. her clothes tend to be especially tight, revealing, and daring. she's typically the most overdressed person in the room and doesn't wear many shoes aside from heels and the occasional pair of boots. she's an admitted shopaholic with an enviable closet of designer clothes. jewelry: much like her clothing heart has an extensive collection of jewelry she cycles through based on her outfits. she's not particularly attached to any of the pieces tattoos: a small sun on her left hip fragrance: some variant of expensive designer perfume

#ignitedintro #we made it

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theharper01 · 1 year ago

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Luxury Living: Exploring the Pinnacle of Elegance in Upper East Side Apartments for Sale

In the heart of the iconic Upper East Side, a realm of opulence awaits those seeking the epitome of luxury living. The landscape of real estate in this prestigious Manhattan neighborhood is evolving, with new developments setting a new standard for elegance and sophistication.

Discovering Elegance: Upper East Side Apartments for Sale

As you embark on the journey of finding your dream home, the Upper East Side presents an array of apartments for sale that redefine the concept of luxury. From classic pre-war buildings to modern, state-of-the-art residences, the options are as diverse as the neighborhood itself.

New Development UES: A Glimpse into the Future of Opulent Living

For those with a penchant for the contemporary, exploring new developments on the Upper East Side is a must. These cutting-edge creations seamlessly blend modern design with the timeless allure of the neighborhood. The phrase "New Development UES" has become synonymous with unrivaled amenities, breathtaking views, and a lifestyle that merges sophistication with convenience.

Investing in Excellence

Investing in an Upper East Side apartment is not just a real estate transaction; it's a commitment to a lifestyle characterized by refinement and exclusivity. The value of these properties extends beyond the square footage, encompassing the prestige of the address and the cultural richness that permeates the streets.

Navigating the Market: Your Guide to Success

As the demand for Upper East Side apartments continues to rise, navigating the market requires insight and expertise. Stay informed about the latest trends, emerging neighborhoods, and the unique features that set each property apart. A well-informed buyer is a poised buyer, ready to make the right investment in the lap of luxury.

Conclusion: Beyond Brick and Mortar

In the realm of Upper East Side apartments for sale, the journey goes beyond mere brick and mortar. It's a voyage into a world where elegance meets convenience, and luxury is a way of life. Embrace the unparalleled allure of the Upper East Side, where each residence tells a story of sophistication and refinement.

#Upper East Side apartments for sale #New Development UES

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kangamommynow · 4 months ago

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7/27 Ravenna. First stop St Vitale.

The Basilica of San Vitale was built to mark the triumph over the Ostrogoths and the first golden age of Byzantine art. It’s one of the city’s many masterpieces, and it contains the architectural and mosaic splendours of the West and East.

The basilica was commissioned in 525 by Bishop Ecclesius, who had just returned from Constantinople, from where a lot of the stone material used came from. Thanks to the significant sum of 26 thousand gold coins allocated by Giuliano Argentario, the basilica was consecrated by Archbishop Maximian already in 547.

According to the legend, the place was chosen because of the presence of a fifth century sacellum, where the remains of Vitale, soldier and future saint, laid.

The basilica stands on two brick prismatic blocks, one higher and one lower, with an octagonal plan. Around the drum of the central dome, there’s a two-story ambulatory (corridor) with a section reserved for women. Facing east, the polygonal apse is flanked by two rectangular sacristies. On the opposite side, the entrance portico (narthex), curiously located obliquely to the apse, has two exedras at the end to access the two towers and the upper sectors.

When you enter the basilica, which was later frescoed in the Baroque period, you’ll immediately notice the beautiful mosaic decorations on the apse and the vast open space. Therefore, you won’t immediately see that in the presbytery, on one side of the octagonal floor, there the representation of a labyrinth. Finding a way out of it is an act of rebirth already.

The interior, above the precious marble, is a further source of wonder and ecstasy: in fact, you can admire a splendid example of mural mosaic with a vertical development, which gives the basilica an imperial aura and is emblematic of the political and religious power of the time.

