#manhattan tailor | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

stevenose · 9 months

Text

☾₊ ⊹ reaching for the moon (18+)

pairing: steve x fem!reader with afab anatomy

contains: smut and a dumb amount of world building that was not necessary for this. set in 30s nyc, no hawkins. old money!steve; husband!steve; art historian!steve; not rich whatsoever!reader; they’re married your honor; steve’s parents (they’re the worst <3); slut shaming; allusions to bisexual steve; brief homophobia; soft!steve!!! he’s so damn soft!!!!; period typical everything lol

you might want to know: steve smokes and reader takes a drag; heated arguments which lead to some implied homophobia; reader wears an evening gown with a corset; car sex (info on said car here, for clarity sake)

author’s note: this is very heavily inspired by titanic 1997 (obviously) because it’s been rotting my brain. it’s very self indulgent but i’m hoping others like it!!

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

It’s always the same. A party, an invitation in the mail, embossed with gold foil. Steve fuming because they could have walked over instead of paying for postage, or called him on the telephone. Each time both of you thinking it’ll be different, each time leaving with Steve’s wounded ego or anger levels at an all time high. You don’t know why you torture yourselves other than the fact that his mother will make a tremendous deal out of it when you don’t show up. She’s not above telling guests gossip of your marriage when you’re not around, just so it can get back to you and hurt you again.

Your issue lies with both of them. Steve’s issue lies with his father. Old, rich, stupid. Too well-known for being a lawyer for companies that should be shuttered and closed for violations and accidents. A union buster. And Steve’s biggest critic.

He never wants to hear about Steve’s studies or projects. His mind appears to me hyper-focused on Steve’s shortfalls - no military experience, no investments, married to a poor girl he met at a bar in Manhattan. Steve is everything his father detests, and vice verse.

To his credit, Steve tries, even when he doesn’t want to. He talks to his mother first while she stares at you like you’re venomous. She’s good at reeling in her disappointment. Steve’s her only child and you figure she doesn’t want to lose that. His father, on the other hand, is closer to Steve’s cousins - successors of big oil, engineers, military men.

You smile at her while Steve tells her about his recent trip to Florence, about the chapels and art. You’re wearing her diamonds around her neck. You know she wants to strike them from you. You’d say you clean up well, wearing one of the tens of dresses Steve’s purchased for you, custom made and tailored. Satin and lace and silk, only the finest. His mother thinks she can still smell alcohol and cigarette smoke on you. She detests your miserable background, how unladylike and uneducated you are, that you’ve worked where women shouldn’t and have done things she’d consider unforgivable sin.

“They’d mix pigments with egg -“

“Egg?”

“Right, yes, they called it tempura. And the pigments - Jesus, should’ve been there to see Giotto’s blue, so rich and -“

“Are you talking about those paintings again?”

Steve tenses and turns to face his father. Your face falls slightly.

“I am.”

“How much was that trip, anyway?” his father presses. He gives you a wink as if you’re in on the joke. “Certainly more than your engagement ring?”

You clench your fist within its satin glove. The gold, Art Deco band digs into your ring finger. Steve’s jaw tenses.

“Not a penny more,” he says cooly. He adjusts his suit coat. His adams apple bobs under the stark white collar of his shirt. “Not that it’d matter, right?”

And Steve’s now doing your favorite thing, where he’ll pretend he actually agrees with his parent’s ridiculous world views until they pick up on the sarcasm. Your eyes meet and the corner of your mouth lifts slightly, but you’re back to being stone faced a moment later.

“Of course not!” his father bellows, hitting Steve on the shoulder like he’s a long time friend and not his son. He looks at you now. For reasons unexplained, his father likes you. Probably for some perverted reason, you figure. “And how’d you fare without him at home?”

“Probably enjoyed company downtown,” his mother says.

“I did.” You look at Steve again, speaking to him with a language only you two understand. It’s okay. “Don’t worry. I hardly had ten glasses of beer.”

His father laughs loudly again, making guests crane their necks to look. His mother narrows her eyes at you but smiles curtly.

“How wonderful.”

“And you’re all right with him going off overseas?” his father presses. “To go look at crumbling paintings and enjoy boat rides in that dirty canal?”

“Not any dirtier than the city, I’m sure,” you say, now taking Steve’s arm in yours. His jaw is set. “Besides, I like hearing about what he’s seen.”

“Pity he couldn’t take you with him,” his father continues. “Surely there’s a reason for that?”

You tighten your grip on Steve to remind him to not talk. “I’d be too distracting, don’t you think?”

“Certainly,” his mother says.

“Not as distracting as your friends’ headlines, though,” Steve says suddenly. “I heard about your latest union bust. How many fatalities did the factory have? Ten? How noble of you to save them from equity.”

You bite your cheek and squeeze his arm again. His father’s mouth twists like he’s tasted something sour.

“Steven,” his mother lulls, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. It’s the only thing you both have in common, trying to keep him cool and calm. It never works.

“And who’d you hear it from if not me?” His father’s tone has shifted. It feels suffocating in the small circle you stand in. “Oh, those dirty men you fraternize with.”

His father’s preoccupation with dirty things is ironic.

“Did they accompany you to Italy as well?” He looks at you now, eyes boring into yours. “Did you happen to see the Statue of David? I heard Michelangelo had an interest in the bodies of men.”

You can feel the heat radiating off of Steve, the implication making him see red.

“Ah, of course, yet another thing you’d rather refuse to understand than empathize with.”

“We should -“

“I’d love to talk to you about sexuality, actually, father. How many half-brothers do I have again?”

His mother looks like she might faint, but his father smirks. It’s as if he lives for arguments with his son. Loves seeing how far he can push him, for no other reason but to be a bastard. It might be the only time he’s ever fond of Steve.

“We’ll get going,” you say weakly, tugging Steve along, and he’s happy as long as he has the last word. “Always a pleasure.”

“You’d know much about pleasure and vices, wouldn’t you?”

It’s the first time John Harrington has ever made a verbal slight towards you. You pause, just barely, and continue moving, but Steve whips around, eyes wild. “I’m sorry?”

His voice is rigid and loud. Guests crane their necks again but this time, they keep staring. You and his mother both grit out “Steve,” but he strides towards his father. You fear he might actually strike him, so you lunge forward, putting your arm between them.

“Surely something we have in common, then, Mr. Harrington.” You glance up at Steve, his jaw clenching and unclenching, face red. “Good night.”

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☾ ◯ ☽₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

It’s cool outside. There are people on leisurely walks despite it nearly being so late. Steve’s still fuming beside you, toned arms flexing underneath his suit coat. He’s mumbling under his breath, then quickly whips around, heading back towards the door.

“I’m gonna-“

“Please,” you beg, grabbing onto his forearm. “Let’s leave it.”

“How?” he huffs. “How can I leave it? He was - he was - awful to you!”

“And he’s awful to you, too. What else is new?” You tug him, beckoning him with pleading eyes. “Follow me.”

He rolls his shoulders and tilts his head as he looks at you. He’s still fuming, nostrils flaring slightly, but all it takes is another little please? and he’s sighing, pulling out his cigarettes and a lighter as he follows you.

"The garage?” he asks, the white building coming into view. A billowing cloud of smoke follows. “What on earth do you want in there?”

You rip your gloves off and flex your fingers. “Indulge me.” You bump his hip with yours, trying to get him to smile.

Steve chuckles, easing up slightly, flicking the ash of his cigarette. "I don't know if committing vandalism is going to make me feel better this time."

“We aren’t vandalizing anything,” you promise. You reach for his hand and take a deep inhale of his tobacco. A needed stress reliever.

Steve seems a bit more giddy as you approach his father’s security detail. Steve’s known him since he was a boy. All he has to do is give a salute and a smile and you’re inside of the garage, door locked behind you, alone now with at least a dozen collectible cars and carriages.

"What do you have in mind, then?” he asks, leaning against the door. “Maybe we can use your heels to carve out some paint."

You step forward, taking the cigarette and throwing it on the ground before stomping it out with your shoe. You lean against him, hands pressed against his chest as you straighten his shirt. You’re looking at his neck as you speak. “Your father seems to think I’m somewhat of a whore.”

You don’t mean for him to get mad again, though it’s delicious when he is. “My father doesn’t have a clue -“

You interrupt, “So I reckon we make me one.”

His eyes widen, cheeks blooming red. "Oh?"

"Mmhm," you hum, and press your lips to his. He grabs you around the waist, fingers digging into your flesh, hidden by the satin and lace of your dress. Your lipstick smears as you move to the corner of his lips, then the stubble on his jaw, then up to the shell of his ear. "Pick a car and take me in it.”

“You - hold on,” he forces out, grip tight on you. “You aren’t a - a whore.” He says it like it’s scandalous, the worst word that could be uttered from his lips. It’s been thrown at him before, too. “You know that, right?”

You look up at him through your lashes. You can feel him starting to harden against your thigh. “Would it be such a bad thing if I was your whore?”

He swallows hard. “Do- do you want to be?”

You smile. “Pick a car before someone finds us.”

