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swanlake1998 · 3 years

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Article: Five Pioneering Black Ballerinas: ‘We Have to Have a Voice’

Date: June 17, 2021

By: Karen Valby

These early Dance Theater of Harlem stars met weekly on Zoom — to survive the isolation of the pandemic and to reclaim their role in dance history.

Last May, adrift in a suddenly untethered world, five former ballerinas came together to form the 152nd Street Black Ballet Legacy. Every Tuesday afternoon, they logged onto Zoom from around the country to remember their time together performing with Dance Theater of Harlem, feeling that magical turn in early audiences from skepticism to awe.

Life as a pioneer, life in a pandemic: They have been friends for over half a century, and have held each other up through far harder times than this last disorienting year. When people reached for all manners of comfort, something to give purpose or a shape to the days, these five women turned to their shared past.

In their cozy, rambling weekly Zoom meetings, punctuated by peals of laughter and occasional tears, they revisited the fabulousness of their former lives. With the background of George Floyd’s murder and a pandemic disproportionately affecting the Black community, the women set their sights on tackling another injustice. They wanted to reinscribe the struggles and feats of those early years at Dance Theater of Harlem into a cultural narrative that seems so often to cast Black excellence aside.

“There’s been so much of African American history that’s been denied or pushed to the back,” said Karlya Shelton-Benjamin, 64, who first brought the idea of a legacy council to the other women. “We have to have a voice.”

They knew as young ballet students that they’d never be chosen for roles like Clara in “The Nutcracker” or Odette/Odile in “Swan Lake.” They were told by their teachers to switch to modern dance or to aim for the Alvin Ailey company if they wanted to dance professionally, regardless of whether they felt most alive en pointe.

Arthur Mitchell was like a lighthouse to the women. Mitchell, the first Black principal dancer at the New York City Ballet and a protégé of the choreographer George Balanchine, had a mission: to create a home for Black dancers to achieve heights of excellence unencumbered by ignorance or tradition. Ignited by the assassination of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., he founded Dance Theater of Harlem in 1969 with Karel Shook.

Lydia Abarca-Mitchell, Gayle McKinney-Griffith and Sheila Rohan were founding dancers of his new company with McKinney-Griffith, 71, soon taking on the role of its first ballet mistress. Within the decade, Shelton-Benjamin and Marcia Sells joined as first generation dancers.

Abarca-Mitchell, 70, spent her childhood in joyless ballet classes but never saw an actual performance until she was 17 at the invitation of Mitchell, her new teacher. “I’ll never forget what Arthur did onstage” she said of his Puck in “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at New York City Ballet during a Tuesday session in January. “He made the ballet so natural. Suddenly it wasn’t just this ethereal thing anymore. I felt it in my bones.”

Marcia Sells, 61, remembered being 9 and watching with mouth agape when Abarca-Mitchell, McKinney-Griffith and Rohan performed with Dance Theater in her hometown, Cincinnati. “There in front of me were Black ballerinas,” Sells said during a video call in April. “That moment was the difference in my life. Otherwise I don’t think it would’ve been possible for me to think of a career in ballet.”

Shelton-Benjamin left her Denver ballet company, where she was the only Black dancer, turning down invitations from the Joffrey Ballet and American Ballet Theater, after reading a story about Dance Theater of Harlem in Dance magazine. Abarca-Mitchell was on that issue’s cover — the first Black woman to have that honor. At her Harlem audition, Shelton-Benjamin witnessed company members hand-dying their shoes and ribbons and tights to match the hues of their skin. Here, no traditional ballet pink would interrupt the beauty of their lines. “I had never seen a Black ballerina before, let alone a whole company,” Shelton-Benjamin, 64, said during a February Zoom meeting. “All I could think was, ‘Where have you guys been?’”

Finding one another back then, at the height of the civil rights movement, allowed them to have careers while challenging a ballet culture that had been claimed by white people. “We were suddenly ambassadors,” Abarca-Mitchell said. “And we were all in it together.”

They traveled to American cities that presented such a hostile environment that Mitchell would cancel the performance the night of, lest his company feel disrespected. But they also danced for kings and queens and presidents. In 1979, a review in The Washington Post declared their dancing to be a “purer realization of the Balanchinean ideal than anyone else’s.” Their adventures offstage were similarly electric, like the night in Manchester when Mick Jagger invited them out on the town. “We walked into the club with him and everybody just moved out of the way,” Shelton-Benjamin said.

Cultural memory can be spurious and shortsighted. Abarca-Mitchell was the first Black prima ballerina for a major company, performing works like Balanchine’s “Agon” and “Bugaku” and William Dollar’s “Le Combat” to raves. In an April Zoom session she said she first realized how left out of history she was when her daughter went online to prove to a friend that her mother was the first Black prima ballerina. But all she found was the name Misty Copeland, hailed as the first. “And my daughter was so mad. She said: ‘Where’s your name? Where’s your name?’ It was a wake-up call.”

While Abarca-Mitchell paused to wipe her eyes, Shelton-Banjamin stepped in: “I want to echo what Lydia said. There was a point where I asked the women, ‘Did it all really happen? Was I really a principal dancer?’ And Lydia told me: ‘Don’t do that! Yes, you were. We’re here to tell you, you were.”

Sells went on to a career that included serving as the dean of Harvard Law School, until she left this year to become the Metropolitan Opera’s first chief diversity officer. Shelton-Benjamin is now a jeweler who recently became certified in diamond grading. She, along with Abarca-Mitchell, McKinney-Griffith and Rohan, continue to coach and teach dance. They all have families, including another grandchild on the way for McKinney-Griffith, who announced the happy news to whoops on a recent call.

But they are done swallowing a mythology of firstness that excludes them, along with fellow pioneers like Katherine Dunham, Debra Austin, Raven Wilkinson, Lauren Anderson and Aesha Ash. It’s true that Misty Copeland is American Ballet Theater’s first Black female principal. It is also true that she stands on the shoulders of the founding and first generation dancers at Dance Theater. A narrative that suggests otherwise, Sells said, “Simply makes ballet history weak and small.”

Worse, it perpetuates the belief that Blackness in ballet is a one-off rather than a continuing fact. And it suggests a lonely existence for dancers like Copeland, a world absent of peers. “We could’ve been Misty’s aunties,” Abarca-Mitchell said. “I wish she was part of our sisterhood, that’s all.”

Dance Theater saved them from being the only one in a room. The work was so hard, the expectations so high, the mission so urgent, that those early days demanded a familial support system among the dancers. “Someone would take you under their wing and say, ‘You’re my daughter or sister or brother,’” McKinney-Griffith said. “The men did it also. Karlya was my little sister, and we kept that through the years.”

Like in any family, the relationships are complicated. The women speak of feeling shut out of today’s Dance Theater of Harlem. They are rarely brought in for workshops or consultations on the ballets they were taught by Mitchell. At his memorial service in 2018, they wept in the pews unacknowledged. “We’re like orphans,” Rohan said with a laugh in a Zoom session. “If the outside world neglects us, it seems all the more reason that Dance Theater of Harlem should embrace us.”

Virginia Johnson, a fellow founding member, is now the company’s artistic director. She assumed the helm in 2013 when Dance Theater returned after an eight-year hiatus caused by financial instability. “It makes me sad to think that they feel excluded,” Johnson said in a phone interview. “And it’s not because I don’t want them. It’s just because I can’t manage. I’ve probably missed some chances but it’s not like I haven’t thought about the value of what they bring to the company. They are the bodies, the soul, the spirit of Dance Theater of Harlem.”

“We all think about and love and respect what Arthur Mitchell did,” she added, “but these are the people he worked with to make this company.”

By the end of May, the five members of the 152nd Street Black Ballet Legacy were fully vaccinated. They traveled from Denver, Atlanta, Connecticut, South Jersey and, in Sells’s case, five blocks north of Dance Theater of Harlem for a joyful reunion. So much is different now at the building on 152nd Street. The old fire escape in Studio 3 where they’d catch their breath or wipe tears of frustration is gone. So are the big industrial fans in the corners of the room, replaced by central air conditioning. But they can still feel their leader all around them in the room. Crying, Abarca-Mitchell told McKinney-Griffith, “I miss Arthur.” (Though they all laugh when imagining his response to their legacy council. “I do believe he would try to control us,” Rohan said. “’What are you doing now? Why are you doing that? Let me suggest that. …’”)

The body remembers. In Studio 3, all Shelton-Benjamin had to do was hum a few notes of Balanchine’s “Serenade” and say “and” for the women to grandly sweep their right arms up. “These women help validate my worth,” Abarca-Mitchell said afterward. “I don’t want to take it for granted that people should recognize Lydia Abarca. But when I’m with them I feel like I felt back then. Important.”

Even as the world reopens and they grow busy again, they’ll carry on with their Tuesday afternoons. They want to amplify more alumni voices. They dream of launching a scholarship program for young dancers of color. This fall, they’ll host a webinar in honor of the director and choreographer Billy Wilson, whose daughter Alexis was also part of Dance Theater.

“What we have is a spiritual connection,” said Rohan, who turns 80 this year. She was 27 when she joined the company, already married and hiding from Mitchell that she was a mother of three young children for fear it get her kicked out. When she eventually confessed a year later, he got mad, insisting he would have increased her salary if he’d known she had mouths to feed.

“Arthur planted a seed in me, and all these beautiful women helped it grow,” she said. “Coming from Staten Island, I was just a country girl from the projects. My first time on a plane was to go to Europe to dance on those stages. I thanked God every day for the experience. This year, coming together again, I remembered how much it all meant to me. I didn’t have to be a star ballerina. It was enough that I was there. I was there. I was there.”

#article #ballet #the ny times #marcia sells #sheila rohan #gayle mckinney griffith #karlya shelton-benjamin #lydia abarca #virginia johnson

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phykios · 3 years

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honesty and promise me, part 3 [read on ao3] [co-written with @darkmagyk]

Several more weeks and hookups later, Annabeth thinks she should probably come clean. Some people might bury it deep, and for sure, Annabeth’s considered it, but, well. It is kind of embarrassing that she didn’t know Percy’s name at first. Stuff like that doesn’t usually bother her--she’s had nameless one night stands in the past, and despite Thalia’s ribbing, she knows that Thalia doesn’t really care either. It’s just that, you know, he’s Thalia’s family, and they’ve seen each other a few more times, and they are planning to continue to see each other a few more times in the future. Or more than a few times.

Anyway, she kind of feels like she owes it to him. Like he deserves this small nugget of truth, payment for all the times he’s fucked her blind. It’s nagging at her, and she hates feeling like she owes anyone anything.

Piper certainly seemed to think so, when Annabeth had told her over their monthly brunch date.

“It’s just common courtesy at this point,” she said. “Like, what if you guys end up married and then sell your story to Hollywood, they cast my dad as the male lead, and it comes out in interviews that you didn’t know his name for like a month? He’s gonna get the wrong idea.”

Annabeth wasn’t sure which part was more ridiculous: the movie, Piper’s dad being involved, or them being married.

Anyway, sharing some of her avocado fries, Piper had reminded her that being mean wasn't very punk rock, shutting her up effectively.

She’s out on site in the Lower East Side, taking measurements for plots of land, writing down sun angles and measuring the wind velocity between the brick buildings, when she gets a text from him.

I’m on a break and I’m starving 😩 Want to grab something to eat?

It’s 2pm on a Thursday and he wants to grab something to eat. If Annabeth didn’t know any better, she’d say that that sounds like a real, honest-to-goodness, bona fide date. (Meeting up at and subsequently leaving bars together does not count as a date, she’s pretty sure. Neither do the booty calls.) He’s been getting a little free with his texts, that boy, sending her selfies and memes and questions about her day, and now this? An invitation to their first, actual date? She should block him on principle, just for the sheer audacity.

sure, wya

520 8th, text me when you get here 😁

That’s another thing: Percy loves his emojis. If this is going to continue, they’re going to need to have a serious talk about that.

She doesn’t need to text him when she gets there; he’s already outside, leaning on the stone edifice of the building like a particularly jacked rent boy in his tight t-shirt and broody look, cigarette between his fingers. The sweatpants sort of ruin the image, though. He looks particularly comfortable in a way that warms Annabeth right from the inside out. “You know, when Nico said you smoked, I honestly didn’t believe it.” she says, not even bothering to say hi.

He looks up from his phone and smiles, the sun behind his teeth. “Hey!”

“Hey, yourself.” She doesn’t even hesitate--she plucks the cigarette out of his hand, taking a drag off it herself. “You been smoking for a long time?”

“Who do you think taught Thalia how?” He raises an eyebrow, bemused. “Is that a problem?”

It is, but it’s not like she can tell him that without losing some of her credibility. “Wouldn’t smoking fuck with your cardio?”

Percy shrugs, conceding. “A little. I used to be a lot worse, but I just can’t quite kick the habit. It’s mostly a stress thing, anyway.”

“Rough practice?” she asks, putting just enough effort into her lip wobble to make it abundantly clear that she’s making fun of him. “Were the other boys being mean to you because of your tights?”