In the presbytery, the figures depicted in the mosaics of numerous episodes from the Old and the New Testament on the sacrifice of Christ for the salvation of Humanity appear active in a worldly setting. Instead, the figures depicted in the apse (the emperors Theodoric and Justinian and the Archbishop Massimian), stand out hieratically on a golden, almost abstract background, intended to deepen our sense of the transcendent and metaphysical power of the Church, but also that of the dogmatic and political force of Justinian’s religious conception.

#italian adventures

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theeliteshq · 10 months ago

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⸺ 𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝚰𝐓𝐄𝐒. / welcome to the upper east side. based in new york city, 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 is a rich kids discord based roleplay, with a secrets twist. the focus of the group is character development, as well as characters connections, followed by various events and activities to boost muse. there is also the added element of an interactive gossip channel, run by an anonymous source, who reports with any rumors, scandals, and drama. please message this account for a link to the discord if you are interested!

#discord krp #krp ad #krp #oc krp #krp promo #appless krp #find krp #new krp #secrets krp #gossip girl krp

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therollingstonys · 4 months ago

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For the ask game!

Is there a question you’d really like to answer? This is a blank space question for you to choose one yourself :3 💞

Hey anon!! Thank you so much for the ask!! I’m going to go ahead and do six and seven:

This is from an untitled original work about an upper east side (New York city) high society girl and the relationship that develops between her and her bodyguard Jax. Some tags would be: enemies to hate fucking to lovers, bodyguard/protectee, power dynamics, age gap, smut 👀

#mod Stella answers asks #mod Stella answers anons #original character #original story

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americanwoodcockfan · 10 months ago

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I Love Dick And Balls

The American woodcock (Scolopax minor), sometimes colloquially referred to as the timberdoodle,[2] is a small shorebird species found primarily in the eastern half of North America. Woodcocks spend most of their time on the ground in brushy, young-forest habitats, where the birds' brown, black, and gray plumage provides excellent camouflage.

The American woodcock is the only species of woodcock inhabiting North America.[3] Although classified with the sandpipers and shorebirds in the family Scolopacidae, the American woodcock lives mainly in upland settings. Its many folk names include timberdoodle, bogsucker, night partridge, brush snipe, hokumpoke, and becasse.[4]

The population of the American woodcock has fallen by an average of slightly more than 1% annually since the 1960s. Most authorities attribute this decline to a loss of habitat caused by forest maturation and urban development. Because of the male woodcock's unique, beautiful courtship flights, the bird is welcomed as a harbinger of spring in northern areas. It is also a popular game bird, with about 540,000 killed annually by some 133,000 hunters in the U.S.[5]

In 2008, wildlife biologists and conservationists released an American woodcock conservation plan presenting figures for the acreage of early successional habitat that must be created and maintained in the U.S. and Canada to stabilize the woodcock population at current levels, and to return it to 1970s densities.[6] Description

The American woodcock has a plump body, short legs, a large, rounded head, and a long, straight prehensile bill. Adults are 10 to 12 inches (25 to 30 cm) long and weigh 5 to 8 ounces (140 to 230 g).[7] Females are considerably larger than males.[8] The bill is 2.5 to 2.8 inches (6.4 to 7.1 cm) long.[4] Wingspans range from 16.5 to 18.9 inches (42 to 48 cm).[9] Illustration of American woodcock head and wing feathers Woodcock, with attenuate primaries, natural size, 1891

The plumage is a cryptic mix of different shades of browns, grays, and black. The chest and sides vary from yellowish-white to rich tans.[8] The nape of the head is black, with three or four crossbars of deep buff or rufous.[4] The feet and toes, which are small and weak, are brownish gray to reddish brown.[8] Woodcocks have large eyes located high in their heads, and their visual field is probably the largest of any bird, 360° in the horizontal plane and 180° in the vertical plane.[10]