"Um." Steve forces his eyes open to look around. You begin unbuttoning his shirt while sucking a bruise into the delicate skin by his throat. He swallows hard. "Uh, the - the Renault.”

Your lips leave his neck so you can follow his gaze. You don’t know much about his father’s insane car collection, but you’ve always liked this one. Powder blue, gold accents. It’s like an upgraded horse and buggy, a large, enclosed carriage in the back with a bench for a driver at the front. It’s not very old, maybe twenty years, but it’s valuable and big and shiny and something his father prizes more than anything, including his own son.

“Plenty of leg room,” he explains sheepishly, and you smile, pulling him towards it. “Now, wait - wait - what’s the plan here?”

He’s so dense sometimes, but it’s because he wakes up everyday in disbelief that you’re laying next to him. The idea of undressing you and touching you seems so far fetched that many times he’s had to stop and think about it before engaging.

“The plan,” you say, swinging the door open and shoving him inside playfully, “is for you to have your way with me. And quickly, darling, we don’t have much time.”

Steve half-sits, half-lays down on the large bench, watching you as you duck inside and shut the door. He watches you with wide, adoring eyes as you climb on top of him, taking his hand gently. You pull it to your lips, kissing the pads of his fingers while he watches you intensely. When you look up at him, your stomach flips.

“My way with you,” he says evenly, “is to treat you like the angel you are.”

You smile and lay his hand gently on your chest. “Show me.”

His lips connect with yours softly. Despite the rush you’re both in, he still wants - needs - to take his time with you. He hikes your dress up as he kisses you, big hands caressing your thighs and ass. He sighs happily, pushing you down enough that you catch on the front of his dress pants, his cock pressing against your core. You gasp and giggle. “Excited?”

“As ever,” he promises.

You hold yourself up with a hand while the other struggles with the belt and buttons of his pants. He kisses down your neck, hot, open-mouthed. He latches on to a certain spot and you moan, breathing heavily into his hair.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, noticing your pause.

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes closing as he continues kissing along your exposed collarbone. You should be careful with your dress, taking it off and hanging it up, but Steve will just buy you another one. And another one. And another one. Anything your heart desires. Rich silk from Egypt, lace from Italy, hand embroidered and luscious against your skin. His life’s purpose seems to spoil you, as intended right now.

Steve finally frees himself, but you don’t have any time to stare. He’s quick to change places with you, laying you down on your back, pushing your dress and underskirt up. The material and color on your skin make him blush and growl lowly. The sliver of your corset that’s showing has him growing hard, too. They’re not always so comfortable for you, so you tend to wear them only on special occasions. And he’s keen on devouring you in only it after.

Neither of you are really expecting him to dive head-first between your legs, but you would never complain. His wet, warm tongue laves up your folds a few times before finally plunging in between them. You gasp and grab onto the seat, knuckles growing white. “Steve!” you cry, a hand curling into his hair, tugging on it.

“Worship you,” he mumbles into your skin, before forcing himself to pull back, chin slick. “I worship you.”

Your heart pounds. You’re at a loss. So lucky that you cannot possibly verbalize it.

Steve leans right back in, taking his sweet, non-existent time. “I- I hate to re-remind you, sweetheart,” you moan, fingers curling again, “but a-anyone could h-have! Have seen us com-coming in here.”

He hums, your back arching. He’s reluctant to pull away, but he finally does, coming back up to perch a knee on the seat below you. He’s quick to roll his sleeves up, muscled and toned forearms on view. Then he rubs his cock along your folds, both of you moaning. You tug at his shirt, now not so pristine, pulling him down to face you.

“Isn’t the idea to ruin the car?” he asks, smiling a little smug.

“Yes?”

“Then I’ve got to make a proper mess of you, don’t I?”

You burn. “You already have me melting.”

“Hmm. Let’s see what else I can do.”

When he pushes into you, it’s like the world stops. The only thing that matters is him above you. His hair tickling your forehead, eyes hazy and hooded, lip caught between his teeth. “Honey,” he groans, pulling a leg up over his hips to open you up, give him more access. His fingers dig into the fat of your thigh and he shivers at it. He always makes love like it’s the first time you’ve been together. Even during this quick romp, he’s taking his time, hearts in his eyes. “You’re incredible.”

“I love you,” you whisper, pressing your forehead to his. He slides in a little further. You wince and he kisses you gently, fingers moving towards your clit to take your mind off of it.

“I love you,” he mumbles. “So. God. Damn. Much.”

He’s sheathed fully in you now, both of you panting, sweating. The car’s windows are fogged. You can’t keep your lips off of each other as he sets his pace, languid and long, filling you up so completely it numbs your mind. Each thrust makes you gasp. His whines are low, but slowly become more high-pitched as he thrusts into you.

“Give yourself to me,” you whisper. “All of you.”

He would never deny you that.

Hips picking up, his thrusts get harsher. He’s chasing your high and his. Chasing away the thoughts of his father and his mother, of work, of anything except you. You, his angel, his promise that not all things in the world are so bad. Not when you’re with him. And certainly not when you’re writhing under him, your dress pulled taught over your tits, your lipstick smudged, mascara running.

Over and over and over, the thinks, The Divine is real. The Divine is real.

Your eyes catch as he’s pulled away to look at you. He’s soft, despite his thrusts. “I love you,” he groans. “God, I love you.”

“I love you,” you whisper, reaching for his face, cradling it. “My world.”

“My muse,” he moans, twitching within you, handsome face twisted in pleasure. His fingers work steadily on your clit and you reach up for your breasts, wishing desperately that you were wearing a nightgown instead. One that Steve likes, all pastel pink and blue, a ribbon of purple silk on the waist. It’s much less restricting and much more revealing. We can always continue at home, you think, your stomach tightening.

“You are….” you pant, eyes rolling back, leg tightening around his hips. “You are more th-than enough.”

His trusts slow. “As are you.”

“Sweet boy,” you laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips towards him. “Please keep going.”

“Oh!” he says, genuinely shocked, like he was truly so lost in your words that he forgot what he was doing. “S-sorry.”

“Just wa-want to show you how much I - how much I love you.”

“You show me,” he promises. “E-every. Day. And - and at these stupid p… oh, Christ - these parties.” His hips angle up towards your sweet spot and you’re gone, unable to hold back, brows marrying and face tightening in a lewd show of pleasure.

“Steve!” you moan, so loud you’re sure anyone walking by could hear. His hips move furiously and you have to reach up with your hand to steady yourself, making a handprint on the window. “Oh, my God!”

“Now it’s time to show you,” he groans, and his lips are back on yours. Half to consume you, overwhelmed with love and lust, and half to keep you quiet. You all but scream into his mouth, hand sliding off the window to clutch his shoulders while he works you into oblivion. “Close,” he chokes, a hand once again cradling your cheek. “With me now.”

You pant into each other as you cum, the car filled with sex and sweat and your crass noises. So unladylike, so perverse. You giggle mid-orgasm at the thought of his mother walking in on such a thing. A son raised as a level below royalty fucking his street-rat wife into a stupor, all in a thousand dollar car, would make her heart stop.

“What’s - so - funny?” Steve pants eventually, resting his head on your chest, his cock softening inside of you.

“Nothin’,” you promise, combing his hair with your fingers. “I love you.”

“Don’t leave me out,” he smiles.

You shake your head. “Tell you later. We should -“

“Uh-huh,” Steve says, pushing off of you and tucking himself back into his pants.

“You’re trembling,” you frown, reaching for him.

“I’m alright,” he promises, taking your hand and kissing it. “I’m happy.”

“So am I.”

He helps you fix yourself and slips your feet into your shoes for you, a kiss pressed into your knee. It turns into another, then another, and then his lips are creeping up your thigh.

“Stevie,” you whisper, the pet name making him blush. “Let’s finish at home.”

“Home,” he sighs dreamily. “Sounds wonderful.”

You’re proud of the stain left on the leather as you get up, your dress falling back down to your ankles. His father won’t check this car for weeks, if not months. You hope it’s fully ruined by then. But, for good measure, you let your heel scrape the paint on the way out.

#steve harrington smut #steve harrington x reader #steve x reader #ns/fw #stevenose posts

505 notes · View notes

visit-new-york · 6 months

Text

Does Brooklyn Bridge Park Have Any Family Friendly Amenities or Play Areas?

Brooklyn Bridge Park, nestled along the East River with stunning views of the Manhattan skyline and the iconic Brooklyn Bridge, is not only a picturesque destination for adults but also a haven for families seeking recreation and relaxation. As one of New York City's most beloved waterfront parks, it boasts an array of family-friendly amenities and play areas that make it a perfect spot for parents and children alike.

Playgrounds:

One of the standout features of Brooklyn Bridge Park is its well-designed and diverse playgrounds. The park offers several playgrounds tailored to different age groups, ensuring that children of all ages have a safe and enjoyable place to play. The Main Street Playground, for instance, is equipped with state-of-the-art play structures, swings, and climbing equipment that cater to both toddlers and older kids. The imaginative designs and incorporation of natural elements make these play areas not only entertaining but also stimulating for young minds.