He grins at her, saucy. “Annabeth Chase, do you really think that NYCB rehearses here? In the Garment District?” But he laughs before she can stammer out an answer (and thank God, she’s lived here three years and can barely keep the boroughs straight, let alone the neighborhoods). “I just wrapped up teaching a class. I don’t have to be at rehearsal until 5, I was thinking we could hang out? Bryant Park?”

A first date at the New York Public Library. She almost hates to admit it, but Percy Jackson might be kind of her dream man. “I believe I was promised food,” she sniffs, but she does hold out her hand, and when he takes it, lacing his fingers through hers, she’s sure that he can feel her heart beating, palm to palm.

Twenty minutes later they’re settled on a bench in the corner of the green, Annabeth halfway into a ham sandwich and Percy juggling a salad and an iced coffee. He’s been regaling her with tales from the more exciting side of ballet, a side she hadn’t even imagined could actually exist. “So by the time I land in Paris,” he says, taking a sip of coffee, “the guy’s foot has swollen up to, like, twice its original size, and when I finally managed to find some wifi to check my phone, there’s, like, eight missed calls from my mom and my agent, and an email from her that just says ‘READ THIS,’ in all caps, and of course the article is in French, which I didn’t really speak at the time, and I was so stressed that my ADHD made it so I couldn’t even read the Google translation, and I had to ask someone to translate it for me.”

“Oh my god,” she says, struggling to keep it in.

“And that’s how I found out that I’d been moved up to first cast in Le Corsaire, from the poor barista at a coffee shop in Charles de Gaule!” He laughs.

“That’s insane,” Annabeth says. “And the show was the next day?”

“It was that night! I had to haul ass to the opera house and get warmed up, because I was going on in about four hours. You should have seen the looks on everyone’s faces when I stumbled in, I’m sure that they all wanted to kill me.” Percy chuckles, taking a bite of leafy greens. “Now I wasn’t just the twenty-year-old upstart American, I was the twenty-year-old upstart American who skipped town when I wasn’t supposed to.”

“How did it go?”

“Killed it, of course,” he says, deservedly smug.

Despite her best efforts, she’s absolutely entranced; he’s a great storyteller. “I bet you break that story out at parties all the time, don’t you.”

He laughs. “Whatever gets the donors to open their checkbooks, right?”

“I can’t believe you lived in Paris. I’ve always wanted to see it.” She’d had a few chances to when she was in college, the semester she’d studied abroad in Rome, but she just never got around to it. Just another item on her long, long list of regrets, placed somewhere between the sketchy burrito from last week and not telling her mom to fuck off earlier when she’d had the chance. “If I were you, I’d never leave.”

Percy shrugs. “It was amazing, I won’t lie. But towards the end I just really, really missed it here. All my family is in NYC, you know? My mom, step-dad, and my sister live here, and Thalia and Nico and Hazel, too. I tried to come back and visit whenever I could, but being away from them was really hard.” There’s something soft and inviting in his expression when he says, “I’m really happy to be back home.”

“What are they like?” Annabeth asks. “Your family. Your non-mob family, I mean.”

He rolls his eyes, but he grins another one of those blinding grins, too. “My mom is the most amazing person you will ever meet. Not only did she support my dance habit, she did it as a single working mother who had to raise an angry, ADHD asshole of a son who didn’t always appreciate her. I don’t even want to know how many hours she had to work or how many scholarships and grants she had to track down in order to pay for me to go to SAB, but somehow she made it work, and managed to write her novel at the same time. She married my step-dad the summer I turned sixteen, and my baby sister was born the next year.”

Even Annabeth, cynical and black-hearted as she is, has to smile back. The love he has for his mom is so palpable, so tangible, she can practically see him glowing. “And the…” What had Thalia called them? “The ‘Cousin Consortium’?”

At that, Percy laughs, full-bellied, unrestrained. “The name was Nico’s idea. I didn’t really have many close friends when I was a kid, apart from my buddy Grover--he had to wear this really gnarly leg brace and I liked to dance, so you can imagine how much we got picked on--but we were all really close growing up, since our dads were all assholes. They may have left us emotionally scarred, but at least we had each other’s backs the whole time.”

This is a very Percy thing, she’s starting to realize: he can not and will not hold back on his feelings. He simply refuses to. Where most guys might try to hide or downplay their affection for their friends, Percy’s is written all over his face. Maybe it’s a byproduct of doing ballet, but he’s so unashamed of his love for his friends and his family and his art, that maybe Annabeth kind of wishes she could be included in that love too, if it always feels this warm and joyful.

“I think it’s amazing that you guys are so close. I only had the one cousin when I was growing up, and we didn’t really talk all that much,” Annabeth says, almost without her permission. Something about him, it’s just so easy to talk to him. He makes it safe to open up.

“The med school guy, right?”

Annabeth nods. “Magnus. Fifth generation Harvard student. We’re all very proud.”

Ugh. Even she has to wince at the false cheer in her voice. Percy gives her a half-smile, sympathetic and soft. “Harvard not really for you, then?” he asks, picking up the threads of a long and complicated story, and one that she absolutely does not want to get into right now. Or ever, if she can help it.

“More like I wasn’t really for Harvard.” Which wasn’t entirely untrue. She had been good enough for the university in Cambridge, Mass--good enough for two degrees and graduation with honors--but she had never been good enough for her mother’s capital-H Harvard. Never good enough for her mother at all, really.

Percy takes her hand. His fingers are cold from his iced coffee. “Hey. It’s their loss,” he says, with a sincerity and an intensity that makes her blush.

Every part of her wants to pull away. His thumb is rubbing against the joint of her finger, soothing and sweet, and she thinks she may break out in hives from it. “Damn right it is,” she mumbles.

He is so nice. So nice and hot and sweet. Objectively, what she’s about to do is a terrible idea, and might torpedo a really good thing that they have, but if she doesn’t come clean now her own guilt is going to drive her insane.

“Okay, I have a confession to make.” Percy raises his eyebrows, slurping the last dregs of his drink. “When we met… and then when we hooked up the first time… I may have… thoughtyouwereJason.”

He blinks. “Pardon?” he asks, mumbled around the straw.

Annabeth buries her head in her hands. “Please don’t make me say it again.”

“You… thought I was Jason?”

“Well,” she sputters, glaring at him through her fingers, “you were being all bro-y with Thalia!”

He is valiantly trying to hold in a smile. “You know, I distinctly remember telling you my name that morning.”

“I was really hungover,” she whines, “and you were shirtless and making breakfast so I wasn’t really… paying attention.”

“For a whole week?”

This is so embarrassing, why couldn’t she just keep her stupid mouth shut? “Yeah.” She slumps her shoulders, stuffing her hands into her jacket pocket. “Sorry.”

She’s not entirely sure what she expected: at best a couple of weird looks and a tentative promise to meet up later that would end up not working out, at worst she thinks he’ll just get up and leave her here at Bryant Park. Either way, they’d be doomed to months of awkward interactions, until eventually they wouldn’t be able to be around each other, and Thalia would have to pick a side--and Annabeth’s seen what Thalia does to people who cross her family. She’s seen Thalia beat a dude to pulp for calling Nico the f-slur. Picking Percy over Annabeth? That’s nothing.

So when he starts laughing, Annabeth is completely at a loss. Slowly, at first, then all at once, he’s laughing so hard his shoulders are shaking, and he has to put down his salad so it doesn’t topple over onto the grass. His head is tilted back in joy, the grey, late afternoon light adamant that Annabeth can see all of his features clearly, from his screwed up eyes to his bright, white teeth to the single dimple in his cheek.

Of course, even his laughter is hot. Asshole.

“You thought I was Jason!” He shrieks.

Annabeth crosses her arms, scowling.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I really don’t mean to laugh,” he giggles. Annabeth can feel her own giggle rising in response, and she ruthlessly quashes it. “I can definitely say I’ve never heard that one before. You do know Jason is blond, right?”

“As a matter of fact, I did not. Besides, you and Thalia look exactly alike.”

He scoffs. “No we don’t.”

“Uh, yeah you do. You, Thalia, and Nico are all basically clones of each other.”

“Okay, Captain Glasses, whatever you say.” He rolls his eyes, but there’s no heat behind it.

“I’m sorry,” Annabeth feels like she has to say again.

He cocks his head. “For what? For thinking I was Jason? He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“No, for,” she blushes again. All this blood rushing to her head can’t be good for her. “For sleeping with you when I still thought you were Jason.”

Percy scoots closer to her, throwing her a grin and slinging his arm over her shoulders. Without even realizing that she’s doing it, she settles in beside him like she’s been doing it her whole life, slotted up against his torso, tucking her booted feet beneath her legs. “I am choosing to take that as a compliment,” he says, smirking. “You couldn’t resist my charms, even when you thought I was a brogrammer.”

Annabeth can’t help herself. She kisses him, wiping that smug grin right off his face, and when she finally retreats, after what feels like hours, he looks so dazed she could probably keep calling him by any name she wanted and he wouldn’t even realize it.

After their lunch, they meander for hours, headed in a vaguely southerly direction, holding hands the whole time, a steady, uninterrupted flow that took them all the way from Midtown to Greenwich Village. He tells her about his first day at ballet school; she tells him about her favorite monuments. “There are two architectural environments in America,” she says, ranting, speaking with enough force that she might forget the feeling of his hand in hers, “endless dead suburbia, or cities where every single building is either a concrete or a glass block--and not even Brutalist concrete, just shitty, poorly designed, paint-by-numbers concrete. It is an absolute travesty of modern government that they don’t fund any public works projects anymore.”

“That’s why all the gardens and stuff?” he asks.

“Nowadays everything is built by the lowest bidder. At least I get to add some beauty back into the city.”

“I know what you mean,” Percy says. “Paris is practically overflowing with public works, you almost forget about it sometimes.”

She sighs. “You’re so fucking lucky. Paris is so beautiful and everything in New York is just hideous.”

“Aw, come on,” he says. “Not everything. What about the Empire State Building, or Central Park?”

“Well, obviously, those,” she says, just a teensy bit flustered, but she’s not about to give up the argument without a fight. “I just mean like, normal, every day buildings: offices and apartments and stuff. It’s all so samey and boring.”

He looks to her right, pointing at the building they are passing. “What about this one?”

She turns.

If she had known they were headed this way, she never would have taken them past here.

“It’s… okay, I guess,” she mumbles, staring up at the arched windows, pedimented doors, and Rococo details of Miss Minerva’s Private Pre-College Prep School. A shudder goes down her spine, like someone walking over her grave. “There are better Beaux-Arts buildings.”

Sensing her discomfort, he picks up the pace, and changes the subject.

Finally, he stops outside a nondescript building, turning to face her. “This is me,” he says, a little bit mournfully, squeezing her hand. “Are you okay to get home safely?”

This man is ridiculous; it’s not even dark out. “I think I can manage a few blocks,” she says, lightly swatting him. “Isn’t it kind of early for you, though? It’s only four o’clock.”

He flushes faintly, one hand coming up to rub at his neck. “Uh, well, I always give myself a little extra time--you know, time blindness and everything.”

“You baked in extra time in case I wanted you to walk me home, didn’t you?” She mock-gasps, secretly delighted. “Scandal!”

“Guilty,” he grins. “You’ve been to mine so many times, I was curious.”

She just barely stops herself from laughing out loud at the very idea of Percy coming to her apartment--as if. Thalia hasn’t even been to her apartment. Nobody knows where she lives, none of her neighbors know who she is, and this is entirely by design. “Cut me some slack; a girl’s gotta have some mystery. Can’t make it too easy for you, can I?”

“I have a feeling you’ll never make things easy for me,” he says, white teeth gleaming.

“You better believe it,” she smiles back. “Now that I’ve foiled your plans, are you going to be too bored?”

“Oh, I’ll think of something,” he shrugs. “I’m very resourceful when it comes to boredom.”

Inspiration strikes, and she grasps his hand, pulling him down the alleyway. She almost hates to admit it, but she has something of a Pavlovian response when it comes to hanging out with Percy. Annabeth has come to expect some really excellent sex whenever the two of them meet up, and maybe spending all afternoon with him has made her a little bit horny.

She presses him up against the brick wall, hidden from the street by the long afternoon shadows, and kisses him. His hands flounder for a second, before coming up to rest on her shoulders, this thumbs tapping against the base of her neck, fingers fluttering on her jacket. It’s an intimate touch, kind of chaste and very respectful, and he holds her with precision and grace. He wouldn’t do anything she wouldn’t want to. This is a date with no expectation of sex on his part. But Annabeth does not want grace right now, spooked by the ghost of her old school. She does not want precision. She just wants him. She just wants to keep him on his toes, keep him interested, blow his mind a little.

She just wants to blow him, to be honest.

He squeaks into her mouth as her hands fly to his belt, deft fingers practically ripping it off of him in an increasingly familiar motion. “H-hey,” he says, squeezing her shoulders, “this is--”

“Do you not want me to?” she asks, one hand playing at the top line of his underwear.

“No--I mean, are you sure? I’m-I’m okay with this, I just want to--”

“I know.” She kisses his cheek, then drops to her knees. “But we’ve got some time to kill, don’t we.”