The woodcock uses its long, prehensile bill to probe in the soil for food, mainly invertebrates and especially earthworms. A unique bone-and-muscle arrangement lets the bird open and close the tip of its upper bill, or mandible, while it is sunk in the ground. Both the underside of the upper mandible and the long tongue are rough-surfaced for grasping slippery prey.[4] Taxonomy

The genus Scolopax was introduced in 1758 by the Swedish naturalist Carl Linnaeus in the tenth edition of his Systema Naturae.[11] The genus name is Latin for a snipe or woodcock.[12] The type species is the Eurasian woodcock (Scolopax rusticola).[13] Distribution and habitat

Woodcocks inhabit forested and mixed forest-agricultural-urban areas east of the 98th meridian. Woodcock have been sighted as far north as York Factory, Manitoba, and east to Labrador and Newfoundland. In winter, they migrate as far south as the Gulf Coast of the United States and Mexico.[8]

The primary breeding range extends from Atlantic Canada (Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, and New Brunswick) west to southeastern Manitoba, and south to northern Virginia, western North Carolina, Kentucky, northern Tennessee, northern Illinois, Missouri, and eastern Kansas. A limited number breed as far south as Florida and Texas. The species may be expanding its distribution northward and westward.[8]

After migrating south in autumn, most woodcocks spend the winter in the Gulf Coast and southeastern Atlantic Coast states. Some may remain as far north as southern Maryland, eastern Virginia, and southern New Jersey. The core of the wintering range centers on Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Georgia.[8] Based on the Christmas Bird Count results, winter concentrations are highest in the northern half of Alabama.

American woodcocks live in wet thickets, moist woods, and brushy swamps.[3] Ideal habitats feature early successional habitat and abandoned farmland mixed with forest. In late summer, some woodcocks roost on the ground at night in large openings among sparse, patchy vegetation.[8]Courtship/breeding habitats include forest openings, roadsides, pastures, and old fields from which males call and launch courtship flights in springtime. Nesting habitats include thickets, shrubland, and young to middle-aged forest interspersed with openings. Feeding habitats have moist soil and feature densely growing young trees such as aspen (Populus spp.), birch (Betula spp.), and mixed hardwoods less than 20 years of age, and shrubs, particularly alder (Alnus spp.). Roosting habitats are semiopen sites with short, sparse plant cover, such as blueberry barrens, pastures, and recently heavily logged forest stands.[8]

Migration

Woodcocks migrate at night. They fly at low altitudes, individually or in small, loose flocks. Flight speeds of migrating birds have been clocked at 16 to 28 mi/h (26 to 45 km/h). However, the slowest flight speed ever recorded for a bird, 5 mi/h (8 km/h), was recorded for this species.[14] Woodcocks are thought to orient visually using major physiographic features such as coastlines and broad river valleys.[8] Both the autumn and spring migrations are leisurely compared with the swift, direct migrations of many passerine birds.

In the north, woodcocks begin to shift southward before ice and snow seal off their ground-based food supply. Cold fronts may prompt heavy southerly flights in autumn. Most woodcocks start to migrate in October, with the major push from mid-October to early November.[15] Most individuals arrive on the wintering range by mid-December. The birds head north again in February. Most have returned to the northern breeding range by mid-March to mid-April.[8]

Migrating birds' arrival at and departure from the breeding range is highly irregular. In Ohio, for example, the earliest birds are seen in February, but the bulk of the population does not arrive until March and April. Birds start to leave for winter by September, but some remain until mid-November.[16] Behavior and ecology Food and feeding American woodcock catching a worm in a New York City park

Woodcocks eat mainly invertebrates, particularly earthworms (Oligochaeta). They do most of their feeding in places where the soil is moist. They forage by probing in soft soil in thickets, where they usually remain well-hidden. Other items in their diet include insect larvae, snails, centipedes, millipedes, spiders, snipe flies, beetles, and ants. A small amount of plant food is eaten, mainly seeds.[8] Woodcocks are crepuscular, being most active at dawn and dusk. Breeding