Water Features:

For those hot summer days, Brooklyn Bridge Park provides refreshing water features that are perfect for family fun. The Water Lab, located at Pier 6, offers a dynamic water play space with various jets, sprinklers, and fountains. Children can splash around, cool off, and engage in water play, creating a delightful and memorable experience for families visiting the park. It's important to note that the Water Lab typically operates seasonally, so visitors should check the park's schedule for availability.

Sports Facilities:

Families who enjoy sports will find Brooklyn Bridge Park to be a fantastic destination. With multiple sports fields, including soccer, basketball, and volleyball courts, there are ample opportunities for friendly matches and sports activities. These facilities cater to a range of age groups and skill levels, encouraging families to engage in physical activities together.

Picnic Areas and Food Options:

Creating a perfect family day out involves more than just play areas. Brooklyn Bridge Park provides numerous designated picnic areas equipped with tables and benches, allowing families to bring their own meals or purchase food from nearby vendors. The park also hosts a variety of food concessions, ensuring that families have convenient access to refreshments while enjoying the scenic surroundings.

Events and Programming:

Brooklyn Bridge Park regularly hosts family-friendly events and programming throughout the year. From outdoor movie nights to concerts and educational workshops, there's always something exciting happening in the park. Families can check the park's official website or event calendar to stay informed about upcoming activities suitable for all ages.

Conclusion:

Brooklyn Bridge Park stands out as a premier destination for families in New York City, offering a wealth of family-friendly amenities and play areas. From thoughtfully designed playgrounds to water features, sports facilities, and engaging events, the park provides an ideal setting for families to bond, play, and create lasting memories against the backdrop of the city's skyline and the iconic Brooklyn Bridge. Whether you're a local resident or a visitor, Brooklyn Bridge Park is a must-visit destination for families seeking a delightful and enriching experience.

258 notes · View notes

rosewaterandivy · 7 days

Text

Summary: it’s always the best laid plans of mice and men, isn’t it?

Pairing: s.h. x f!oc

W.C.: 5.4K

Warnings: gilded age!au, miscommunication, a comedy of errors/manners, society snobs, a masquerade ball mishap, arranged marriage, steve ‘down bad’ harrington, and a reader/mc who doesn’t have time for this shit - she was educated abroad, she went to Vassar with Miss Nancy Wheeler, okay?!, back on my iliad bullshit (i know, i know)

playlist | m.list

I. Coup de foudre

It’s a dreary December evening in Manhattan. The streets are damp and slick accompanied by the cacophony of hooves, equipages and carriages trundling down the way. Somber topcoats and fur-trimmed capes hide the tailored waistcoats of the men and ornate skirts of the ladies, as is to be expected with the current onslaught of weather.

Small white flurries of snow that are sure to bring a swift end to laborious dinners and engagements at the club. And the man in the sleek black equipage himself is all too relieved about it— at least he would be released from the obligation of hearing his father’s friends complain about these upstart robber barons descending like a horde of locusts on Fifth Avenue.

A quiet night in his study would be a welcome distraction.

That is, if they can ever get home in this weather.

He can hear the whinny of the horses from up front and the soothing tones of the driver. The streets are probably close to icing over at this hour, making it difficult to find traction.

Suddenly, the equipage swings quickly to the side and careens into something with a loud thud, sending its sole occupant straight into the door with a smack. He hisses lowly at the twinge in his forehead as the driver descends with a flurry of apologies.

He opens the door himself and steps outside before the driver can assist him. The white puffs of his breath speak to how quickly the weather had turned. He draws his coat closer and approaches the two drivers as they attempt to settle the horses.

“Gentlemen,” He greets, “What seems to be the problem?”

“Noting to worry about Mr. Harrington,” His man, Andrew, assures him, “The ice just snuck up on us is all.”

He nods taking in the damage, dents and scuffs on both vehicles but the horses appear to be fine. Reaching into his coat pocket, he brings out a small notebook and a pencil to scribble his information down for the other driver. Is about to tell the man to bill him directly when someone steps out from the carriage opposite.

The footsteps themselves are delicate and tentative. He tears his gaze from the driver’s, glancing back only to find a young woman emerging from the carriage. She’s holding her skirts in one gloved hand, shivering in the cold.

“Is everything all right Jesse?”

Her voice is like music to his ears, melodic almost. And she looks like something stolen from a painting— bright and alluring.

The winter light is quickly fading, and the lamplighters were sure taking their time this evening. Her cape is dark, like his coat, but the split at the front reveals a purple skirt trimmed in demure black lace, signifying an exit from her period of mourning.

Her man, Jesse, shepherds her back toward the coach, “Let’s get you back inside Miss, don’t want you to catch a chill.”

“Of course,” She says with a shake of her head, “How silly of me.”

And before Steve can embarrass himself in an attempt to introduce himself, she’s safely ensconced back in the carriage. Her driver returns and takes the paper from Steve, tucking it into his coat.

“Apologies gentlemen, but I must be on my way.” He pulls himself back onto the driver’s box, “Have to get the young Miss home to her brother’s, you understand.”

He tips his hat, and with a tug of the reins he’s gone.

Steve finds himself standing right where she left him, feet riveted to the very spot where she once stood. He must have taken a step toward her at some point, like an utter madman, probably startled the poor girl half to death.

Despite their disastrous non-meeting, he can’t seem to shake her from his mind. As if everything had been in black and white until she stepped down from the carriage and breathed color into his world, spring bursting forth at the sound of her voice. It sounds positively insane, even to himself, but if Robin were here, she’d understand.

Hell, she’d probably have a word for it too.

Something French, inevitably.

“Mr. Harrington,” Andrew says, a hand tentatively resting on his shoulder, “Is something wrong?”

Steve blinks; a feeble attempt to clear his mind from thoughts of the mystery woman.

Andrew refrains from rolling his eyes, “Right sir, let’s get you home then.”

The journey back to the Harrington family manse was uneventful. The familiar brownstone facade came into view as Andrew swung the equipage onto the street outside the house. Luckily, the home was large enough that his late arrival wouldn’t be noticed.

He thanks Andrew and watches as he takes off with the horses for the carriage house a few blocks away. Stepping into the house, he makes quickly for his study slipping through the door just as one of the maids turns down the corridor.

Steve shucks his coat onto a nearby chair and tugs off his cravat with one hand, the other pouring a healthy portion of bourbon into a highball glass. He downs the amber liquid too quickly, the burn welcome against his throat.

After pouring another glass to sip from, he settles into a heap on a club chair by the window. Resting his jaw on a hand, he faces the glass panes, eyes trailing the flurries of snow outside, unsettled by the quiet of the street. His mind won’t stop racing, vacillating between kicking himself for not getting her name and hoping he’d run into her again, albeit this time under better circumstances.

Little did he know, that several blocks away a man was questioning poor Jesse about his whereabouts when a slip of paper was placed into his hand. He scans it quickly, face paling at the name scrawled there: Steven Harrington.

“How could you let this happen Jesse, really? The accident, I understand, but allowing my sister out of the carriage unaccompanied?”

“Sir, I had no—”

“I’ll not hear your excuses.” Christopher Fairchild balls his hand into a fist, the paper crumpling in his grasp. “You said he saw her, Harrington, that is?”

“Unfortunately,” Jesse admits, “I intervened as best I could and got her back into the coach. He seemed rather transfixed by her.”

His employer grunts, “Yes well, that is unfortunate. What if someone had seen her with that man, no chaperone in sight?” He turns to the sideboard and pours himself a drink, says with a scoff, “Not even out to society and potentially scandal-ridden.”

At this point, his wife, Marian, chooses to enter, having seen the young lady to her rooms and getting her settled for the evening. She places a tentative hand on his shoulder while Jesse trains his gaze to the floor.

“Darling,” She soothes, “Your sister is asleep as is the baby, don’t get yourself into a fit at this hour.”

He sighs as her palm moves in slow circles against his back and takes deep breaths. “Of course dear,” He sips from his drink and turns to her. “I just worry about her. All the work you’ve put into her debut and planning the ball.” Christopher places a kiss on the back of her hand, causing her to blush. “I don’t want it to be all for naught.”

She sighs prettily.

“It won’t be,” Marian advises, “You’ll write to the Harringtons tomorrow and we’ll get this matter settled. And there won’t be a speck on your dear sister’s reputation, I’ll see to that.”

But, oh dear reader, where would be the fun in that?

As we all know, the New York winter season is winding down rapidly, and do we not deserve something to keep us warm over the holiday? I would say so!

So, in honor of her long-awaited arrival, let us give a hearty New York welcome to Miss Eleanor Fairchild! Fresh from the society of Paris and a graduate of Vassar along with Miss Nancy Wheeler, her debut this week is the talk of the town.

Despite her indecorous brush with Mr. Steven Harrington, I am sure she will not have a shortage of suitors after the ball this weekend.

But the question remains, my loyal readers, of who will take a shine to Miss Fairchild and step out from the long shadow cast by the Harrington name?

Only time, and this weekly missive, will tell.

Morning in New York was startling and nothing like waking in Paris.