Afterwards, when she’s finished with him, Annabeth wipes her mouth, and he whimpers.

“Ho… holy shit,” he pants, flushed and trembling.

She tucks him back into his boxers, doing up his fly. “There we go. That was better than being bored, right?”

He nods wordlessly, swallowing, shaking. His eyes are glassy and glazed, stupid like he’s just shot out his brain through his dick.

In the short time they’ve been together (though, honestly, this might be the longest relationship she’s ever been in before… and they haven’t even broached the “dating” conversation yet) Annabeth has been on the receiving end of several different Percy looks. His face will light up with joy when he first lays his eyes on her, so happy to see her (though she can’t really fathom why), glinting like the sun on the water. His eyes will narrow, glaring, even as he furiously tamps down on his growing smile when they start arguing over something stupid, like Annabeth’s affinity for olives. He’ll grin at her, knife sharp and slanted, licking his lips and looming over her after she comes down from yet another orgasm via his mouth or his hands.

Percy looks at her now like someone took a bat to his head, and instead of seeing stars, he sees little miniature Annabeths flying around.

He pulls her to him and kisses her, entirely too sweet for what she’s just done to him, but that is also a very Percy thing. And when she leaves him with a final kiss on his cheek and squeeze of his ass, she can feel that look burning a hole through her jacket, following her down the alley and around the corner, and she finds that she doesn’t mind the weight of it at all.

#my fic #percabeth #pjo #the rivalry ends here #ballet au #darkmagyk #woot!!!!

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until-we-fall-in-love · 4 years

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la volpe

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Reader, slight Marta Cabrera x Reader

Summary: You and Ransom have a complicated relationship.

Warnings: Smut, slightly dub-con because Ransom is an asshole, slightly unhealthy relationship, mild bdsm, rough sex.

If you are under 18, you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello everyone!! no one asked for this and yet here it is!! i hate ransom!! but alas, now i have this smutty fic of him so lmao enjoy?? also i’m physically incapable of writing ana de armas and not making it somehow romantic im so sorry i just have too big of a crush on her and marta

let me know what you thought of this!!!

***

The musical clinking of glasses and cutlery is soft against the piano twinkling in the background. The lights are low and glowing, candles and sparkling, dim-lit chandeliers overhead. The restaurant is dark and lavish, velvet and smelling rich and spiced and enticing. Wine is placed before you, plum and bitter berry tasting. It’s fine and expensive and you swirl it delicately in your sparkling glass.

Your eyes flicker up to the man across from you, seated casually, leaning back in his chair with broad shoulders covered in a black, finely knit sweater. It’s expensive, you can tell simply by looking at it. Designer, you’re sure. You know his shoes have blood red bottoms. He drips wealth still, smug as ever, handsome as ever.

“You look good.” He says with a smile curling at his lips.

You take a sip of wine. Your back is straight, the black, cashmere turtle-neck clinging to your figure. The delicate, ruby earrings glint under the low light, your hair pulled back elegantly.

Of course you look good.

“What do you want, Ransom?” You ask, setting the glass down carefully. You study him with cutting eyes, skeptical, but composed.

“Can’t I take my girl out to a nice dinner?” He asks, his eyes glimmering.

“Haven’t been your girl in months.” You counter, drum your crimson colored nails against your glass. You grow impatient, sigh lightly and glance away from him.

“C’mon, don’t be like that, princess.” He croons all low and soft, leaning forward onto the table. You like when his eyes flash like that, sincere for you. Just on the right side of desperate. He deserves it, since it’s been months since you’d last heard from him.

You’re actually certain he has a new girl on his arm now.

And you want to make him squirm a little.

You roll your eyes at him, at the way he tries to butter up to you with the nice dinner and a few compliments. You know he wants something. He always wants something and the gleam in his eyes is too sharp and pretty. Greedy, greedy man that would gorge himself on you, on this life, if you’d let him.

You bite your lip, watch as his eyes track the movement like a predator.

He at least needs to work for it.

“I could be doing a thousand other things right now, Ransom. Why am I out to dinner with you?” You ask instead, your lashes fluttering prettily as your eyes land on him once more. Your features are aloof and cold and haughty. It makes his blood boil, you can see it in the curl of his lips.

He huffs lightly, “Oh, yeah, busy Harvard graduate student, isn’t that right?” His voice is just shy of a sneer when he asks, “How’s the dissertation going, kitten?”

“Well, thank you.”

You look down your nose at him as his own eyes settle into a glare. The blue of his eyes burns and smolders, bright and sparking on you. Your gazes are as sharp as knives, gleaming and ready to gut each other.

You wait until he relents, takes this loss to hopefully get a win. He lowers his eyes with another breath, concedes.

He’ll give you another compliment, maybe reach across the table to touch you. Then he’ll ask you for what he needs.

“I am glad to hear that.” He says smoothly, “I know how much it means to you. I’m sure it’s incredible.” And he offers you an earnest look, the one you’re sure he’s used to get into plenty of girl’s panties.

And like clockwork, he reaches over to brush his fingers against yours, which are gently resting on the stem of your wine glass.

He gives you a smile like that’s supposed to work.

You roll your eyes, pull your hand from his.

You watch the heat and anger rush over his features and wonder if he’s going to make a scene. Now that would be fun. You wonder if you’ll get to toss your wine all over that expensive sweater, storm out only for him to follow hot on your trails. And he’ll drag you to the car and you’ll scream at each other until you’re kissing and your nails are biting into his skin and he’s trying to teach you a lesson in manners—

If your cheeks flush, he doesn’t notice, because he snaps, “Are you always such a brat?”

You smile for the first time that evening.

“No, you just bring out the worst in me.” You quip back before taking another slow, savored sip of wine.

He scoffs, “I could say the same of you.”

“Then why am I here?”

Now he does soften a little, “I want you to come home with me for my grandfather’s birthday party.”

Your brows furrow and you settle back into your chair, skeptical. “Don’t you have a girlfriend right now? Why not just bring her?” You ask, even though you already know the answer to your own question.

“You know you’re the only one I bring home to my psychotic family.” He says and now he captures your hand with his, brushes his thumb over your knuckles, leans close and in your space. His cologne is familiar and washes over you, spiced and warm and musky. Expensive.

“You’re psychotic, too.” You respond, but allow your fingers to slip into his. His hand is warm against yours and it slides against your palm, open and large. His fingers brush over the pulse in your wrist, move along the sensitive skin there.

“That’s why you fit in there, princess.” He says and gives you a shark’s smile, so hooked and gutting. He lowers his voice for you, “And,” His eyes roll up to catch yours, “I’ve missed you.”

The hint of vulnerability in his face makes you hum lightly, amused or pleased or warmed by it. You’ve missed him, too, in truth. Nobody is like Ransom.

There’s something about him and you that always keeps you two returning to one another. He’s inevitable, you think. You’ve never known anyone to get under your skin in such a way, to burrow their way into you and refuse to leave.

He’s a disease.

One you can’t cure yourself from. He’s ruined you for anyone else.

But you think you’ve ruined him, too.

It’s been months since your last fling with him. Years since you officially dated but you’re both always circling back to one another. He doesn’t bring any other girls home besides you. He was only ever serious about you. You’re both fated in some way, your stars entwined, looped and crashing into one another again and again. A dance that never ends, that you never want to end.

“Yeah?” You ask, soft and breathy, leaning towards him now, too. “Whad’ya miss about me, Ransom?”

His eyes flicker lower, over your form and they roam slow and savoring. He licks his lips fleetingly. “Well,” He begins, “I miss fucking you.”

The vulgarity shouldn’t shock you, it shouldn’t make you flush, but it does. You blame the little wine you’ve had. You pull from his touch once more, continue your game of cat and mouse and try to keep your thoughts from sliding into memories of him on top of you. At your neck with teeth. Parting your legs.

“Pig.” You scoff, shaking your head and pulling your hand from his. “You have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah, but she’s not you.” He muses, “No one’s you.” He adds, tilting his head slightly. “So c’mon. Come home with me, baby.” He then almost purrs and smiles again, slow and charming this time. He means it now and it’s the kind of smile that gets him out of trouble if he ever tried to wear it. It could be boyish, if it wasn’t so hungry.

You pick up your wine glass once more, glare over the rim before taking another sip. A bigger one this time, let it burn down your throat and warm your chest. You think your heart is beating faster than it should as he looks at you as if he wants to lay you out on this very table.

“Get me a diamond bracelet and I will.” You tell him, your bottom lip sticking out a little as you gaze back at him.

His eyes spark, dance with the flame of the candle. He looks a little crazed now, like he’s lost a few screws and hasn’t bothered to find them again. He looks a little wild-eyed and it’s enticing, the uncertainty in him. The promise of pain and pleasure and the fast pace life of the wealthy. All beautiful and dirty and filthy fucking rich.

He takes your hand and kisses it, slides his lips to your palm. To your wrist where your pulse flutters underneath his mouth, beneath the touch of his tongue. The threat of teeth. He murmurs then, his voice smooth and low and so lovely it makes you shiver;

“Anything for you, princess.”

***

The Cartier white-gold, diamond bracelet catches in the sun proudly and flashes brilliant light as your hand slides into Ransom’s while he helps you out of his car. You step out onto the gravel driveway and smooth out the tight, leather black skirt hugging your hips and thighs. You inch it down as you ready to see the Thrombey’s once more after nearly a year. You adjust your cream, turtleneck sweater, too. The knitting chunky and loose, oversized on you but chic and soft to the touch.

You have to be sure the wine dark bruise on your neck is covered, the red marked rings around your wrist are drowned in the sleeves of your sweater. Can’t have his family realizing his tastes in bondage, not that you think he would care, but you certainly do.

In fact, the mere memory of it makes you flush with heat in the crisp autumn air.

You’d barely gotten into Ransom’s apartment in the city before he’d shoved you hard against the door. A picture rattles, swings precariously. He kisses you with a brutalness you haven’t felt in months, the quick cut of his teeth at your bottom lip. His hands on your body, hungry, greedy hands that want to take and take and take.

You’d shoved him back, tried to get him off you as you glared up at him with fever dark eyes. Your chest was already heaving, rising and falling in quick bursts, your face flushed with color.

You’d already look frazzled, hair slipping from the updo it’d been in. His little hell cat, little brat that’s gotta try and fight him on everything.

“What do you think you’re doing?” You’d gasped, your lips already raw and spit-slick and he’d wanted to absolutely fucking ruin you--

He had smirked lazily, as if the whole world was his to take. But there was a restless bite to him, a deep seated and painful desire. A desperate hunger that was raw and open on his face as he looked at you like you were his for the taking.

“C’mon, baby,” He purrs, nearing you again, despite your palm going to his chest. As if that’d keep him back for long. You could tell by the look in his eyes, the dark, sharp gleam that he was going to get what he wanted. “I just wanna show you how bad I missed you.”

And you could feel how bad he’d missed you, the hard line of him now pressing back into your hip as he crowds you again. Your back hits the wall again, his hands already dragging under your clothes to find sensitive, bare skin.

He groans slightly, maybe at how soft you are, maybe because he does just fucking miss you.

But you’re not done protesting, even if your stomach is twisting in excitement. Even if there’s heat building on the inside of you, making you grip at his broad shoulders slightly.

“Get off me, Ransom.” You try to snap, but your voice is getting all high and breathy like he loves. You squirm, try to push him off once more.

He laughs slightly as you manage to wriggle out from beneath him. You dart for the bedroom and if you’d truly not wanted him, you would’ve slammed the door in his face. But you leave it, let him follow after you.

He shuts the door behind him, then. Strolls in leisurely.

“You think after months of not speaking, you just get to take what you want?” You ask in the haughty little way that makes his blood sing. It’s more to taunt him, more to test is control.

You could tell he didn’t have much left.

“Yes,” He drawls, arrogant, pushing up the sleeves of his sweater. “Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get on the bed for me?”

You inhale sharp and quietly, your wide eyes staring at him as he wanders closer. The bedroom, though large and luxurious, now feels too small. Like there’s no more oxygen and a single spark would send it up in flames.

“Make me.” You say, just to watch it all burn.

Within seconds, he’s on you, pushing you back onto the bed where the air leaves your lungs in a taken, guttering breath. His knee comes right up between your legs, his hands back on you and roughing you up.

You wrestle with him and he laughs again, excited, dark and knowing. “Oh, you wanna fight, huh?” He rumbles, grappling with your wrists. His strength shouldn’t make you all hot-blooded for him, shouldn’t make you want to sink into the silk sheets and let him do whatever he pleases but it does.

You ache already, in the core of your body.

He gets your hands down on the bed, pins you with his weight and his strength and his large hands. You arch your back, pull at your wrists to try and free yourself. Cry out when he squeezes harder.

“Am I gonna have to tie you up?” He says through his teeth, manhandling you, keeping you down with his weight. He releases your hands, but he’s on you, and it’s only so he can loosen his belt and slip it off.

You’re like a little doll, so easily possessed by him. So easily detained. You squirm and kick uselessly beneath him. The belt is slipped around your wrists, the cool leather tightening as he loops it in such a way that binds your hands together and above your head.