In spring, males occupy individual singing grounds, openings near brushy cover from which they call and perform display flights at dawn and dusk, and if the light levels are high enough, on moonlit nights. The male's ground call is a short, buzzy peent. After sounding a series of ground calls, the male takes off and flies from 50 to 100 yd (46 to 91 m) into the air. He descends, zigzagging and banking while singing a liquid, chirping song.[8] This high spiralling flight produces a melodious twittering sound as air rushes through the male's outer primary wing feathers.[17]

Males may continue with their courtship flights for as many as four months running, sometimes continuing even after females have already hatched their broods and left the nest. Females, known as hens, are attracted to the males' displays. A hen will fly in and land on the ground near a singing male. The male courts the female by walking stiff-legged and with his wings stretched vertically, and by bobbing and bowing. A male may mate with several females. The male woodcock plays no role in selecting a nest site, incubating eggs, or rearing young. In the primary northern breeding range, the woodcock may be the earliest ground-nesting species to breed.[8] Woodcock chick in nest Downy young are already well-camouflaged.

The hen makes a shallow, rudimentary nest on the ground in the leaf and twig litter, in brushy or young-forest cover usually within 150 yd (140 m) of a singing ground.[4] Most hens lay four eggs, sometimes one to three. Incubation takes 20 to 22 days.[3] The down-covered young are precocial and leave the nest within a few hours of hatching.[8] The female broods her young and feeds them. When threatened, the fledglings usually take cover and remain motionless, attempting to escape detection by relying on their cryptic coloration. Some observers suggest that frightened young may cling to the body of their mother, that will then take wing and carry the young to safety.[18] Woodcock fledglings begin probing for worms on their own a few days after hatching. They develop quickly and can make short flights after two weeks, can fly fairly well at three weeks, and are independent after about five weeks.[3]

The maximum lifespan of adult American woodcock in the wild is 8 years.[19] Rocking behavior American woodcocks sometimes rock back and forth as they walk, perhaps to aid their search for worms.

American woodcocks occasionally perform a rocking behavior where they will walk slowly while rhythmically rocking their bodies back and forth. This behavior occurs during foraging, leading ornithologists such as Arthur Cleveland Bent and B. H. Christy to theorize that this is a method of coaxing invertebrates such as earthworms closer to the surface.[20] The foraging theory is the most common explanation of the behavior, and it is often cited in field guides.[21]

An alternative theory for the rocking behavior has been proposed by some biologists, such as Bernd Heinrich. It is thought that this behavior is a display to indicate to potential predators that the bird is aware of them.[22] Heinrich notes that some field observations have shown that woodcocks will occasionally flash their tail feathers while rocking, drawing attention to themselves. This theory is supported by research done by John Alcock who believes this is a type of aposematism.[23] Population status

How many woodcock were present in eastern North America before European settlement is unknown. Colonial agriculture, with its patchwork of family farms and open-range livestock grazing, probably supported healthy woodcock populations.[4]

The woodcock population remained high during the early and mid-20th century, after many family farms were abandoned as people moved to urban areas, and crop fields and pastures grew up in brush. In recent decades, those formerly brushy acres have become middle-aged and older forest, where woodcock rarely venture, or they have been covered with buildings and other human developments. Because its population has been declining, the American woodcock is considered a "species of greatest conservation need" in many states, triggering research and habitat-creation efforts in an attempt to boost woodcock populations.