House maids, lady’s maids, and valets moving up and down the stairs, knocking on doors to air out the linens and draw the curtains aside to let the murky winter sun stream through. There was, of course, the soft babbling from the nursery as Gus woke from his repose, the nursemaid and his mother close at hand.

A sharp knock sounded from the door just as you drew the bedclothes closer to you, content to roll over and sleep through the gray morning.

“Bonjour mademoiselle, vous permettez?”

“Oui!” You say, curious at the chipper voice now opening the door, “Sorry, yes, you may enter.”

“Merci, mademoiselle.”

The girl, your new lady’s maid, softly shuts the door and turns to regard the room.

It’s certainly larger than what you’d grown accustomed to in France. But then again, most everything was in New York, especially so since you hadn’t returned to the city in well nigh on a year or more.

The room itself is well-appointed and elegant, Marian saw to that; soft colors and fabrics, diaphanous and frothy, a subtle nod to Versailles no doubt. You hadn’t had much time or energy to give it a glance last night, more inclined to have a late dinner, divest yourself of traveling clothes, and pass out as soon as possible.

The lady’s maid continues her silent assessment as another knock sounds from the door. She steps to open it and let in the housemaid.

“Good morning Miss,” She greets with a smile, her voice rounded with a warm Irish lilt. “I ‘spect you’ll be needin’ a fire this morning.”

You nod just now noticing the chill in the air. She busies herself with the kindling and sweeping ashes from the fireplace. The maids exchange a few soft words before she steps out to get the firewood from the Useful Man down the hall.

“Apologies,” You say by way of greeting, “But I don’t believe I got your name?”

“Oh, pardonne-moi,” the lady’s maid curtsies briefly, “Je m’appelle Marie.”

“Marie,” You repeat, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Moi aussi, mademoiselle.”

And from there, the ritual of dressing began. The house maid, Louisa, lit the fire and spirited you out of bed to air out the linens. At Marie’s suggestion, she also tackled unpacking the various trunks placed near the dresser and closet.

“These are fine frills Miss,” She smiled, her fingers delicately folding chemises and hanging skirts or dresses. “The Missus said your debut gown came all the way from Mr. Worth’s shop in Paris, is that true?”

A soft sigh escaped you at the memory, ivory chiffon and silk revealing the décolleté and arms, gauze and tulle providing a tempting illusion of bared skin. A full skirt with bustle that would skim the floor accompanied by a small train. With gloves and a fan to match, of course.

“Indeed, it is,” You allowed with a cheeky wink, “But I think Marie would have my head if I touched it before Friday.”

Marie, for her part, merely smirked and continued her preparations for your bath.

Across a few city blocks, a footman knocks on the imposing doors of the Harrington manse. The family butler, Campbell, just happens to be descending the stairs and takes it upon himself to open the door.

“Good morning sir,” The footman says with a bow, “Mr. Fairchild bid me to deliver this.” He hands over an envelope addressed to Mr. Samuel Harrington.

“Yes, well,” Campbell sighs, opening the door to let the footman in. “I’ll get this to him. If you hurry, Cook can scrounge up some coffee and a pastry for you. Just take the servant’s hall to the right.”

“Much obliged,” The footman says with a bow as Campbell starts up the stairs.

The handwriting on the envelope is neat, if a bit cramped. Must be the young Mr. Fairchild then, rather than his wife sending the correspondence.

Mr. Harrington’s study door is cracked open, the sound of papers shuffling to and fro on his desk as the butler enters. He briefly glances up to find Campbell, “Happen to know where I put those contracts, Campbell?”

“Perhaps the drawer on the left, sir.”

Mr. Harrington pulls the drawer open, “Right you are, good man.” And thereby loses himself to perusing the documents and thus ignoring Campbell.

“A letter has arrived for you sir,” He says stepping closer to the desk, “From Mr. Fairchild, it seems rather urgent. I have his footman waiting for your reply.”

“Hmm, well let’s have it then.”

He takes the letter from the butler’s hand and slips the blade of the letter opener under the paper. Retrieving the missive, he scans through it quickly, lips pulling down in distaste.

“See to it that Mrs. Harrington gets this,” He instructs, pulling out a new sheaf of paper and beginning his correspondence. “If she wishes to see my reply, she best be quick about it.”

The letter itself detailed the unfortunate meeting between Mr. Fairchild’s sister and Mr. Harrington’s only son. The man was understandably concerned about how it would seem should someone have happened upon them sans chaperone, as the young lady had yet to make her debut into society.

Mr. Harrington’s reply was cordial in an attempt to smooth things over— the Fairchilds, like the Harrington’s were of good stock, two families of the New York Four Hundred deemed to be unblemished and acceptable company by none other than the Grande Dame herself, Mrs. Astor. It wouldn’t be fitting for reputations to be sullied as the result of a simple misunderstanding.

As expected, Samuel’s wife, Amelia, swanned into the study seemingly in the midst of her morning toilette. Her hair was up, but she still wore her housecoat as her day dress had yet to be put on by her lady’s maid. Mr. Fairchild’s letter waved about in one hand, while the other pressed upon her chest as if to stop her racing heart.

“That boy of yours is going to give me heart failure.”

Samuel signs the letter with a flourish and lays his pen to the side.

“Oh, so he’s only my boy when he acts indiscreetly with the fairer sex, but he’s your son when he’s winning accolades at Harvard and breaking hearts abroad, is that it?”

She tuts and sits demurely on the divan, “Well, yes. Precisely that Sam.” She fans herself with the letter as her husband leans against his desk. “The social set have already written him off as a lost cause and we can ill afford a whisper of a scandal, especially now.”

Sam passes the reply to his wife and pauses, as if to choose his words carefully.

“Still moving forward with your plans to find Steven a wife then?”

“Of course, dear,” She answers brusquely, “There are many suitable ladies this season of decent breeding and passable looks.” She glances up and passes the letter back to him. “Your response is sufficient, send it off with the footman.”

Amelia rises from the divan and turns to leave. “Wake Steven and have a talk with him will you? I’ll send Maude out to the florist, he should write a note of apology for her to send along.”

“As you wish, dear.”

Amelia leaves just as abruptly as she appeared. Samuel sighs and furrows his brow, the inklings of a headache coming on. He taps his fingers against the desk and checks the time.

“Campbell,” He calls into the hall, “Have Calvin wake Steven and tell him to see my in the study.”

“Of course, sir.”

He takes a seat and settles himself behind the desk once more.

“And have Cook send something up? Coffee and breakfast for two.”

Awaiting the arrival of his son, Samuel Harrington turns and faces the bay of windows that look out onto the street below. He watches as Fairchild’s footman hops on the back of the coach and slides from his view. He contemplates his son’s options, admittedly there are few.

Such are the advantages and disadvantages in marrying a woman who’s as sly as a fox. It’s just a matter of out-maneuvering her; an entertaining and seemingly endless chess match that’s lasted even longer than their marriage.

But the silver lining in all this, he supposes, is that Steven Harrington, their sole child and heir, just so happens to take after his father in this respect, in that he’s crazy like a fox.

Funny how things work out, isn’t it?

As for the young Mr. Harrington, well, suffice it to say he had quite the morning. The newly arrived Miss Fairchild, however, had a luxurious start to her day (that is, if one discounts the pulling and pinning of hair, the tugging on of stockings and tightening of corset laces).

You joined your brother and sister-in-law in the dining room while another maid fixed a plate of breakfast for you; Pierce, the butler, stepped in to pour the coffee. You thanked them both and broke your fast, listening as Christopher and Marian discussed the events of the day.

“I’ll need to see to the accounts today,” Your brother said, turning his newspaper with a shake. “Everything should be in order before the ball this weekend.”

Marian nodded and sipped from her coffee cup. “I have some calls to make today, and thought Nell could accompany me.”

Christopher slowly lowers his newspaper and glances your way— don't feel obligated to do this, you haven’t been properly introduced into society yet.

Buying time, you take a bite from the flaky croissant on your plate and ruminate. In a way, both Chris and Marian are correct; you aren’t obligated to escort Mrs. Fairchild, nor would it be wise to turn down an informal introduction to those in Marian’s circle. She would, after all, be serving as your chaperone, and, along with your brother, introducing you to Manhattan high society on Friday at the ball.

Your debutante ball, to be precise.

At the time, Vassar was a welcome distraction and reprieve for being paraded around like a prize calf at auction. But then came the unfortunate illness and demise of your parents, followed by a year of mourning.

It would seem that your time of delay had finally come to its end.

After all, no one wanted a spinster for a bride.

Dabbing at the corners of your mouth with a napkin, you clear your throat and brace yourself.

“That sounds lovely, Marian. I’d be happy to escort you today.”

She smiles and makes to reply, but before she can open her mouth to do so, a knock sounds from the front door. Puzzled, the three of you glance at one another, clearly not expecting a caller at such an early hour.

Pierce nods to someone by the door, bidding him to open it. He quickly returns with a beautiful arrangement of flowers, only to set them to your right and hand you a card. Baffled, you take in the spray of purple orchids, white tulips, lemon geraniums, the sprigs of rosemary, and tucked away behind the hearty green stalks, the shy blooms of forget-me-nots.