You’re about to snipe something about how the hell he’s supposed to get your clothes off now, but suddenly he grips the front of your t-shirt and just rips.

You gasp, mouth popping open in surprise for a moment.

“Fuck you,” You curse then as he starts pushing the shirt to the side, baring your chest to him, which is clad in a lacy, creme bra. His hands immediately glide over the skin exposed, the soft skin of your chest.

“Yeah, that’s what I want you to do.” Ransom snarks, fingers sliding over the soft fabric of your bra, digging in like he might—

“Don’t you dare!” You hiss, “This was expensive!”

“I’ll buy you a new one.” He tries to wager, pulling at the fabric a little, forcing you to arch up for him. And what a pretty picture you make for him, already all disheveled and roughed up, eyes shining, hands bound on his bed.

“No!” You try not to whine too much but your voice pitches upward as he palms a breast roughly through your bra, watches you with dark, hooded eyes. And thankfully, for whatever reason, he takes mercy on you and only pulls it downward, so your breasts spill from the top.

His fingers are gentler than you thought they’d be as he rolls your nipple slowly. He leans down to consume you in another bruising kiss, mouth hot and demanding, a little slick and open-mouthed. Messy in its roughness.

His fingers turn into a sudden, stinging pinch and you mewl lightly into his mouth. He swallows it down hungrily.

And then his lips drag to your neck, leaving you gasping and squirming, his teeth setting to fragile skin, mouth against your pulse. He sucks hard, until it turns into a blooming bruise of pain and heat.

“Ransom!” You yelp when it becomes too much, but the damage is done and you know there will be dark marks where he wants. You know there will be evidence of him all over your body by the end of this.

The rest of your clothes are removed in a hurry, tossed aside, thankfully intact.

He always gets what he wants, it seems.

It’d make you livid if it also didn’t make you so--

“Oh, princess, you’re so fucking wet.” He nearly purrs, fingers sliding through where you’re silken and petal-soft, velvety and flooded with heat.

He gets over excited, too desperate for you, only loosens his trousers, pulls himself out. You feel overexposed with his clothes still on, your bare skin littered with evidence of him, open and vulnerable to him.

He strokes himself, slow, with your slick before positioning himself. You can tell he’s painfully aroused, too impatient, because the smooth head of him glides along where you’re weeping and sensitive. You mewl, try to twist away from him but he grabs your waist with one, strong hand and holds you still for him.

“Do you have a condom?” You ask, breathless, watching as he makes another slow pass through your folds.

He snorts slightly, too fascinated with the feel of you, the way you glisten on him to even look up at your face. “No,” And then, “Aren’t you still on the pill?”

“Well, yes, but--”

He presses in a little too easily, just the head, and you gasp sharply at the stretch of him already. But! Your mind frets, but you should still be cautious! But it hasn’t been a full week of your new pack! But, but, but!

“Ransom,” You warn, wishing you could push at his thighs, straining slightly with the belt still holding you together. “Don’t-- unless you have a condom.” You get out.

“I’ll be careful,” He says flippantly, sliding out slowly and back through your aching folds.

He teases you more, makes you ache something awful. Makes your hips buck up and a whine be pulled from your chest. Gets you all desperate until he glides all the way in, bare, and fitting far too snug inside of you.

“Ransom!”

He groans, which falls off into a dark, rumbling laugh at the way you keen and squeeze achingly tight around him despite all your protests. A little velvet vice, and he’s delirious and heady with you, struck breathless at the sensation.

“But you just feel so fucking good like this,” He gets out, drops his head onto your chest, wraps his arms around you tight. You shouldn’t, but you give in to him, let your head drop back and moan, broken and soft, as he fills you.

He likes to fuck close and intimate like this, deep and dirty and with this violent sort of tenderness for you. He likes to make you lose yourself in the slow, rough push and pull of him, so you can’t do anything but take him and cry doing so.

Your memory is abruptly cut off when Ransom’s hand comes down on the back of your neck, the heated flashes of images you’d been thinking about burning through you. As if he can sense where your mind has gone, (and maybe he can, maybe he can see it in the way your eyes glow and get all wide-- the same way they do when he says something dirty that you shouldn’t like, but do, the slight soft desperation in them), because he smirks slightly. Hooked and curved and too sharp.

He quirks a brow, “Let’s make this quick.” He says, “So we can leave and I can push that skirt of yours up and--”

“Behave,” You hush, even if your cheeks are still burning, and you pinch his side for good measure anyways.

He hisses and swats your hand away before you tip your chin up and stride forward, only for the dogs to come rushing out towards the pair of you. Ransom grows upset, jolting back at their jumping and barking. He hates these dogs, whereas you’re able to press onward, allow Ransom to wallow for a moment.

He shouts at them, before hurrying after you and into the safety of the arching, dark doorway.

The party is already in full swing; you’re both late, of course. Ransom wanted to spend as little time as possible here tonight. But upon entering, you’re quickly and eagerly greeted by his mother, who has a drink in hand.

“Oh! Well, isn’t this a pleasant surprise!” She says, perhaps too loudly, but rushes forward to wrap you in a hug. You’re well-liked by most of his family surprisingly, who usually let loose scathing remarks about Ransom not deserving you.

And you put on a good face for them, try to put on the air of the Harvard princess; you know wealthy people well, even if you haven’t always been the richest. Mundanely middle class for most of your life, but you worked hard to go to Harvard, to play in the big leagues. You know what they like to hear from you and see from you; so you play rich.

“It’s been far too long!” She continues, pulling away to look at you, and then, “Didn’t think you would’ve stayed with him!” She snarks then, squeezing your arm and you force out a laugh.

You know not to mention you haven’t been with her son.

“Well, you know Ransom,” You shrug lightly, a dainty, graceful lift of your shoulders, “He doesn’t like to come around much.”

“No, the little shit.” She shakes her head, but her smile reappears after a moment, “C’mon, let me get you a drink!”

And you are led deeper into the house, deeper into the Thrombey’s absurdity and vanity and spiraling greed.

Playing rich is fun for awhile; your diamond bracelet sparkles in the low light and the clothes are expensive and flattering but there’s only so much you can take. You grow tired of putting on your best fake, glittering smile and parading around the big house.

A moment of reprieve when you speak with Ransom’s grandfather, the man of the hour, Harlan.

He’s always liked you dearly. Not because you have expensive boots on or because you’re poised and can put on a mask of wealth for an evening, but because you study literature. As an author, he thinks it’s one of the most noble pursuits, one of knowledge found in digging through books, getting lost in the stories only to emerge with concrete ideas and arguments. Larger concepts and critiques of society, a bigger picture that so few seem to grasp and pay attention to.

So Harlan asks, as he does when he sees you, “What are you reading right now, my dear?”

And he doesn’t mean what you’re studying, but what you’re enjoying.

“The Beautiful and Damned.” You tell him and a sudden laugh rumbles from him.

“A good one to revisit while you’re with my family, surely.” He says, all good natured and warm.

But the moment is fleeting with everyone vying for his attention, and the evening slinks onward. Petty squabbles are had, more drinks are poured, food taken and eaten and taken.

While Ransom talks privately with his grandfather, you rest on the couch beside Marta, tucked away in an alcove, reclining leisurely beside the girl you’ve met the past few times at the Thrombey gatherings. She’s lovely and doe-eyed and she smiles very sweetly at you. It’s a little timid and soft and you wonder how her dark lashes might feel against your cheek.

You offer her wine from your glass, which she declines with a shake of her head. Her smile is earnest and you manage to make her laugh somehow, soft and quiet sighs and giggles that fall from both of your lips. She is slow to open up but now she unfurls before you, petal soft and wonderful and glittering eyed in the softly lit room.

“You’re my favorite part of the Thrombey’s,” You tell her with a slip of a smile, take another sip of your wine and you think her eyes are following your lips. You feel a flush crawl along your face.

“Not Ransom?” She asks, because you think she’s wondering. Everyone wonders about you two, about him. No one knows your relationship, no one understands it. They don’t have to, but while you can hear Ransom faintly from the other room begin to raise his voice, you let out a huff of air. Almost a scoff at her question.

“Please,” You say, eyes flickering over to the closed door, where Ransom and Harlan hide behind. “I haven’t been Ransom’s girlfriend in years.” You admit and maybe it’s the wine that makes the words slip from you, drop like precious diamonds from the cave of your mouth. Maybe it’s the honesty of her face, the twinkling empathy in her eyes. She’d be soft, so soft and gentle and--

“I hadn’t even seen him in months until a few days ago, when he asked me to come.” You add, take the last sip of your wine bitterly; it’s turned sour and puckered and dry in your mouth. You set the glass down.

“That’s awful.” Marta says quietly and you don’t realize how close she’s gotten, your thighs touching, almost hip to hip. Your arm is leisurely thrown over the back of the sofa, behind her.

“Yeah, well,” You say and it comes out breathier than you intend, “That’s Ransom.”

“Why did you come?” She asks then, not rudely, but genuine.

You hold up your wrist and your diamond bracelet sparkles in front of her eyes, catches in the darkness there to look like a star. “I got a diamond bracelet if I came.” You say and it’s meaner than you intend it to be, but maybe you’re a little more upset than you thought. Maybe you wanna throw a fit. Maybe you want Marta to comfort you with lips and soothing words.

Maybe it’s just the wine.

“That’s not the only reason you came, though.” Marta probes gently, “Is it?”

Your jaw ticks and your lashes flutter as you turn to face her. “Why else would I?”

“Because you love him.” She whispers.

“Love’s a big word, Marta.” You respond, hushed and secretive, and your fingers slip into the hair at the back of her neck. A strand of it slides over your knuckles as you twirl the chocolate lock slowly, silky soft against your skin, “It’s so heavy.”

She blinks slightly, a rush of pink spreading over her cheeks. “Sometimes.” She whispers, leaning into your touch.

You wonder if she’d whimper if you pulled her hair, how she’d feel against your throat with teeth and tongue. If she’d cry out all pretty and soft, if she’d give what she gets.

“It is with Ransom.” You say, but you don’t think it would be with her. It’d be as light as the sigh that escapes her, the little breath that comes from her chest. As light as feathers and silk, snowflakes that swirl in the night sky, petals on the wind.

A door explodes open, rattles on the hinges, through the whole house. It makes you both jolt away from each other.

Ransom barrels out. You huff, spring up quickly as you watch him grab his coat and wrench the front door open.

“I’m sorry,” You tell Marta, “It was nice seeing you.” You say earnestly and then move to follow, to find your coat, and hurry out the door and into the chill of the night.

“What the fuck?” You shout to Ransom as you slam the front door shut behind you.

His eyes flash dangerously in the darkness, “Get in the fucking car.” He says, “We’re leaving.” And he slides into the front seat and slams the car door just as hard.

He’s in a mood, then.

You hustle over, slip into the passenger side and he peels out of the driveway and down the dirt path.

He’s eerily quiet. Uncharacteristically so. The growl of the car fills the silence with rumbling, with an unsettled sound that rattles through you.

You don’t dare break the quiet first.

And the quiet stretches and stretches, stretches thin until it breaks--

“I forgot something.” He says suddenly, jerking the car to the right, pulling off the road.

“What’d you forget?” You ask, browns furrowing. He doesn’t answer you, though, only stops the car, kills the engine. He stares in silence for a moment, as if he’s making a decision. You can feel your heart in your chest, the steady thrumming that skips when he raises his eyes in the darkness. The red light of his dash casts him in crimson, in unnatural white light.

The whole world feels at a stand-still, on a teetering precipice.

“I’ll be back.” He says and he leaves you, slides out of the car and into the night. Your stomach sinks for some reason, the plummet catching you off guard.

So you wait for him, alone, as a decision that changes everything is made.

***

Ransom is quiet still, pensive, when you both return to his apartment. After all that anger, you thought maybe he’d take it out on you. You’d both yell and scream and then end up making up on the kitchen countertops, furiously trying to rip away clothes and egos and pain.

But he’s uncharacteristically gentle with you as he lays you out on his sheets. Silver light from the moon, the faint stars, cut across the bed like a knife. Slices over his face in a diagonal, one half eclipsed, and the other luminous and sterling silver.

He gets rid of your clothes with reverence, looks over you with hunger and thinly veiled tenderness. A violent sort of need that makes him seem wolfish, even in his gentleness. He covers you, enfolds you in shadow and the curling strength of his arms.

He slides down your body, parts your legs and rolls the warmth of his tongue against where you’re most vulnerable and soft. He flutters his eyes up to you, threads his fingers through yours so you have something to hold onto.

He doesn’t stop until you’re crying, arching off his sheets, twisting and turning and tormented. Until tears slide from the corners of your eyes and you’re aching and open and then he gathers you in his arms, nudges his waist into the crook of your own and fits himself in the depth of you.

You gasp, open mouthed, as he finds home. His own groan blooming from the pit of his chest and out against the hollow of your throat. His hands are bruising, gripped too tight, but you don’t even care, not as you toss your head back, let it fall against his pillow.