Population trends have been measured through springtime breeding bird surveys, and in the northern breeding range, springtime singing-ground surveys.[8] Data suggest that the woodcock population has fallen rangewide by an average of 1.1% yearly over the last four decades.[6] Conservation

The American woodcock is not considered globally threatened by the IUCN. It is more tolerant of deforestation than other woodcocks and snipes; as long as some sheltered woodland remains for breeding, it can thrive even in regions that are mainly used for agriculture.[1][24] The estimated population is 5 million, so it is the most common sandpiper in North America.[17]

The American Woodcock Conservation Plan presents regional action plans linked to bird conservation regions, fundamental biological units recognized by the U.S. North American Bird Conservation Initiative. The Wildlife Management Institute oversees regional habitat initiatives intended to boost the American woodcock's population by protecting, renewing, and creating habitat throughout the species' range.[6]

Creating young-forest habitat for American woodcocks helps more than 50 other species of wildlife that need early successional habitat during part or all of their lifecycles. These include relatively common animals such as white-tailed deer, snowshoe hare, moose, bobcat, wild turkey, and ruffed grouse, and animals whose populations have also declined in recent decades, such as the golden-winged warbler, whip-poor-will, willow flycatcher, indigo bunting, and New England cottontail.[25]

Leslie Glasgow,[26] the assistant secretary of the Interior for Fish, Wildlife, Parks, and Marine Resources from 1969 to 1970, wrote a dissertation through Texas A&M University on the woodcock, with research based on his observations through the Louisiana State University (LSU) Agricultural Experiment Station. He was an LSU professor from 1948 to 1980 and an authority on wildlife in the wetlands.[27] References

BirdLife International (2020). "Scolopax minor". IUCN Red List of Threatened Species. 2020: e.T22693072A182648054. doi:10.2305/IUCN.UK.2020-3.RLTS.T22693072A182648054.en. Retrieved November 13, 2021. The American Woodcock Today | Woodcock population and young forest habitat management. Timberdoodle.org. Retrieved on 2013-04-03. Kaufman, Kenn (1996). Lives of North American Birds. Houghton Mifflin, pp. 225–226, ISBN 0618159886. Sheldon, William G. (1971). Book of the American Woodcock. University of Massachusetts. Cooper, T. R. & K. Parker (2009). American woodcock population status, 2009. U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Laurel, Maryland. Kelley, James; Williamson, Scot & Cooper, Thomas, eds. (2008). American Woodcock Conservation Plan: A Summary of and Recommendations for Woodcock Conservation in North America. Smith, Christopher (2000). Field Guide to Upland Birds and Waterfowl. Wilderness Adventures Press, pp. 28–29, ISBN 1885106203. Keppie, D. M. & R. M. Whiting Jr. (1994). American Woodcock (Scolopax minor), The Birds of North America. "American Woodcock Identification, All About Birds, Cornell Lab of Ornithology". www.allaboutbirds.org. Retrieved September 27, 2020. Jones, Michael P.; Pierce, Kenneth E.; Ward, Daniel (2007). "Avian vision: a review of form and function with special consideration to birds of prey". Journal of Exotic Pet Medicine. 16 (2): 69. doi:10.1053/j.jepm.2007.03.012. Linnaeus, Carl (1758). Systema Naturae per regna tria naturae, secundum classes, ordines, genera, species, cum characteribus, differentiis, synonymis, locis (in Latin). Vol. 1 (10th ed.). Holmiae (Stockholm): Laurentii Salvii. p. 145. Jobling, James A (2010). The Helm Dictionary of Scientific Bird Names. London: Christopher Helm. p. 351. ISBN 978-1-4081-2501-4. Peters, James Lee, ed. (1934). Check-List of Birds of the World. Vol. 2. Cambridge, Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. p. 278. Amazing Bird Records. Trails.com (2010-07-27). Retrieved on 2013-04-03. Sepik, G. F. and E. L. Derleth (1993). Habitat use, home range size, and patterns of moves of the American Woodcock in Maine. in Proc. Eighth Woodcock Symp. (Longcore, J. R. and G. F. Sepik, eds.) Biol. Rep. 16, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, Washington, D.C. Ohio Ornithological Society (2004). Annotated Ohio state checklist Archived 2004-07-18 at the Wayback Machine. O'Brien, Michael; Crossley, Richard & Karlson, Kevin (2006). The Shorebird Guide. Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, pp. 444–445, ISBN 0618432949. Mann, Clive F. (1991). "Sunda Frogmouth Batrachostomus cornutus carrying its young" (PDF). Forktail. 6: 77–78. Archived from the original (PDF) on August 28, 2008. Wasser, D. E.; Sherman, P. W. (2010). "Avian longevities and their interpretation under evolutionary theories of senescence". Journal of Zoology. 280 (2): 103. doi:10.1111/j.1469-7998.2009.00671.x. Bent, A. C. (1927). "Life histories of familiar North American birds: American Woodcock, Scalopax minor". United States National Museum Bulletin. Smithsonian Institution. 142 (1): 61–78. "American Woodcock". Audubon. National Audubon Society. Retrieved October 5, 2023. Heinrich, Bernd (March 1, 2016). "Note on the Woodcock Rocking Display". Northeastern Naturalist. 23 (1): N4–N7. Alcock, John (2013). Animal behavior: an evolutionary approach (10th ed.). Sunderland (Mass.): Sinauer. p. 522. ISBN 0878939660. Henninger, W. F. (1906). "A preliminary list of the birds of Seneca County, Ohio" (PDF). Wilson Bulletin. 18 (2): 47–60. the Woodcock Management Plan. Timberdoodle.org. Retrieved on 2013-04-03. [1]Paul Y. Burns (June 13, 2008). "Leslie L. Glasgow". lsuagcdenter.com. Retrieved October 21, 2014.