Respect, sincerity, an unexpected meeting, remembrance, and affection.

“Well,” Marian prompts from across the table, “Who are they from?”

It’s only then that you recall the card in your outstretched hand. Slipping from your reverie, you thumb open the small envelope.

Miss Fairchild—

Please accept my sincere apologies for our run-in yesterday evening. I hope it did not startle you. I’ve liaised with your brother about the repairs, and in the meantime will give you use of my equipage and pray it will suffice. I also hope that you’ll enjoy the flowers and please know that they relay my deepest and most sincere sentiments.

Cordially yours,

Steven Harrington

P.S. Je vous prie d’accepter mes sincères regrets et ma sympathie à l’occasion du décès de votre proches.

For the remainder of the week, Steve was a bundle of nerves. He’d written the note as his mother asked and even went so far as to accompany her to the florist, managing to slip in a few blooms that complemented the arrangement nicely. And if his mother didn’t happen to notice the errant sprigs of blue or the lingering scent of rosemary, then so much the better.

What he didn’t anticipate was the lack of a response.

“It isn’t done,” Miss Robin Buckley reminded him on their promenade in Central Park. “Until she is out to society, her brother is no doubt keeping her under lock and key.”

“You could provide the introduction,” He points out petulantly. “You’re choosing not to in order to entertain yourself with my suffering.”

“You cad,” She swats at him with her fan. “And no, I cannot. There’s a reason I fled to France after my disastrous debut, as you well know.”

And thus, Steve resigned himself to pining for a woman who barely knew of his existence, while the eligible bachelors of New York bided their time until her debut at the ball.

“For what it’s worth,” Robin says carefully as they round a bend, “There have been many deliveries to the Fairchild House, but yours was the first.”

He warms at the thought.

“That has to count for something, I suppose.”

She grins, “It will.”

They continue to walk, grateful for the brief break in the weather and discuss the evening’s festivities: who will wear what, how many dances until Robin steps on someone’s toes, how ostentatious the new money Vanderbilts will be.

They exit the park, parting ways as their carriages await. Robin catches a curious expression on her friend’s face, both dreamy and apprehensive. She lays a gloved hand on his arm.

“À cœur vaillant rien d'impossible.”

Steve glances down and says with a playful smirk, “Qui vivra verra.”

On Friday afternoon, Marian and Marie carefully assess your gown while Louisa dashes to and fro with the pearls, no the diamonds.

“Sapphires? No, that would ruin the effect.” Marian muses and Marie agrees.

You, by the by, are seated on the bed in a chemise and loosened corset, bored stiff, as the two hem and haw over how to best display you for the ball.

Because that’s all this is really, an overblown dog and pony show in which you’ll be paraded around and shown off to great effect all to attract suitors. It was enough to make one queasy. God forbid a woman do anything on her own or without the approval of a man.

As if men ever did anything worth doing that a woman didn’t have to make right.

Having quite enough of their chatter, you shrug into a robe and pull its sash tight, toe on some slippers and make your way down the hall. At the end of the corridor, you spy the cracked door to Christopher’s study. He’s shuffling papers and muttering to himself as you slip inside.

“I think the accounts can handle themselves for the evening,” you say with a smirk, settling yourself on a chair by the window.

He chuckles, “I suppose you’re right, clever girl.” Sorting the papers into a single file, he looks up at you with a quirked brow. “Had enough of Marian’s prodding, I take it?”

You sigh and dramatically cast your head back, “That’s the worst of it— they haven’t even begun!” Warming at his familiar laughter, you continue: “If I’d known that this is what I’d be subjected to, I would’ve stayed in France.”

Chris studies you at that; your weary sigh, crossed arms, and face a mask. Can’t make heads or tails of if you’re serious or not. Is it too soon? Did you still need time to mourn Maman and Papa? But then your debut had been delayed so much already…

“Is that what you want?”

It’s a question you hadn’t expected from him. But suddenly you’re reminded that he’s your brother, the only family you have left in the world. The man who dropped everything and took the first ship bound for France to be with you at your parents’ deathbed. He had insisted you stay at the house in Paris until you’d recovered your own strength and sent Marian and Gus to keep you company while he saw to business at home.

And knowing him as well as you do, Chris wouldn’t ask something idly.

So you choose your next words carefully.

“I no longer trouble myself with wants.”

The lightest dusting of snow begins to gather on the windowpane. Soon enough, all of the city would look like a snow globe. A perfect winter wonderland for the evening’s festivities, and your favorite kind of weather— snow makes everything look softer somehow, muffles the sound, and blankets the world in swaths of pure white. Your mother adored snow, had somehow convinced you and Chris that she could smell when it was about to begin. And maybe that’s why you’ve taken a shine to it now.

Turning from the window with a small smile, you rise to exit the study and get ready for the night. Leaving your elder brother puzzling over your parting phrase.

Steve could hardly forget your first meeting, but seeing you that evening nearly eclipsed the recollection. Without a cape and no longer in the purples and grays of half-mourning, you were quite a sight to behold.

And he wasn’t the only one who thought so.

Several men from the club, Hargrove, Hagan, and Byers, were scattered around the room sizing up the competition just as he was. Somehow, Edward Munson had been granted an invitation— with his railroad money and lack of pedigree. Regardless of social standing, each eligible bachelor in the room was jockeying for position; who would be the first introduction, the first dance, did her eyes fall on him or the man to his left?

Steve was well-versed in this routine, he’d been to enough debutante balls to last a veritable lifetime. Usually, he’d enter and make the necessary greetings before grabbing a refreshment and picking a wall to lean on because god help him if he was going to actually dance more than the bare minimum required.

But in this instance, things were different.

Namely, that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about you since that fateful night. Despite the lack of interest from you (which was to be expected, really), he couldn’t help but think of you fondly. Descending from your coach to check on your driver and the horses, shivering in the evening chill, voice soft and sleep-worn.

There was also the fact that his mother was hovering somewhere behind him. She’d oh so fortunately seen Mrs. Fairchild as she was making her social calls earlier in the week and had received an informal introduction to you. She’d said as much at dinner that day and ever since then, she’d been subtly laying the groundwork for a possible courtship.

And as much as Steve did not want to bow to his mother’s machinations, he also desperately wanted an introduction with you. So he sips his drink and observes the goings on around him his attention turning to the grand staircase as someone announces:

“Presenting Miss Eleanor Joséphine Fairchild, escorted by her brother Mr. Christopher Fairchild.”

The symphony starts up as you descend the stairs to polite applause on the arm of your brother, eyes demure and downcast, your subtly rouged lips pulling into a soft smile. And Steve can hardly breathe— it’s as if the world slowed and went fuzzy at the edges, everything and everyone falling by the wayside save for you.

Because you are positively incandescent; beautifully angelic in your finery and reminiscent of Venus emerging from her shell. He feels as if he’s been struck, a warmth radiating in his chest, and wouldn’t be surprised to find one of Cupid’s golden arrows lodged there. And Steve knows a little of desire, of wanton lust; he is, after all, a man of privilege in a world that caters to his whims. But while this feels reminiscent of that— the heat, the wanting— there is also, oddly, restraint.

All eyes are on you as your brother leads you across the floor, smiling politely at those assembled, eyes never staying on one person for too long. You’re playing nice, presenting an unimpeachable image of the demure lady, it wouldn’t be done to favor one gentleman this evening. In fact, it would send the wrong message entirely.

Everyone present knows this; it is a game often played in polite society, even if its ramifications are— how shall we say it?— best left behind closed doors.

“A lamb and her shepherd,” His mother says, voice pitched low for only him to hear. “Bo-Peep will soon abandon his charge, and that, Steven, is when you will make your introduction.”

It’s all he can do to school his features and recede into himself; eyes glassy and blank, face a mask. Polite and charming, affable even. And while his mother thinks she is being helpful, it’s hard not to believe she isn’t pouring poison in his ear. Half expects her to say something akin to, “Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't.”

She doesn’t, and for that he is grateful. Instead, she melts away into the background and loops her arm through his father’s. And, sure enough, your brother does eventually leave your side only to be replaced by Mrs. Fairchild, who slips your wrist through a dainty loop of cream ribbon with a dance card and a small pencil attached.

The room stills, a pack of wolves lying in wait. Drinks are set aside, conversations cease; Amelia gives her son an unceremonious push forward, her gloved hand on his shoulder tipping him toward the inevitable. Steve nearly stumbles from the shock of it all.

Because in one moment he’s just another man in the crowd, an eligible bachelor at yet another ball prepared to drink the night away. And in the next, his eyes lock with yours, and he feels himself falling. It’s hopeless to fight it, this gravitational pull you seem to have over him; haven’t exchanged even two words, and he’s already in your thrall.

He can see your chest rise with your sharp intake of breath, eyes widening at his approach. Steve’s trying not to spook you, really he is. He thinks back to his favored horse, Balius, the clomping hooves and fierce breaths, tries to calm you in the same manner— a slow approach, a small smile, and soft words.