The way he looks at you is somewhere between desperation and viciousness. He wants to possess you, he wants to make you delirious with him. Maybe because you’ve made him as mad with you. He wants to infect you the way you’ve infected him.

He wants to belong, he wants to keep you forever. He wants to give you everything, and you think maybe he says so. Maybe he gets it out into the crook of your neck, maybe he presses it into your skin besides all the marks he gave you. His, his, his.

He curls around you afterward, slides his hands over your vulnerable belly, the skin soft beneath his broad palms.

“Let’s leave and never return.” Ransom says and you blink, bleary and sleepy, glance at him with a flutter of your lashes.

“Where would we go?” You murmur, carding your hands through his hair.

“Paris, maybe.” He rumbles into your skin, fingers creating a strange, swirling pattern on your stomach.

“You can read and study and write.” He says and for some reason, your heart squeezes painfully. For some reason, you’re still foolish to imagine it. Sitting pretty in a cafe, a worn book in your hands, glasses of wine between the two of you. He’d look stylish and handsome against a violet rose sunset.

“And what would you do?” You ask softly, a whisper.

“Anything I wanted.”

Quietness falls upon you both again, slow and heavy. He fingers the skin of your stomach, slides over it in strange rhythms only he knows. You’re nearly on the brink of sleep when he turns his face up to you, totally shadowed now, and says;

“I have to tell you something, baby.”

And you can tell by the look in his eyes that this is the beginning of the end.

***

He’d said it was his hour of need and you’re smart so you listen and you absorb. You’re appalled and you’re a little shocked but you--

You keep your head on straight. Ransom starts to unravel.

The moment it’s discovered that his grandfather apparently comitted suicide, he starts to slip into a dangerous edge. He starts ranting and raving and then he’ll go deadly silent and then he’ll become prickly and hot. You are cool and collected.

You are waiting for your time to strike.

A detective is hired by Ransom in an attempt to win it all; and you are careful, walk the tightrope slow and steady. You keep him sane and dull the sharp part of him.

And then, the way a ribbon is pulled apart, Marta slips right into Ransom’s jaws. His plan didn’t work; Marta didn’t kill his grandfather. Ransom technically didn’t, either.

You think, maybe, it could’ve been put to rest here. You think maybe he could've walked away. But Ransom never half does anything, doesn’t ever not finish the job. He spirals.

You wait for a time to strike.

***

Your time is quick and fleeting and you remember piece of a conversation, a snippet of information that could change everything.

You speak with Fran on the outskirts of the family as they discuss heavier matters. She chatters a lot, on and on about just about anything. And you carefully weave the conversation, guide it slowly but surely towards this one factor;

“You have a friend that does toxicology, don’t you?”

She nods enthusiastically, tells you about what he does, how interesting it is. How long she’s known him. You gaze at the family, at the way they try to be hush and talk and end up bickering. Fran’s voice comes in and out, the world turning slow.

Another argument breaks out. Voices raising, cutting over each other. Ruthless. And poor Marta who has to deal with them all, whose only in this position because--

You glance at Ransom, watch his handsome face screw up into a mocking smile as he speaks with his relatives. Smug, greedy, too arrogant. You think about what he said; running away to Paris. To Rome or anywhere in the world. You wonder if you could’ve been happy with him-- dream about a life never lived. A path never taken.

Because later, when Ransom tells you to keep watch so he can slip the antidote back in Marta’s bag, you step away. You hide in the bathroom, peak through the crack in the door, breathe slow and quiet as you watch Fran catch Ransom in the act.

Watch as it all comes crashing down; a domino effect that will slide into place now. You watch as you tip the first scale, as you set the life you could’ve had with Ransom up in flames. Fran disappears, obviously upset and reeling with what she’s discovered.

You emerge once more, greet Ransom with a kiss on the cheek.

A Judas kiss, betrayal placed softly upon his skin.

You force yourself to look into his eyes, so he doesn’t suspect a thing. You smile at him, the kind of smile that makes him kiss you. Hard and quick and furious. He calls you his Bonnie, says so against your lips.

You laugh and hope it doesn’t come out as tumbling and mad as it sounds to your ears.

***

When all is said and done, Ransom ends up behind bars, just as you knew he would. Just as he should be. He thinks you had nothing to do with it, he thinks you’re gonna help him out of this one, too, somehow.

So you visit him in prison, dressed in Chanel and fur and the Cartier white-gold bracelet that flashes so prettily. Your heels click against the cold, tile ground as your approach the stall to speak with him. He sits behind the glass in an orange jumpsuit, garring and horrible. It’s unzipped slightly, showing his broad, muscled chest, rolled up at the elbows. A far cry from his lavish coats and scarves and sweaters.

His eyes glint when they see you, a tilting of his head that is arrogant and predatory. His smile is hooked when he sees you.

With all of your grace, you glide to him, take a seat in front of him. In front of the glass. You both stare at each other a moment, his eyes always so hungry and wolfish. Heat flares slowly inside of you, an inkling of torment from hell, from the devil before you.

Slowly, with measured ease, he picks up the phone to speak with you.

You reach for it, too, your eyes still on him.

“Hello, princess.” He rumbles into the phone.

“Hello, Ransom.” You say almost hushed.

“I miss you,” He says with his curling smile, a flash of sharp teeth. You think of them at your neck, on your pulse that beats rapidly.

“When I get out of here, let’s leave.” He then says, soft and murmured, “Let’s leave and never look back. I’ll take you wherever you want.”

You hum on that, look over him slowly, and you think that seeing him here, in the jumpsuit, behind the glaring glass, leaves your dreams of Paris dashed and destroyed. The idea of loving him, sitting on that balcony with a book in your hands and his hand on your thigh as you watch the city fall into dusk shatters right in front of you. You can put it to rest once and for all, dig a grave inside the pit of your chest and bury it.

“I don’t think you’ll get out for a long time, I’m afraid.” You tell him finally.

His eyes darken, brows furrowing, “What are you talking about? I’ll get the best lawyers, you’ll help me--”

“I won’t.” You say, finding his eyes, shaking your head the slightest amount.

His eyebrows shoot up, his face becoming cold and hard and outraged, “You won’t?” He asks, and then, “Thought you were my Bonnie?” His jaw ticks in anger, in pain that bubbles up inside of him, “You know I could get you here on assisted murder. I protected you. You knew everything--”

“Oh, Ransom,” You say, a slight sigh, pitying and soft. And now it’s your turn to be sharp-smiled, a slip of fox’s wit, “Who do you think led Fran to look into the toxicology reports?” You ask lightly.

He blinks, his mouth suddenly falling open.

“How do you think she caught you replacing the antidote to Marta’s bag?” You ask him, tilting your head, the look in your eyes cunning and quick and burning.

He stares in disbelief.

“I know I’m psycho,” You sigh, lift your finger to the glass, draw a swirling pattern as if you’re stroking his face. All that you feel is the cold, clear glass. “But you didn’t think I’d let you get away with this, did you?”

He sits back in shock, staring at you. And then a laugh bursts from him, rough and hard and he looks at you with awe, with a wild sort of amazement.

“Backstabbing, rotten bitch.” He says, but it’s with fondness. Like he can’t believe someone bested him, like he can’t believe you could be so cutthroat or ruthless, “You really were made for me, weren’t you?”

He looks at you like he wants to take you up against the glass in front of everyone, like he wants to punish you and praise you and love you so violently that you can’t see or feel anything but him.

But there is no rough love making, there is nothing but the glass between you and the triumph and the ache inside your ribs.

“It seems so.” You say and you let your hand fall away from the glass, your diamond bracelet clinking lightly. You take a last look at him, sear him into your memory like this, looking at you like you’re both the best and worst thing the world could ever give him.

“Goodbye, darling.” You purr, even if your heart is burning, even if your breath is tight. And then you hang up the phone and rise, graceful and elegant as ever.

You can hear his laughter, feel the way his eyes try to keep you here, brand you and scorch you.

You walk out with your head high, a too-clever grin touching the corner of your lips and a weight off of your shoulders, but a sinking feeling in your stomach.

You’ll miss him, you think, even if all the world knows you shouldn’t.

#ransom drysdale x reader #ransom drysdale x you #ransom drysdale x female reader #ransom drysdale #ransom drysdale fanfiction #knives out fanfiction #knives out #ransome drysdale x y/n #ransom thrombey #ransom thrombey x you #ransom thrombey x reader #ransom thrombey x female reader #ransom thrombey x y/n

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florenceandthemachine · 4 years

Note

okay but jackson falling for single dad stiles (◕‿◕✿)

SO (and I feel like I’m going to be saying this a lot) HERES THE THING.

@jacksonstilinskis, as you can assume, the first time they meet is a fucking disaster.

It’s a disaster because Stiles moved to New York for his bachelor degree, partially in an attempt to chase the highest scholarship he was awarded and partially in an attempt to get the fuck out of Beacon Hills, the place that killed his mother, his father, and his best friend — and the place that left him with a squirming three month old less than a year after he graduates high school, a gift from the recently departed.

He gets a major in Criminology and a minors in Mythological Studies, rocks the single father gig, and manages to teach Claudia (Scotts idea, Stiles had cried when he found out) what is okay to bite and what is not okay to bite, but getting into grad school is a whole other animal.

It’s a disaster because Stiles decides to forgo taking out a mortgage in student loans and tries to save up for his masters program by joining up with the NYPD. They have amazing benefits, amazing child support, and a legal team that could kick anyones ass.

It’s a disaster because six years later, when Stiles and Jackson first meet, Stiles is in uniform (a uniform he looks damn good in, Jackson begrudgingly acknowledges) and Jackson’s Porsche just hit about 87 miles per hour in a 55.

The best part is (well, the best part if you ask Stiles — the worst part if you ask Jackson) is that Jackson has been pulled over hundreds of times before, and he always — always — gets out of it with a smile and a laugh and an apology, and Stiles could not give less of a fuck. Jackson breaks out all the tricks. The smile, the pout, the puppy eyes. He actually thinks it works for a second — Stiles is smiling back at him, and Jackson isn’t above tilting his head to get a better look at the way the uniform hugs him, but then Stiles is asking for his registration and insurance and Jackson’s smile falls into a scowl.

Finally, he brings out the big guns — he casually gestures to his scrubs, mentions he’s on his way to a surgery, because being top of his class at Harvard Medical had to count for something — and he really was in a rush, officer, he had to get to the patient right away.

Stiles has the audacity to roll his eyes and laugh as he hands Jackson his ticket, and Jackson has to pretend that the sound didn’t make a shiver dance over his skin. “Well, I certainly hope you take more time and care with your patient then you do on your commute. Have a better day.”

The cruiser follows him all the way to the hospital, and Jackson feels a moment of petty anger before he realizes that the 23rd Precinct is basically right across Park Avenue from Mount Sinai Hospital. If he looks out the window of his office, he can see a steady stream of police cars going in and out of the underground garage.

Huh.

—

Jackson allowed himself a full week to whine to everyone who would listen about his ticket after he plea bargained it down, but then even he got tired of sulking —

(“I am not sulking, Laura.”

“It was over a month ago. You are absolutely sulking, you baby.”)

— sulking over who he had only thought of as Officer Asshole. Who the fuck gives a speeding ticket to a doctor, a doctor that was on his way to surgery?

Not that Jackson had actually been on his way to surgery. He was never in a rush to surgery, because he was never late to surgery, because he barely left the hospital on his days off, let alone a day he had a surgery scheduled.

Either way, that was months ago, and even Jackson couldn’t hold a grudge that long. He was in rotation today — Mount Sinai may have been one of the best hospitals in the nation, but it was first and foremost a children's hospital, and being in rotation — and seeing the people that they were helping, the kids they were helping, really helped bring that home to everyone.

He grabbed the next clipboard off of a stack and pushed open the door to the waiting room, taking count of all the parents and kids waiting for everything from a bruised knee (helecoptor parents) to any number of fakers (midterm season was rough on everyone).

“Claudia and Stiles... Stilinski?”

What the hell was a Stiles?

Jackson only had half a moment to think about it before a dark head popped up, a child that couldn’t have been more than six in his arms, and Jackson almost felt resentful when he realized that he was staring at Officer Asshole again. And Officer Asshole had a kid, who looked absolutely miserable, and Officer Asshole looked miserable in proxy to his kid, and Jackson really needed to start thinking of him as a “Stiles” before he accidentally called him officer Asshole out loud.

Jackson guided them back to an exam room full of stuffed toys and bright colors on the wall, letting Stiles take his time setting Claudia down on the bench before sitting right beside her. He introduced himself and smiled down to Claudia — who had a low fever and was squirming uncomfortably, rubbing her little hands against her flushed cheeks, and Jackson would never think that was not cute. Even a sick kid was a cute kid, and though this kid was sick...

“...it’s nothing to be worried about. Kids get sick all the time, and it sucks, but it happens.” Jackson said, using his full soothing doctor voice on Stiles, who looked at the same time utterly relieved and totally embarrassed.

He confirmed as much as he stood up, taking a prescription from Jackson for some children's medicine to help bring Claudia’s fever down, shaking his head slowly. “Sorry. It was probably overkill to bring her to a hospital, but I’m still pretty new to this parenting thing. I just... I don’t know, I have a tendency to assume the worst, after... well. I just do.”