Further readingChoiniere, Joe (2006). Seasons of the Woodcock: The secret life of a woodland shorebird. Sanctuary 45(4): 3–5. Sepik, Greg F.; Owen, Roy & Coulter, Malcolm (1981). A Landowner's Guide to Woodcock Management in the Northeast, Misc. Report 253, Maine Agricultural Experiment Station, University of Maine.

External linksAmerican woodcock species account – Cornell Lab of Ornithology American Woodcock – Scolopax minor – USGS Patuxent Bird Identification Infocenter American Woodcock Bird Sound Rite of Spring – Illustrated account of the phenomenal courtship flight of the male American woodcock American Woodcock videos[permanent dead link] on the Internet Bird Collection Photo-High Res; Article – www.fws.gov–"Moosehorn National Wildlife Refuge", photo gallery and analysis American Woodcock Conservation Plan A Summary of and Recommendations for Woodcock Conservation in North America Timberdoodle.org: the Woodcock Management Plan Sepik, Greg F.; Ray B. Owen Jr.; Malcolm W. Coulter (July 1981). "Landowner's Guide to Woodcock Management in the Northeast". Maine Agricultural Experiment Station Miscellaneous Report 253. vte

Sandpipers (family: Scolopacidae) Taxon identifiers Wikidata: Q694319 Wikispecies: Scolopax minor ABA: amewoo ADW: Scolopax_minor ARKive: scolopax-minor Avibase: F4829920F1710E56 BirdLife: 22693072 BOLD: 10164 CoL: 6XXHP BOW: amewoo eBird: amewoo EoL: 45509171 Euring: 5310 FEIS: scmi Fossilworks: 129789 GBIF: 2481695 GNAB: american-woodcock iNaturalist: 3936 IRMNG: 10836458 ITIS: 176580 IUCN: 22693072 NatureServe: 2.105226 NCBI: 56299 ODNR: american-woodcock WoRMS: 159027 Xeno-canto: Scolopax-minor

Categories:IUCN Red List least concern speciesScolopaxNative birds of the Eastern United StatesNative birds of Eastern CanadaBirds of MexicoBirds described in 1789Taxa named by Johann Friedrich Gmelin

Migration

The maximum lifespan of adult American woodcock in the wild is 8 years.[19] Rocking behavior American woodcocks sometimes rock back and forth as they walk, perhaps to aid their search for worms.

Migration

The maximum lifespan of adult American woodcock in the wild is 8 years.[19] Rocking behavior American woodcocks sometimes rock back and forth as they walk, perhaps to aid their search for worms.

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