And while he would never bow to the stubborn dappled stallion, Steve does bow to you and says, “Steven Harrington, a pleasure to meet you officially Miss Fairchild.”

Your eyes light in recognition, of his name or him he cannot tell. But you curtsy all the same and offer him your hand, as etiquette dictates. He takes it gladly, marvelling at the fine fabric of gloves adorning it. His finger finds the racing pulse on the underside of your wrist, running along it slowly.

Another sharp intake of breath at the sensation, a heat skittering underneath your skin as his fingers loop around your wrist, your pulse thudding in their wake.

He opens the booklet and takes his time writing his name, well aware at the gathering of eligible suitors at his back. He’s loathe to release your hand and leave you to all of this, the wolves at the gate, but as much as he wants to whisk you away from what is sure to be an uncomfortable and tiring evening, Steve is required, as is everyone else, to play the game.

And Steven Harrington is playing to win.

Mr. Harrington—

It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance this past Friday, and thank you for your presence. I do hope the evening passed pleasantly for you and my apologies for not seeing to you more frequently, but other obligations, as you well know, prohibited me from seeking your company. Furthermore, I must apologize for being remiss in not offering my sincerest gratitude for the lovely flowers and the gracious use of your equipage. You are truly a generous man, and I am grateful for your friendship.

Cordially yours,

Miss Fairchild

P.S. Merci pour le sauvetage de Monsieur C—. Je n'avais aucune idée sur sa relation avec Mademoiselle C—. J’espère que vote intercession ne reflétera pas mal sur vous. Je vous suis redevable.

Steve’s postscript: Please accept my sincerest and deepest condolences on the passing of your parents.

Nell’s postscript: Thank you for the rescue from Mr. C—. I had no idea about his relationship with Miss C—. I hope your intercession will not reflect poorly on you. I am in your debt.

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #fic: cf & dd

75 notes · View notes

kowloon-hong-kong-tailor · 4 months

Text

#hong kong manhattan tailor #manhattan tailor #tailoring #tailor #suits #shirts #clothes #accessories #shirt design #trousers #hong kong tailor

0 notes

nkjemisin · 8 months

Note

You should try to go see public works Tempest in central park, it’s really incredible and reminded me of the city we became. It’s super insane and beautiful and wild and hard to describe, so even though it’s insane to ask someone to go stand in line all day to see a play based off a random tumblr message I really think you should!

Oooh, I haven't done the line for Shakespeare in the Park in years. Not sure I still have it in me, since it requires getting up at 3 or 4 am and spending hours fighting line-jumpers and so on. But I've been hearing good things about this year's Tempest so maybe I'll muster up the energy. Thanks for the recommendation!

Since you reminded me of it, here's a deleted scene/alternate opening I once wrote for THE WORLD WE MAKE. I decided on a different opening for the final version, obvs, but maybe you'll enjoy what might have been. Cutting because long.

He's just a man standing on a rooftop. The outfit he's wearing is bespoke, by a Harlem tailor who came in second on Project Runway's last season. The jacket is rich brown suede, fine-stitched, over olive-tan pants and a piqué shirt of deepest royal indigo, and he's wearing the hell out of it. If there were anyone around to see, they'd think he was a model, standing in the kind of casual-at-attention pose that only men in magazine photo shoots ever do, with one hand in a pocket and his gaze thoughtfully locked on the cityscape horizon. The model aesthetic is reinforced by the fact that he's got a lean, strong figure and the kind of racial ambiguity that Hollywood diversity advocates love: brown skin that's not too brown, lips full enough to be either natural or recent collagen injections, thick eyebrows that are as sculpted as his cheekbones, eyes with just enough epicanthic fold to qualify as "exotic" but not in like an ethnic way.

He's not a model. He's just Manhattan, human representative of New York's contributions to the fashion, media, and sex work industries. He's not even trying particularly hard to look good. He has simply stopped resisting what comes naturally.

But he's about to be late for work -- and while New York custom permits a degree of conspicuous tardiness as a social power move in certain situations, this particular job is too personally important to him for such games. So he steps up onto the low wall that surrounds the roof, and then he steps off.

It's fine. The building is twelve stories tall; anything over five stories is required to have an elevator per city ordinance. He's been practicing, too, so all he has to do is shut his eyes and imagine, and the city's power holds him aloft in midair as solidly as if he's stepping onto flooring. (He is; it's just flooring that exists in several other iterations of his universe.) Even with this, however, he makes sure to take a step or two forward before calmly turning away from the cityscape. People don't usually stare at the back of an elevator, after all -- and verisimilitude is key. "First floor, please," he murmurs. In earlier days of the city, building elevators were a complicated luxury that required trained staff to operate. In current days of the city, many elevators run on voice activation. At Manhattan's request, there is an electronic ping of acknowledgement, followed by a very faint echo of blended, long-vanished voices: "Watch the door, please, watch your hands, going down." Then he begins to descend. It's smooth, slow; this is only a mid-sized building, not modern or expensive enough to have an express elevator. Only the fact that he's descending through thin air makes it odd.

Just above the sidewalk his descent slows, letting him drift to a gentle halt. There are a few dozen people on the street in this moment, and some of them notice as he just stands there for a moment, letting the metaphysical aethers settle and the metaphorical elevator doors open. The ones who stare are tourists. New Yorkers generally don't react to strangeness, but they do notice it, if only to shake their heads and murmur "This fucking city," to themselves before moving on. Manhattan catches the eye of one of the starers, winks and smiles, then strides off down the street.

As he walks, he hums John Coltrane's "Central Park West" -- not for power this time, but simply because he's walking along Central Park West and likes the song. It's also a beautiful day. Here at the heart of the city it is clear that autumn encroaches: Central Park is across the street, dense with color-shifting trees. Their whispers speak to the part of Manhattan that was more, once, than just concrete and cars; the island has always been here, after all, crossroads for many peoples, and those millennia of commerce were enough to form the building blocks of the living entity that it is now. But mostly, he just likes that rustling sound, and the flickers of color and movement, and the faint whiff of chemical sugars forming and breaking down within the leaves. Something about that scent, and the wind's occasional brisk sharpness, speaks to him.

There is the lightest of touches upon the part of him that is more than a man. Just a ping, to get his attention. "You wanna focus, or you gonna just keep spacing out about the pretty pretty trees, Mr. I Was Bebop Before It Was Cool?"

They've all figured out that words work better than thoughts. They are one city, the six of them, and if they ever need to, they can function as a single brain and heart and will -- but doing that is as overwhelming as it is thrilling. New York isn't supposed to be any single thing, see; the distinct characters of its boroughs are part of its strength. More personally, Manny's probably never going to be super-comfortable with letting his fellow parts of the city into his head, because he's got enough going on in there already.

But he's right in reminding Manny to focus. "Just getting into the spirit," Manny replies, waiting for a gap in the traffic before trotting across the street. Then he vaults the low stone wall around the edge of the park. It's a twelve-foot drop beyond, but he manages it easily enough, landing in a crouch in a wooded thicket already carpeted in red and gold leaves. Doesn't even make his knees twinge. Nothing can hurt New York, in New York, except New York.

Well. And one other thing.

He moves forward at a brisk Midtown pace, pushing aside the branches of small trees as gently as he can so as not to damage them. He starts finding white tendrils almost immediately. Just small patches here and there: three wigglers on a broad, still-green sycamore leaf, one on the tree's gnarling roots nearby. A patch shaped like a handprint growing atop a hooded garbage can; that one's especially nasty, positioned as it is to infect anyone who actually tries to deposit their litter in the can instead of just tossing it somewhere. "Rude," Manny murmurs. He's getting rid of the patches as he passes them, just by touching the wood or ground or metal near each cluster and letting a little of "Central Park West" riff through his mind and down his arm and out through his fingers. Earworms can be handy. Good for killing other wormlike things.

(Not so long ago, it would have taken everything Manny had to get rid of these things. He had to replace all his credit cards after symbolically buying all the real estate around a particular rock in Inwood Park. Now, however, the city is whole -- and these tendrils, tenacious as they are, are tourists from another urban locale who've overstayed their welcome. It's easy to obliterate them, but it's more important to find the bus they came in on, and deal with that.)

"Red alert!" says Padmini -- Queens -- suddenly. She tugs on the shared part of their consciousness, projecting an image onto it that is stunning in its precision: a three-dimensional and topographical map, with a moving cursor at its center and a GPS coordinate meter in the bottom corner. Padmini abruptly zooms them in on the cursor, and then she presents them with a simplified view through her own eyes.

There, jolting slightly as Padmini runs, is their quarry. To most other people in Central Park, the young man who slips down a leaf-thick hill and then scrabbles his way over a tumbled, mossy pile of bedrock is just another cross-country runner, or maybe a parkour practitioner with a greater love of natural settings than most. He's a lanky Indian-looking guy, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt -- but through the lens of Padmini's vision, Manny sees the rest. The guy's got patches of white fronds all over him, and as he runs they waft back like long hair which just happens to be growing from his forearms and shins and ass. Manny's used to this, people who look like yeti crabs, however horrible it is. Far worse is the tendril which projects from the back of the young man's neck, thick and veined in a disturbingly umbilical way, forming a long white cord which twists up and out of sight amid the trees. It stretches up into the sky, Manny knows from three months' experience, attenuating until it disappears from human eyesight with distance -- but wending southward before it does. They all know where that cable terminates.