Jackson almost laughs again, shaking his head. “Don’t ever apologize for advocating for your kid. It’s the best thing you can do, next to pulling over innocent doctors who definitely aren't speeding.” He reaches out to shake Stiles hand, dazzling smile on his face, and Stiles’ blooms into recognition.

“You’re the doctor! The doctor I pulled over. Sorry, I forget names and faces, but I could never forget that smile.” Stiles said, a grin on his own face, shaking Jackson’s hand for a few seconds before his eyes widened in horror, yanking his hand back. “Oh god. That sounded so creepy, I’m so sorry, she’s kept me up for three days straight. I didn’t mean it in a weird way. I just—uh, I have to go. Thank you again! Please don’t think I'm some freak in a uniform!” he says, almost tripping over a nurse as he backs out of the room.

Jackson is grinning even wider, a real smile splitting his face, and he can’t help but call after him. “The coffee cart on 102nd is great for long nights. Favorite for all on call doctors and most of the boys in blue.”

Stiles smiles weakly and gives a thumbs up, disappearing down the stairway.

Officer Asshole — Stilinski, he reminded himself — wasn’t just hot, he was actually kind of cute. He was a cute dad.

Jackson was kind of fucked.

—

Jackson is sitting on a bench on 102nd Avenue, looking up at the dark night sky, when a danish lands in his lap. Jackson just looks at it for a minute — he’s just finishing up a thirty hour shift, and he’s only vaguely sure what’s real anymore — before he looks up, staring dumbly at the cup of coffee extended to him.

“It’s uh, a peace offering. And an apology? I mean, I’m not sorry for writing you a ticket. You were speeding. But I am sorry for calling you Doctor Dickbag for like a week afterward. But that medicine you gave me had Claudia back to her giggly self in no time, so I think you’re even. With yourself.”

It’s Stilinski, and judging by his pressed uniform, styled hair, and bright (if not nervous) smile, he’s just getting on shift while Jackson is mentally checking out of his own.

As soon as he puts two and two together, Jackson gratefully takes the cup and takes a too long swig of what tastes like frothy sugar milk, almost gagging as he looks at Stiles like he had been poisoned. “What the hell is this, a hot milkshake? Oh god, I should have known you were the type who drinks hot sugar, not coffee.”

Stiles has the audacity to laugh as he sits beside Jackson, and the two of them fall into easy, if shallow, conversation. They talk about work, and themselves, and soon Stiles is checking his watch with an apology, because his shift starts at 4 and he has to get into the precinct.

Jackson watches as he stands up and puts on his fancy police hat, and later, he’ll blame it on sleep deprivation, but he calls out after Stiles’ retreating form.

“So, coffee and a danish, maybe breakfast next time? I’ll buy.”

Stiles stops and turns, looking Jackson over, and he grins as he nods his head, even if his cheeks are pink. “It’s a date.” He winks and turns back around, and Jackson actually feels goosebumps on the back of his neck.

Oh, Jackson was fucked. He flops back on the bench and smiles to himself, before frowning, whirling around to yell at Stiles’ retreating backside.

“Wait, what the fuck do you mean you were calling me Doctor Dickbag?!”

—

They manage to have several coffee / breakfast / here’s a meal dates, and Jackson is almost proud of their timing—Stiles kisses Jackson on date number two, a quick peck that leaves Jackson’s world on it’s edge as he grins at Stiles blushing backside as he speaks rapid fire into his radio, now buzzing with life. It’s cute on their first date, but gets old by their fourth date, they manage to kiss for almost twenty seconds in the ambulance bay at Mount Sinai before Jackson’s pager goes off. He groans and pulls away, glaring at the device as though it personally offended him, and Stiles laughs as he brings Jackson’s hands up to kiss Jackson’s knuckles.

“Go, go save lives. But, uh, if you were free on Thursday, I was thinking... maybe we could have our next date at my place? I’ve already got Mrs. Bobrowski on speed dial to babysit.” Stiles says, his tone confident even if he’s chewing his lip nervously. It’s a trick question — Stiles is off, and Stiles knows that Jackson is off, and Stiles already secured a babysitter, and Jackson can feel Stiles eyes dipping back from his lips to the low V of his scrub top, and Jackson wastes no time before agreeing wholeheartedly.

“It’s a date.” he murmurs against Stiles lips, squeezing his ass through the uniform, and Stiles squeaks in appreciation as he swats Jackson toward the hospital doors.

Thursday rolls around and Jackson puts on a tight pair of jeans, a button down shirt with far too many buttons undone to be decent, and adds just a drop of cologne to his pulse point. He looks good. He feels good. He buys flowers, for fucks sake, which means that of course when he knocks on Stiles door, Stiles is wearing a ratty tee shirt and sweats and has a pained look on his face.

“Jackson, I’m so sorry, Mrs. Bobrowski cancelled on me and I couldn’t get another sitter and I wanted to call you and tell you but I left my phone at the station and—”

Stiles looks miserable, and that’s all Jackson needs to know he’s telling the truth, that he truly is sorry, and that he’s going to tell Jackson “another time”, like having a kid involved would ruin a dinner date. Jackson takes a split second before shutting Stiles up with a kiss, brushing past him with a grand flourish as he says Claudia in the living room, bending down to give her first choice on Stiles flowers.

Stiles just stands in the doorway, stunned, looking as Jackson goes to the kitchen, Claudia skipping along happily behind him, excitedly waving her new purple flower in the air.

“Jackson, you don’t have to—”

“Stilinski, you have three seconds to shut up and tell me where to find a vase, and then tell me how I can help you with dinner.” Jackson says expectantly, and Stiles feels something warm curl around his chest.

—

They have dinosaur nuggets and carrots and peas for dinner, and Jackson loves it.

They watch a Disney movie and Jackson holds Stiles hand on the couch, and he loves it.

Stiles puts Claudia to bed and then turns to Jackson with such a hungry look in his eye, he can hardly blink before Stiles has him pulled into his bedroom, and fuck, Jackson loves it.

They barely get each other naked before they tumble into bed, and Stiles is rubbing against him so deliciously, and Jackson mouthes at his neck and bites at his pulse, and he would almost be ashamed of how quickly he comes, his body warm against Stiles, thrusting against his hips, but Stiles is right behind him, and they’re warm and sticky and have a mess on their abdomens.

Jackson just looks at Stiles in surprise, and they both stare a moment before they’re both laughing, desperately trying to stifle the sound so they don’t wake Claudia. Jackson wipes them clean with something on the floor (”that's my shirt, you ass!” Stiles basically squawks) and then they both lay there in bed, listening to the sounds of the city from the window, and Stiles starts to talk.

He tells them about his best friend Scott and his wife Allison that married right out of high school, and Allison who got pregnant before her first day at UCLA. He tells them about how after Claudia was born, they made Stiles the godparent, and then left Claudia in his care while they went on a much-delayed honeymoon to the coast, and then he tells them about how a little gas leak in the hotel robbed him of his two best friends and robbed Claudia of her parents.

He goes through it quickly — “what happened then sucks, but there’s no sense in wishing it was different” — but it brings him to his next point, lying with his head on Jackson’s chest, fingers tracing the lines across his stomach.

“Usually, guys run like hell when I say daughter. I’m a 26 year old cop with a 6 year old kid, and something about that is terrifying. Not that I think you’re going to be terrified, but—”

“Stiles, if this is the part of the show where you tell me that you and Claudia are a package deal, can it. I know. I’m not mad about it. Hell, I’ve already fooled you into thinking I’m more than just a dickwad, I’m not backing out now, I’ve put too much work into this.” Jackson snarks, and Stiles looks at him for a minute like he was crazy before he reads into Jackson’s facial expression, and his smile softens again.

“You’re still a dickwad. Doctor Dickwad.” Stiles says, playfully squeezing Jackson’s side. “But I guess I can keep you around as long as Claudia finds you useful.” he says with a dreamy sign, nosing along Jackson’s jawline once more.

Jackson just grins and turns to kiss him, taking a moment to realize—

he was so, so fucked.

#jackson whittemore #stiles stilinski #kidfic #teen wolf #stackson #officer stilinski #doctor whittemore #I love them #ask #flospeaks

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dawnwave16 · 4 years

Text

Legal Bug

Hey there, this is a one-shot I wrote today as it refused to leave me alone! I’m not too happy with the end of it but my sleep deprived brain wanted me to post it before it got lost on my harddrive! Hope you enjoy it!

Marinette knew that her classmate's thought that her only interest was in fashion. She also knew that they didn't think she was very smart. What they didn't know was that she was the youngest student in the class, having skipped two years. While it was true that her primary passion lay in fashion, over the years she had developed a passion for the law as well. It had started when she had seen how Adrian was treated by his father and had been nurtured by sheer necessity after becoming Ladybug.

After seeing one too many people becoming Akumatized due to fear while being trapped in Abusive relationships, Marinette knew that she needed to be able to help them. As Marinette, she couldn't do anything. As ladybug, she was able to find out where they lived and was able to guide them to the right lawyers that would happily take on pro-bono cases. When Lila had joined her class she knew that she wasn't looking at a girl who wanted attention, she was looking at an undiagnosed psychopath with a heavy dose of narcissism thrown in. She also knew that Lila was a pathological liar and that despite what Adrian had to say, taking the high road would not help them in the long run. Marinette knew that with so many enablers in her class she would have to work hard to get out as soon as she could. With this in mind, she threw herself into her studies. She was still Ladybug and she still did her duties as class president to the best of her abilities but she stopped doing all the extra things she had done for the class. Seeing how Adrian had refused to stand up for himself against Lila had made her realise that he would never stand up to his father either and had killed her crush on him faster than anything else could have. When Lila had pushed for her to be ousted as class president, Marinette had simply cancelled any plans she had made for the class, withdrew the money she had set aside out of her own pocket for any outings and dumped all the paperwork on Alya as Lila had said she couldn't run as president. She had then approached the student council and joined that instead as she knew that, while it was unlikely any prospective employer would care about it being on her resume, she wanted the experience. Her duties on the council were slightly less time consuming than the class president duties and she had used that time to push ahead in her studies. By the end of the year, she was a grade and a half ahead of the rest of her class. To hide how far ahead she was, she had asked Mr Damocles not to change her class but to rather let her teachers know that she was much further ahead than the rest of her class and to assign her work appropriately. He had readily agreed however it seemed Ms Bustier didn't read the memo. As a result, she handed all her work into Ms Mendeleiev instead. Ms Bustier got handed copies of her older assignments and any marks received from her were ignored by the school board. Ironically it was having to do this that brought Ms Bustier up in front of the school board for incompetence shortly after Marinette had graduated when Ms Bustier had tried to report Marinette for truancy. It was then that Lila's lies started to unravel but the grip she had on Marinette's old class was so tight that they didn't even notice when things were going wrong anymore. Less then a month after she had officially graduated from high school she had figured out who Hawkmoth was. She knew after the first time Chat had reacted negatively to the idea that Gabriel Agreste could be Hawkmoth, that he wouldn't be able to help her in the upcoming fight against him. So she went to master Fu with an idea. Make her parents temporary holders of the fox and turtle. Her father's build would provide the intimidation factor that they needed to scare Hawkmoth, while her mother could create decoys to distract Mayura. The key part of the plan would be to wait for Hawkmoth to Akumatize someone, then while chat distracts the Akuma, Ladybug, Tartaruga and Hú bù wǔ (Foxtrot) would head to the Agreste mansion to deal with Hawkmoth and Mayura. The took Master Fu as Serpens with them to collect and important documents that pertained to the miraculous as they didn't want to leave those in Gabriel's possession any longer than they had to. It didn't take long to convince her parents to be temporary holders, though neither Fu nor Marinette revealed that it was Marinette asking them for the favour and not Ladybug. They didn't have to wait too long to act on their plan either. Thankfully the Akuma that was sent out was a rather benign one that simply made anyone it hit speak what they were really thinking and while Chat had to work hard not to get hit, it wasn't causing any true damage. Hawkmoth went down relatively fast, to Ladybug's relief but Chat was still hissing angrily when she arrived a full hour later to the Akuma. One lucky charm later and the Akuma was defeated, however, Chat decided to let her know exactly how angry he was at being left to deal with it alone for so long. Marinette, as Ladybug, looked at Chat the whole time he was berating her, not giving her a chance to talk. Eventually, he seemed to run out of steam when Alya showed up for an interview and started to ask questions of her own. Ladybug had put a hand on her hip in annoyance by this stage and when she answered her voice was sharp. “Well, Chat if you had let me speak earlier you wouldn't be left looking like a fool now! To answer your question, the reason I was late is I had a lead on who Hawkmoth and Mayura were and I was acting on it.” Alya was the one to pick up on her word choice. “Were?” She asked. “Yes. Were. While Chat was keeping the Akuma occupied Tartaruga, Hú bù wǔ, Serpens and I were dealing with Hawkmoth and Mayura. They have been defeated and will no longer be attacking Paris. This is the last Akuma Paris will ever see.” Alya and Chat's jaws dropped. “But-” Chat didn't get the chance to continue as Serpens slipped behind him and removed his ring. Soon Adrian was standing where Chat had been just moments before. Alya instantly rounded on him asking questions by the dozen and Ladybug and Serpens slipped away unnoticed. They both dropped their transformation then she looked at Master Fu for a moment. “Master” he held up a hand then removed the snake miraculous and placed it in the box. “I am old Marinette,” he said sadly. “It's time I passed on the duties of Guardian as I will no longer be able to fulfil them. You may be young but you are wise and more importantly, you are ready. I hereby name you as Guardian of the miraculous.” As soon as he finished speaking a soft glow covered both of them. Master Fu smiled at her. “I have ten minutes before the memory erasure takes hold. Please stay safe Marinette, you have been a blessing to teach and I love you like a grandchild.” With that Marinette was left alone in the ally with the bag that held what felt like the weight of the world. When the news reached her a week later that he had died she insisted on being the one to arrange his funeral, getting help from Wayzz on what he'd have wanted. It was as Marinette was trying to decide what she wanted to study that she came across her first big stumbling block. What did she want to study more? Fashion or Law? She debated with herself for almost a week before Tikki, in a fit of frustration, had asked her why she didn't just study both. To Marinette, it was as though her path was suddenly clear. So she submitted her application to ESMOD with the plan to finish her fashion major there before heading to Harvard in the USA. To make sure she could get into Harvard when she finished at ESMOD, Marinette sent her application in at the same time as she sent her applications in at the same time, though she sent a letter with the one that went off to Harvard and was surprised to see she had been accepted into both. The committee at Harvard had been so impressed that she had planned so far ahead that they were holding a spot for her and she wouldn't have to re-apply when she had finished her other degree. Her time at ESMOD flew by with several of her teachers trying to get her to agree to go to work in a fashion house as soon as she graduated but Marinette stuck to her plan. She was using the money from her commissions to pay her way through her courses and for her transfer to America so she had taken to working at a coffee shop whenever she could, in order to have a little extra, just in case! She had also taken up dancing in her spare time, though she knew that that would always only be a hobby. Her time in Harvard got off to a rocky start. So rocky in fact that she reminded a number of the staff of Elle Woods. Marinette didn't let the rest of the student body know that they were getting to her however the staff saw it and decided to intervene. They contacted Elle and got her to come in for a guest lecture. They told her about Marinette and when Elle saw how similar they were she knew she had to help. It was then that a case dropped in her lap that she knew she would need help with. So she went to the Harvard board with an idea, let her take 4 students on to help her with the research and they would get to see how it really was in court as well as gain some real-world experience. The board loved her idea and soon the other lecturers had managed to get all of their first years students to apply. Marinette hadn't placed much hope in getting a position but had read up on the case anyway and she had several questions about what she had read. Soon the shortlist was posted on the announcements board and the news quickly spread around the campus. Marinette had been in a dance class so when she hears that she had been one of the ones chosen, she quickly went to double-check. She didn't want to show up only to find out it wasn't true after all. She was thrilled to see that she had been chosen and