"Mike check," says Veneza, and Manny's mental eye shifts to her view. She's standing under one of the park's stone bridges, her vision bouncing a little as she crouches to stretch out her ankles. Getting ready to run. Manny feels her excitement as the tendril-covered man comes into view, jogging over a grassy hill covered in early-afternoon sunbathers. But who's he kidding? They all enjoy this. "That's it. Come to mamãe. Drive him like a li'l doggie on the range, Queeny McQueenyface."

"I can't believe you mixed like three metaphors in ten seconds," Padmini replies -- but she zigs left, across one of the roads of the park. Manny catches his breath as she veers into a bike lane, because Central Park bikers all think they're in the Tour de France, but in the same moment he feels her latch into the bikers' sense of hurry and entitlement, drawing their power into her legs. Her pace speeds up sharply, until she's nearly flying down a sloping sidewalk, veering now and again to move around walkers and a small crowd near a pretzel vendor.

"That's the Jersey in me. Metaphors are our pork roll."

"Your what?"

"Pork roll. Look it -- wait, shit, hang on."

Tendril man has seen Veneza and stopped, halfway down the grassy hill. It's eerie to Manny how still he is. After all the running and climbing he's done, he should be out of breath, shoulders heaving, dripping sweat, but he isn't. It's just like the other cases of this they've encountered in the past few weeks; they're running on something other than human power. These tendril-people aren't avatars, however; they're more like drones, sent forth by some other malevolent consciousness and endowed with supernatural power only temporarily, and for their task. And if they don't catch this poor guy before that power gets done using him -- Well. Manny picks up the pace.

Padmini skids to a halt. (A man nearby does a double-take, then nods in a grudgingly impressed way at her athleticism.) "Shit. He's going to bolt, isn't he?"

In lieu of any reply, they all see Tendril Man bolt. He jumps off the steeper side of the rocky hill -- a ten-foot drop; Manny really hopes the poor guy was in shape before he got drafted as a spectral conduit for a hostile extradimensional essence, or he's going to feel that in the morning. Then Tendril Man takes off, moving with truly impressive speed up a paved hill-path.

"FUCK," two of them think. (Manny doesn't curse, but he empathizes.) They all take off running too.

Tendril Man is running toward a big, round building at the top of the hill. Its vendor doors are shut and there are only a few people hanging around near it, but abruptly he zigs toward a big wooden gate labeled PERFORMER ENTRANCE -- and vaults it, with the ease of a master gymnast. Manny might be able to think of a way over it too, if he gives himself a minute; surely there is some quintessentially cityish concept, like elevators for tall buildings, that he can harness to grant himself the ability to jump like that. In the fluster of the moment, however, he can't think of anything. Gotta work on that, do better at having a "jumping" construct ready to go under duress.

In lieu of leaping, however, he manages to remember the grating sound of garbage trucks barrelling down the street at oh dark thirty in the morning, usually with wonky transmissions and brakes that screech loudly enough to set off car alarms. Manny's seen several of them scrape or bang into cars without bothering to stop -- and so he draws into himself the desperate need to hurry and finish a shift, the hulking size and diesel-fueled strength of the trucks, the cheerful pragmatism of the tough workers who chuck heavy bags and kick rats with unflappable equanimity. And as Manny runs at the gate, the world blurs a little and an eyewatering stench surrounds him, and he finds it almost impossible to care about collateral damage because he's got a job to do, come on, come on, let's go...

He remembers enough of himself to dip his shoulder a little as he hits the gate. It only looks like wood; underneath, there's plenty of metal, and he sees that the gate has an electronic number-lock. Probably pretty solid. But his supernaturally-powered shoulder smashes the gate wide open, actually cracking the whole frame in half, too, and part of the fence beyond it.

Oops. Well, he'll make a donation on the website, because now that he's through the gate he sees: THE DELACOURTE THEATER WELCOMES YOU TO SHAKESPEARE IN THE PARK.

Tendril Guy is running down the steps of what Manny now sees is a huge open-air amphitheater. He leaps again, a pretty impressive standing jump onto the stage -- and then he stops abruptly. There's a set being deconstructed here; Shakespeare in the Park only runs during the summer months, so someone's in the middle of stripping gigantic rolls of fake grass off the stage floor. And now, from within a huge prop built to look like a small apartment building, the avatar of New York steps forth to confront their enemy.

He's calling himself "Neek," these days -- a phonetic pronunciation of the initials for New York City. He hasn't told them his real name. Manny's not sure it matters anyway; doesn't Manny, of all people, understand that they are no longer who they were? The knowledge and joy and danger of eight million people has found its focus in Neek, and like any of their fellow great cities, this makes him strange. São Paulo was the same, whenever Manny had time and peace enough to study him: a young-old man who radiated urbane cynicism and eerie wisdom all at once. Hong Kong too. Maybe this is the difference between those who represent boroughs or neighborhoods, and those who are whole cities in themselves.

Or maybe it's just Neek. "Yo, man, take a breath," he says to Tendril Guy, as he slouches out of shadow. "Touch some, uh, astroturf. You keep letting that shit run you, won't be anything of you left."

Tendril Guy immediately turns to run, but by this point Manny has reached the other side of the stage. Veneza is in the ampitheater, trotting toward them from the other direction, and from somewhere backstage they can hear Padmini cursing and shoving something heavy aside, because apparently backstage is a mess amid the set breakdown. Unless Tendril Guy can fly -- and Manny puts nothing past the Woman in White -- then he's got nowhere left to run.

It's a dangerous time, though. In the past, whenever they've cornered one of her minions... Tendril Guy backs up, looks around, starts to get tense. Manny tries to think up a construct, and finds himself looking around. At the stage.

Neek's gaze flicks to him, and the little smile on his face widens.

"Two cities," he declares suddenly, spreading his arms wide and raising his voice. The Delacourte's acoustics are perfect, of course, designed to facilitate an outdoors theatrical performance. "Both alike in dignity! In fair Manhattan where we lay our scene."

Of course the theater absorbs this slightly-fudged homage, echoes it, amplifies it, and sends back a reverberation of energy: the faint murmurs and anticipation of a crowd, a lilt of music from a nonexistent orchestra. For just a fleeting moment Manny can almost see the suggestion of bodies in the amphitheater seats, shadowy heads that turn to each other or crane their necks or flip through Playbills. Ready to be enraptured.

Manny finds himself grinning -- but then he panics a little as Neek raises his eyebrows pointedly, because Manny doesn't have any Shakespeare memorized. But Broadway is only a few dozen blocks away; maybe he can use that instead? He sifts quickly through the grab-bag of random quotes in his head. Can't think of an actual line from an actual play, but it's a direct reference, so he clears his throat awkwardly and sings: "They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway. There might be city magic in the air."

Stage lights, multihued but mostly white, appear above the seats. The lights aren't real. Manny can see most of the lighting equipment disassembled and stacked up to one side of the stage. Tendril Guy flinches suddenly and violently, staggering back. Steam rises as Tendril Guy raises his arms defensively, the tendrils on him whipping and hissing wildly as the city's light begins to burn them away.

They have to keep it going. Veneza giggles and runs down the steps, leaping to a crouch as if she's acting out some play or another, and sings, "Now is the time to seize the day! Answer the call and don't delay! New York can be righted, boroughs united; let us seize the day!" In response, loose cables curled on one side of the stage suddenly come to life, whipping around Tendril Guy's legs to keep him from running again.

One of the doors on the prop building slams open dramatically. Beyond it they can see Padmini pushing aside a rack of clothing that persistently keeps trying to roll toward her. She manages it, stumbles out, and glowers around at all of them. Veneza gestures frantically for her to take up the thread; Neek spreads his hands too in the universal sign of Come on, hurry up. Finally, with a little growl, Padmini snaps, "Oh, fine. 'Immigrants: We get the job done!'" This doesn't seem to have any effect at first, but then Padmini shoves a large, heavy-looking wooden desk out of the way with ease; she's much stronger, now. Enough to get this job done.

As performances go, it's all terrible. Slapdash, random, corny; Manny won't be surprised if in the morning they all receive a clipped-out review from a theater magazine that exists only in some alternate reality, panning all of them for defiling the stage. But as a construct, drawing on the power of three boroughs and the delight of a thousand audiences, from the Delacourte to the Fringe Festival and back, it's exactly what they need.

Then, his voice muffled by his own extradimensional growths, Manny hears Tendril Guy -- or maybe the guy within the pelt of tendrils -- try to speak. "A-all the w-world..." he murmurs, his voice thick, too deep, flanged in a way that sounds like bad special effects. He's steaming all over, now. Ah, and at last Manny sees the tendrils burning away, peeling off and curling into nothingness. As he lowers his arms, Manny sees that he's sweaty-faced and visibly exhausted... but he is smiling. He turns to face the whispering, flickering audience, and all at once Manny can feel him. Tendril Guy is part of New York, again -- and he knows it, and some part of his soul rejoices with the knowledge. Probably helps that the guy is a former theater kid himself; Manny can feel that, now that the Enemy's influence has been broken. Neek grins at Manny; he can feel it, too.