ran to her dorm to make sure all of her notes where in order. The Kwami's all danced around her in celebration and helped get everything ready. Duusu went through Marinette's wardrobe to make sure she had the perfect outfit ready for her which had Marinette smiling happily. When she arrived at the meeting room she was nervous, but she relaxed slightly when given the brief. They were defending a man accused of killing his boyfriend when he had left him for someone else. Marinette had frowned when she heard that, something Elle noticed straight away. “What's wrong, Marinette?” Elle asked. “I'm not sure,” she answered, which made the other three laugh at her. “Probably doesn't understand the case as it doesn't involve fashion.” One said derisively. “It's not the case I don't understand. There's just something that doesn't fit with the police reports.” Marinette's voice was thoughtful and she had yet to look up from the file in front of her to judge any of their reactions. Her classmates were scoffing at Marinette's logic but Elle had a small smile on her face. Marinette had good instincts and Elle couldn't wait to see how Marinette would prove that their client was innocent. “Right Marinette seems to have a lead she would want to follow, what about you three? What's your take on this? If this was your case what would you want to know?” Elle asked. They didn't answer, how could they answer when they hadn't even looked at the case, they thought that they would just be watching the process not that they would be participating. “Ms Woods?” Marinette's timid voice startled them. “Yes, Ms Dupain-Cheng?” “Just Marinette, please. Anyway if our client was going to kill his boyfriend why was there no history of violence? Something doesn't add up here. From cases I saw in France if one partner was going to kill the other, there was generally several warning signs. I mean sure they could have come home one day and snapped but from our client's statement, it was an amicable break up with no hard feelings. Sure our client still loved the deceased but there is nothing that would indicate he could go into a murderous rage. In fact, if I look at his company log here our client was still at work when the crime happened. This company is infamous for having cameras everywhere because they have several high profile people that work with them, was any video footage pulled at any stage?” “Good! That is the type of thinking one would need when taking this case. Did you notice anything else?” Marinette frowned, there was something else but she just couldn't place it. It was only as she was sitting in court behind Elle that the thing that had been bugging her for weeks hit her. She waited for a recess before she said anything. “Ms Woods?” She started hesitantly. “Yes, Marinette?” “The shirt that was found that had the blood splatter on it was polyester, right? The type the new boyfriend wears.” “Yes, the prosecution said it was left behind by our client. Why?” “Well, I've noticed that our client only ever wears silk, linin or cotton designer shirts. Never polyester, so why would he have been wearing a polyester shirt that day? Is it possible that our client is allergic to polyester?” Elle looked at Marinette and smiled. “Why didn't I see that? They're not even the same size! Our client is at least 10 pounds heavier than the new boyfriend!” Marinette nodded then added, “Even if he had been wearing the shirt, it would sit differently on him causing the blood splatter pattern to be different. I know he doesn't have an alibi that can be proven and that this is a long shot but can we please check?” Elle agreed quickly and soon it was proven to have been impossible for their client to have done it. Something more caught Marinette's attention when the man, the new boyfriend, muttered something in French while still on the stand. The judge noticed Marinette's head shoot up with wide eye's and saw Marinette frantically write something down on her notepad and hand it to Elle. “Councillor Woods, your student seems to have something to add would you let her do so?” The Judge asked. Elle nodded and brought Marinette forward. The judge looked at Marinette and motioned for Marinette to speak. Marinette took a deep breath, “I'm sure you didn't mean for the mike to pick up what you just muttered in French but would you please repeat it so that the court can hear it?” The man narrowed his eyes but repeated his sentence quite calmly, he was relaxed as he thought that no-one in the room could French. His confidence took a hit however when Marinette smiled. “If it may please the court, what he just said translates to: 'This worked before, why did it fail this time?' I know you might not believe me but as everything is being recorded I beg of you to confirm my translation with other people who speak french.” The judge looked at her thoughtfully, then spoke: “How do you understand French?” Marinette was confused, “I thought my accent would have given that away, your honour. I am French. I grew up in France speaking French.” At her innocent statement, the witness exploded. “Why the hell he even come home that day the ex was meant to fetching some stupid MDC brand clothes that would never have suited me but that my boyfriend insisted we give back. He wasn't even meant to be home!” The court fell silent, then everyone started speaking all at once. The case got thrown out in much the same way Elle's first case had been and the other three students were stunned. “How did you know?” They demanded, rounding on Marinette as soon as they entered the room that they had all been using. Even Elle was a little curious she had to admit.” “What do you mean? If you talking about the allergy to polyester it was in one of the courses I took for my fashion degree that designers have to be careful to take textile allergies into account when designing.” Elle looked at her. “I knew you studied fashion, but so did I before I attended Harvard and that wasn't in any of my classes.” “I studied to be a fashion designer at ESMOD before I came here. I aim to be able to represent people in abusive relationships to help them get out of those situations. If I want to do that pro-bono I needed to have something else that I could do in order to support myself financially.” Her voice was innocent and honest but they could see the passion in her eyes as she spoke. “Why that area?” Marinette smiled again but this time it was a sad smile. “I grew up in Paris while a man called Hawkmoth was terrorising everyone to the point that people were locking away their feeling simply to stay safe. I saw several people get targetted simply because they were afraid of their partner for one reason or another. Sometimes they were able to get help to get out, but sometimes they weren't. Some of those that weren't couldn't get out because of not being able to afford a lawyer and I want to be able to help those that fall into that category.” For the first time since they met her, her classmates were quiet. They had thought she was there to get the attention of a rich guy who would support her. Elle smiled at Marinette's reason for studying law too then a thought hit her. “Wait, Marinette Dupain-Cheng, MDC, you're MDC aren't you?” Marinette laughed and nodded before answering. “Yes, I am but I wanted to be treated like an equal so I didn't advertise that fact.” Again her three classmates were stunned. This clumsy girl was a world-famous designer? How had they missed that? Elle seemed to get a little more flustered with each moment that passed. “But that means... And you know...” “Ms Woods, are you alright?” Marinette said quietly. “I'm still the same person you thought I was a moment ago. I'm still clumsy and prone to having anxiety attacks if I'm not careful. I'm human just like everyone else.” Technically she wasn't 100% human anymore due to being a miraculous wielder but no-one needed to know that. Eventually, Elle calmed down and thanked them for their help during the case. Their professors would be getting a copy of her reports on how they did as soon as she was finished them. She also promised that she would leave what she know knew about Marinette out of her report. She also wouldn't let that knowledge influence her report in any way. Eventually, Marinette graduated from Harvard, however before going back to France to set up her practice she decided to visit her long term pen-pal in Achu. Ali had been delighted when she arrived and soon Marinette had changed her mind about where she would set up her practice, deciding to stay in Achu full time. Her practice soon flourished as did her design business. However, the thing that flourished most of all was her relationship with Ali. What had started as a friendship and continued when they had agreed to email each other had grown into love without either of them noticing it. They kept their growing relationship out of the news and when they had decided to get married they made sure that news was kept silent too. It was on a rather warm Friday morning that Marinette got an email that she wasn't sure she wanted to answer. She had been invited to her 15-year school reunion. She spoke to Ali and they decided she would schedule a photo shoot in France that week and he would deal with several appointments there too and they would attend. She knew that she would be able to leave at any time so she wasn't too worried about that, however, she was 4 months pregnant, and she wanted to be careful. The photoshoots went well and it was finally the day of the reunion. Marinette decided to wear one of her designs, a simple navy-blue jumpsuit with a mandarin collar, embroidered with a geometric design in shades of blue that made the suit shimmer beautifully as she walked. She paired it with kitten heels, glad that her pregnancy wasn't showing

or affecting her balance in any way yet. Tikki had said that that was normal for all miraculous holders but Marinette still tended to err on the side of caution. When she arrived she saw that it wasn't just her old class that was there, which she was happy about. She had instantly gone to talk to Marc as she didn't want to deal with Alya or any of the others. This strategy had worked until Lila spotted her and decided to make a big scene about her being there. “I was invited Lila, I can pull up the email if you want me to and I can show you a printed copy if you still doubt me.” Marinette's voice was calm as she spoke. “Why would we want you here?” Alya spat. “She's allowed to go where ever she likes Alya, she's an adult.” Marinette turned to the sound of the male voice that had spoken. “Adrian,” she said calmly, giving him a nod of greeting. He was about to say more but Marinette's phone suddenly went off. She frowned then answered it appearing confused. She kept her conversation brief however in the time she was of the phone Lila had spun yet more lies about her. “It looks like somethings never change,” she said with a sigh. “What would a whore like you know?” Alya demanded. “Firstly, my wife isn't a whore. Secondly, as a major name in the fashion industry you'd think you would know better as any time she is seen out and about her name ends up plastered all over the papers.” Marinette leaned back into Ali's arms as he spoke, having felt him come to stand behind her earlier. “Ali,” she heard Rose gasp “But, Lila said...” “I do not know any Lila.” Ali interrupted sternly. “I don't know what she told you but I'd never even heard of her before you emailed me full of stories about her. Stories that a simple google search would and did disprove. It is due to those that I cut contact with you and blocked any further attempts you made to contact me.” Having said his bit, he looked down at Marinette who nodded. They ignored the shouting match that erupted behind them, opting to simply go back to their hotel room. Life would carry on either way and they knew they had a life with their growing family to look forward to.

#legally blonde #miraculous ladybug #smart marinette #hard worker marinette

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uk-news-talking-politics · 3 years

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The 'invented' free speech crisis

By Sam Fowles

Free speech campaigners are fond of describing things as “Orwellian”. For me, one of the most compelling passages of 1984 is the description of “doublethink”: “the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously and accepting both of them.” The term doublethink is aptly applied to our current debate. Freedom of speech traditionally (and legally) means, broadly, that the state cannot punish or disadvantage individuals for expressing an opinion or belief. Increasingly, however, a small but highly influential group has attempted to claim the mantle of free speech to justify its opposite: expanding coercive state control over what we can say in public.