So then Neek goes over to Tendril Guy, leans close, and blows on the now-shriveled cord attached to the back of his neck. It snaps free as if Neek's breathed fire onto it, uttering a faint creel of inhuman pain -- and then the cord is snatched away upwards, into the darkening evening sky. Manny catches a fleeting hint of sinuous movement against the clouds, southward, and then it is gone.

Tendril Guy, who is now just Some Guy, beams at Neek. Then he steps back and lifts a finger. "All the world's a stage," he says again -- clearly this time, in a pleasant baritone, projecting with the ease of long practice. "And all the men and women merely players! They have their exits and their entrances, and one man in his time plays many parts, his acts being seven ages."

He does the whole monologue then, perfectly. Not that Manny would know if he got it right -- but the Delacourte does, and as Manny glances out at their whispery audience, he sees smiles, hears soft "ahs" and giggles of approval with every precisely-enunciated line. As Some Guy finishes, applause breaks out, echoing with unreality but loud and enthusiastic. The artist formerly known as Tendril Guy beams in delight and extends his hands for Manny and Neek to take. They do. Padmini, her pique fading now that she's no longer fighting furniture, shakes her head and takes Neek's hand; Veneza giggles and runs up the steps to take Manny's. The applause goes on as, uh, Theater Guy leads them in first one bow, and then another. Someone in the audience whistles. Someone else yells "Encore!" It's intoxicating. They bow a third time. As at last the applause fades and the lights start to go dark... Theater Guy collapses, between them.

"Oh, no," Veneza says, her delight vanishing. "Please, not again -- "

"He's fine," Manny says, crouching by Theater Guy, though he checks Theater Guy's neck-pulse and breathing just to be sure. It's there, though the guy's skin is clammy with sweat.

"Close," Neek says. He's looking up at the sky, after the ugly cable that had been attached to the guy's neck.

It's only the second time that they've successfully rescued one of these agents of the Woman in White, sent forth from her bastion in Staten Island to... well, Manny's not exactly sure what their purpose is. Are they superspreaders meant to reinfect the city, and thus help her regain the foothold that she lost three months before? Are they drones of a sort, reconnoitering enemy territory? Either way, the result is always the same, if Manny and his fellow avatars don't catch the tendril-bearer and cleanse them in time: the person burns out and dies, all of their strength used up by the alien intelligence that has worn them like a puppet.

Not this time, though. "Let's get him outside," Manny says, grunting as he pulls Theater Guy up. "Easier for an ambulance to get to him out there."

"But what about after?" Padmini asks. She comes over to help him wrestle the guy into a sitting position, so that Manny can pull him into a fireman's carry. "Uff, he's heavy! But if somebody calls his family and they take him back to Staten Island, will she just take him over again? What if she's mad at him for getting caught by us?"

"It's fine," Neek says. He's still turned away from them, facing southward. There is an odd note in his voice, however, which makes Manny frown at his back. Neek sounds... distracted. "Most of the folks on Staten are fine. The ones who commute here lose their little wigglers when they step off the ferry, unless they've got one of those bigger cable-things attached to them. Grow 'em back on the after-work ride. They don't even notice."

"Remember what it was like when she was all over the city," Manny adds. "All those people she... infected. She used them if she needed them and ignored them otherwise. They became part of her, but they didn't seem to mean anything to her, any more than..." He shakes his head, to the degree that he can with Theater Guy on his shoulders. "Individual hairs on a person's head. How often do we notice when we lose one, or when it grows back?"

"We shouldn't let him go back at all," Padmini says, scowling. "We know she's doing something to all those people. He's safer here!"

Neek focuses enough to turn and eye her over his shoulder. His tone is mild and his expression neutral, but his words have a sharp point. "You gonna spring for an apartment for him somewhere? Let him go crash with ya auntie and the fam?"

"No, but -- "

"I know a good spot under the Williamsburg." Neek's relentless. "Probably still good even with all the cleanup and construction since the bridge broke. Warm on cold nights, hard to see so the kids and assholes don't fuck with you. We could dump him there."

Padmini sets her jaw. "Fine. Point made. But Staten Islanders are still people, and we should try to help them."

Veneza, who was peering into the orchestra pit in fascination, turns back to them, plainly uneasy at the tension she's picking up. "We are. But I mean, Pads... that's not really our job."

Now they all fall into an uncomfortable silence, because sometimes the truth is hard. And the truth is that the avatar of Staten Island is not here with them today because she has rejected them, and thrown her people to the interdimensional wolves by doing so. They are all of them New York... but they are not Staten Island, not anymore. Theater Guy's ultimate fate isn't theirs to make.

"Ay yo fuck that bird," Neek says, scowling at Veneza, who blinks in surprise. "Her and Squigglebitch tried to kill us, remember? Tried to eat you. Let Staten Island die."

Padmini stares at him. "Wait. What? Let a whole borough die? Are you crazy?"

"Fuck them." Neek gestures sharply, southward. "Everyone on Staten Island. Buncha racist redneck Republican dumbasses, nobody needs them. They're the reason she's still here, hanging over this city like a fucking guillotine. I'm tired of stressing about this shit! Let her flyover country ass die with the rest of them nobody-nothing sons of bitches."

Manny flinches, despite himself. That's beyond harsh. And something about this little rant feels... off. He's known Neek for all of three months, but in that time Neek has been a quiet and low-key leader of their group, unusually even-keeled for the personification of a city known for its aggression. Are you okay? rises to Manny's lips, but he refrains from saying it, aware that it could sound patronizing. He's wondering it, though.

All at once different lights snap on within the theater -- not stage lights, but all the rest. Padmini frowns at this. "Hey, we don't need these anymore. Which one of you -- "

Abruptly a piercing electronic alarm sounds throughout the theater, and the lights all turn a startling, awful red.

"What the shit?" Neek says. He blinks as if dazed, turning to stare up at the lights -- and then he stiffens. "Manny. You doing that?"

Manny can barely hear him over the noise. "No, why would I? Can't you stop it?" Neek is New York. He has better control over the city's power than any of them... but all of a sudden, the city feels strange. Sluggish and reluctant, when Manny gently urges it to shut off the alarm. It's responsive, but unreliable and slow in a way Manny's never noticed before.

And to Manny's surprise, Neek takes a step back, his very posture radiating unease. "I... can't. Nothing's happening. What the fuck." He shakes his head.

"Yo, uh, we should go," Veneza says, bouncing nervously on the balls of her feet. "If that's a break-in alarm -- I mean, we did break in, but -- "

The Delacourte sits the middle of Central Park, in one of the city's toniest neighborhoods, and is the site of one of its most popular attractions. "Out," Manny snaps, when it becomes clear that Neek has been so thrown by the situation that he's not reacting quickly enough. "Now."

Veneza's already moving, running to the edge of the stage. Manny follows her as quickly as he can with Theater Guy, and Padmini grabs Neek, dragging him along when he doesn't move fast enough. "Cover your faces!" she cries -- and, yeah, if the city's magic suddenly isn't helping them anymore, that's a good idea. But Manny can't, unless he wants to drop Theater Guy, who's been through enough.

There are people milling around in front of the Delacourte, mostly looky-loos reacting to the continuous beeeeeeep of the alarm, but Manny sees how many of them have smartphones in hand. It can't be helped. He crouches and carefully sets Theater Guy on a patch of soft grass, and catches the eye of an older lady who is staring at all of them. "Call 911," he says, with as much urgency as he can. They can't stop people from filming them fleeing the scene of an apparent break-in, but maybe the sight of someone in distress will distract most of the onlookers. "This man is hurt and needs an ambulance. I don't know what happened to him, he just collapsed."

The lady gasps and starts punching at her phone. Veneza grabs Manny, tugging so he'll leave Theater Guy there on the ground. He doesn't want to. If the cops arrive first, there's a strong chance they'll arrest Theater Guy for the break-in. If he could just make sure the paramedics arrive first, and that the cops think the alarm is just a mechanical error... He touches the ground next to his knee and reaches into it, groping for the feel of city power --

He finds echoes of old audience frustration and annoyed staff and prematurely shutdown vendor services... but these energies will not move in response to his will. What's there feels different from all the other times he's ever used city power -- clotted, somehow.

"Dude," Veneza says, giving him a hard yank. They can hear sirens outside the park, coming closer. "Come on, man, I ain't doing Rikers for you!"

Grinding his teeth in frustration, Manny lets Veneza pull him away. They book it for Central Park West again, zigging southward first since there are woods and rock hills in that direction that can obscure their route for anyone trying to put them on TMZ.

In their wake, the Delacourte's alarm blares until sirens drown it out.

TWWM Deleted Scene 1 by N. K. Jemisin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 4.0 International License.

#the world we make #the great cities #deleted scene #answered asks

101 notes · View notes