These “pseudo-free speech” activists might normally be dismissed as cranks. Yet they exercise substantial influence over our government and laws. Their current focus appears to primarily be on universities. The 2019 Conservative manifesto contained a promise to “strengthen… free speech in universities”. Last week the universities minister Michelle Donelan threatened legislation to protect “free speech” in universities. On the same day Andrew Lewer MP organised a letter signed by 21 Conservative MPs calling on the prime minister to crack down on “censorship” in higher education. The letter was based on a report by the right-wing Adam Smith Institute claiming that free speech is under threat on campus. Two days later David Davis introduced a ten-minute rule bill, which would allow the government to fine universities that permit students to deny a platform to racist and homophobic speakers.

In their seminal study of how elected leaders can subvert democratic values, Harvard’s Stephen Levitsky and Daniel Ziblatt describe how “elected autocrats” use “invented crises” to expand their own power. While it may be premature to apply Levitsky and Ziblatt’s entire thesis to the UK, the “crisis” in free speech is decidedly invented. When one drills down into any example of “censorship” decried by pseudo-free speech activists, it becomes clear that these are not “attacks on free speech” but, rather, examples of traditionally privileged individuals being treated like everyone else.

Just a few examples can illustrate this point. The ASI’s contention that Peter Tatchell had been “no platformed” amounted to nothing more than an NUS representative declining to appear at the same event. In fact, according to the government’s own figures via the Office for Students, in 2017-2018 just 0.1% were blocked. A study of 10,000 student events in 2020, by the Higher Education think tank WonkHe, found just two instances of “no-platforming” (one involved a convicted fraudster and the other Jeremy Corbyn).

In 2017, the Telegraph claimed, “Student forces Cambridge to drop white authors”: The student had done no more than put in a request for some non-white authors to be included in the (entirely white) curriculum. Matthew Goodwin, one of the most high-profile proponents of the pseudo-crisis, claims that his “academic freedom” is infringed because of his right-wing views. Yet, as an example, he offers little more than the time a colleague described him as “problematic”. Professor Kathleen Stock’s warning that the LGBTQ+ charity Stonewall had “politically captured every academic institution in the UK” turned out to be mainly a complaint that some institutions had adopted the charity’s “Diversity Champion” kitemark.

Another version of the pseudo-crisis is the claim that “cancel culture” has made those with right-wing views feel “afraid to speak out”. Given that the majority of the UK’s media, its best-funded think tanks, and its government all-platform right-wing views, this contention appears somewhat strange. Nevertheless, it is repeated in a recent report by Policy Exchange. Given, however, that pseudo crisis narrative is repeated in most news outlets and across social media, Policy Exchange’s results could just as easily be the result of perception as reality.

At the root of the pseudo-crisis narrative are two conflations. First, of “speech” with “platform”. Speech is a right, platform is a privilege. Universities and students unions are independent organisations and are entitled to offer their platform to whoever they choose. Similarly, Stonewall is entitled to put whatever conditions it wants on use of its kitemark. Davis, in introducing his bill, complained that various colleagues had been “no-platformed”. But Davis and his friends have no more right to speak at universities than I have to perform on Strictly Come Dancing: Both are limited platforms (i.e., not everyone can be included), and both belong to independent organisations.

The second conflation is of “censorship” with “criticism”. Professor Stock claimed, in the Mail on Sunday (not a platform that is generally offered to those with contrary views) that colleagues who signed a letter criticising her OBE were trying to “bully” her “into silence”. But Professor Stock’s colleagues are entitled to just as much freedom of expression as she is. If they want to use it to criticise her, that is their prerogative. The nature of free speech is that some people will have views you don’t like.

The crisis might be invented, but it is being used to justify a very real expansion of state control over universities. Roy Jenkins, a former home secretary and chancellor of Oxford University, once said: “It is difficult to think of any field of human endeavour in which central regulation is a greater enemy of excellence than that of the organisation of the teaching and research of universities.”

Yet central regulation is exactly what we are getting. In the 1980s the Thatcher government stripped universities of the power to determine how their funding was distributed, handing it instead to ministers and officials. The Cameron government eliminated funding for the humanities (coincidentally a discipline that commonly produces criticism of the state). Since 2015, universities have been forced to crack down on political dissent. The government has compelled them to ban events such as a panel on Kurdish political struggles at Cambridge and events supporting rights for Palestinians at Exeter and the LSE. It may be coincidental that universities and students unions have traditionally been centres of political opposition to Conservative governments.

Davis claims his bill will require universities to “uphold freedom of speech”. But such a duty already exists under both the Education Act 1986 and the Human Rights Act 1998. It seems, however, that Mr Davis’s bill will redefine the existing duty so as to require universities to police their academics and students. This will, in effect, force them to give a platform for speakers of whom the government approves. Mr Davis’s bill may be just the start. The Lewer letter calls on the government to ban student unions (the leadership of which is directly elected by the students) from engaging in activities that the government considers “political”. The report on which it is based appears to recommend using the coercive power of the state to break up unions that don’t conform to the government’s definition of acceptable student activities.

These are real threats to freedom of speech. They are justified on the basis of imaginary threats. As Levistsky and Ziblatt put it: “One of the great ironies of how democracies die is that the very defence of democracy is often used as a pretext for its subversion.” War is peace. Freedom is slavery. Free speech is censorship. Censorship is free speech ...

#free speech

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tabloidtoc · 4 years

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National Examiner, August 10

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: What really killed Elvis Presley

Page 2: Secrets behind Gladiator with Russell Crowe

Page 4: Diane Keaton’s duds are a dandy delight -- at 74 she makes eccentricity chic

Page 6: Two Florida sanitation employees who have never missed a day of work could not believe what they saw along their regular route -- people lining the street to cheer them

Page 7: William Shatner has finally decided who’s going to play him in the biopic of his lengthy life -- Chris Pine, Ray Romano is loving being surrounded by his kids during the quarantine, The Golden Girls house for sale at $2.9 million, congrats to Jimmy and Rosalynn Carter who celebrated their 74th wedding anniversary making them the longest-married presidential couple in history

Page 8: Beat the heat at low cost, giggling do-gooders dressed in silly tutus have found a kind and funny way to make their neighbors smile -- they live anonymous gift baskets of wine on doorsteps

Page 9: These stricken celebs made it through their own COVID crisis

Page 10: When a fireworks prank destroyed an elderly Missouri couple’s mailbox and they had no choice but to stand in the rain waiting for the postman to deliver their medicines until a kindly cop went above and beyond for them by buying them a new mailbox and installing it for them

Page 11: Your Health

Page 12: The Sam Elliott you never knew -- at 76 the silver fox spills about life away from Tinseltown and why he’s not afraid to cry

Page 14: Dear Tony -- Bullying is wrong -- use it to develop character

Page 15: Christopher Buckley was the former national security for the Ku Klux Klan but now goes around teaching compassion and helping to wipe out racial hatred

Page 16: The hidden truth about Yoko Ono and John Lennon and The Beatles -- how she overcame tragedy and what really tore the band apart

Page 18: Sanitation man works his way to Harvard Law

Page 19: Tumani the 13-year-old gorilla at the New Orleans Audubon Zoo is about to become a first-time mommy

Page 20: Cover Story -- what really killed Elvis -- why The King was destined to die young

Page 22: Roux the rescue dog did some rescuing of her own on the Fourth of July -- her bark saved the sleeping family next door from a house fire

Page 24: A Florida woman has found an inventive way to visit her husband with Alzheimer’s during the pandemic lockdown -- she got a job washing dishes at his memory-care center

Page 25: The daughter of a Marine who died before she was born finally has something to remember him by thanks to a sharp-eyed kid who found her dad’s missing dog tag 46 years later

Page 26: Willie Nelson revealed Kenny Rogers offered him the song The Gambler but he turned it down and that song became Kenny’s signature song

Page 28: The Good Doctor

Page 32: A Boston college student sat down and played an impromptu concert at a store never knowing his performance would strike a chord with viewers and he would end up owning his own free piano

Page 38: Nursing home residents looking for something to do to fill their quarantine hours had a ball re-creating some of the most legendary album covers

Page 40: Tony’s Mystic World -- the new Ten Commandments, a couple with 14 kids will give viewers the scoop on what their lives are like with a huge family in a new TLC reality show called Doubling Down with the Derricos

Page 44: Eyes on the Stars -- Jennifer Garner (picture), Orlando Bloom (picture), James Corden (picture), Mickey Rourke has come out swinging against Robert De Niro, Cameron Diaz says Benji Madden has written at least a dozen songs for their daughter Raddix, Gia Giudice got a nose job, Beverly Johnson is engaged at 67, Charlie Daniels completed his first novel before he died

Page 45: Arnold Schwarzenegger and son Joseph Baena go for a bike ride (picture), Carrie Ann Inaba cried when she learned Tom Bergeron and Erin Andrews had been let go from Dancing With the Stars but says they’re in good hands with Tyra Banks, Princess Beatrice wore a wedding dress borrowed from the queen

Page 47: Loretta Lynn’s message of hope

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blackkudos · 4 years

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Percy Julian

Percy Lavon Julian (April 11, 1899 – April 19, 1975) was an American research chemist and a pioneer in the chemical synthesis of medicinal drugs from plants. He was the first to synthesize the natural product physostigmine, plus a pioneer in the industrial large-scale chemical synthesis of the human hormones progesterone and testosterone from plant sterols such as stigmasterol and sitosterol. His work laid the foundation for the steroid drug industry's production of cortisone, other corticosteroids, and birth control pills.

He later started his own company to synthesize steroid intermediates from the wild Mexican yam. His work helped greatly reduce the cost of steroid intermediates to large multinational pharmaceutical companies, helping to significantly expand the use of several important drugs.

Julian received more than 130 chemical patents. He was one of the first African Americans to receive a doctorate in chemistry. He was the first African-American chemist inducted into the National Academy of Sciences, and the second African-American scientist inducted (behind David Blackwell) from any field.

Early life and education

Percy Lavon Julian was born on April 11, 1899, in Montgomery, Alabama, as the first child of six born to James Sumner Julian and Elizabeth Lena Julian, née Adams. Both of his parents were graduates of what was to be Alabama State University. His father, James, whose own father had been a slave, was employed as a clerk in the Railway Service of the United States Post Office, while his mother, Elizabeth, worked as a schoolteacher. Percy Julian grew up in the time of racist Jim Crow culture and legal regime in the southern United States. Among his childhood memories was finding a lynched man hanged from a tree while walking in the woods near his home. At a time when access to an education beyond the eighth grade was extremely rare for African-Americans, Julian's parents steered all of their children toward higher education. Julian attended DePauw University in Greencastle, Indiana. The college accepted few African-American students. The segregated nature of the town forced social humiliations. Julian was not allowed to live in the college dormitories and first stayed in an off-campus boarding home, which refused to serve him meals. It took him days before Julian found an establishment where he could eat. He later found work firing the furnace, waiting tables, and doing other odd jobs in a fraternity house; in return, he was allowed to sleep in the attic and eat at the house. Julian graduated from DePauw in 1920 as a Phi Beta Kappa and valedictorian. By 1930 Julian's father would move the entire family to Greencastle so that all his children could attend college at DePauw. He still worked as a railroad postal clerk.

After graduating from DePauw, Julian wanted to obtain his doctorate in chemistry, but learned it would be difficult for an African-American to do so. Instead he obtained a position as a chemistry instructor at Fisk University. In 1923 he received an Austin Fellowship in Chemistry, which allowed him to attend Harvard University to obtain his M.S. However, worried that white students would resent being taught by an African-American, Harvard withdrew Julian's teaching assistantship, making it impossible for him to complete his Ph.D. at Harvard.

In 1929, while an instructor at Howard University, Julian received a Rockefeller Foundation fellowship to continue his graduate work at the University of Vienna, where he earned his Ph.D. in 1931. He studied under Ernst Späth and was considered an impressive student. In Europe, he found freedom from the racial prejudices that had stifled him in the States. He freely participated in intellectual social gatherings, went to the opera and found greater acceptance among his peers. Julian was one of the first African Americans to receive a Ph.D. in chemistry, after St. Elmo Brady and Dr. Edward M.A. Chandler.

After returning from Vienna, Julian taught for one year at Howard University. At Howard, in part due to his position as a department head, Julian became caught up in university politics, setting off an embarrassing chain of events. At university president Mordecai Wyatt Johnson's request, he goaded white Professor of chemistry, Jacob Shohan (Ph.D from Harvard ), into resigning. In late May 1932, Shohan retaliated by releasing to the local African-American newspaper the letters Julian had written to him from Vienna. The letters described "a variety of subjects from wine, pretty Viennese women, music and dances, to chemical experiments and plans for the new chemical building." In the letters, he spoke with familiarity, and with some derision, of specific members of the Howard University faculty, terming one well-known Dean, an "ass".

Around this same time, Julian also became entangled in an interpersonal conflict with his laboratory assistant, Robert Thompson. Julian had recommended Thompson for dismissal in March 1932. Thompson sued Julian for "alienating the affections of his wife", Anna Roselle Thompson, stating he had seen them together in a sexual tryst. Julian counter-sued him for libel. When Thompson was fired, he too gave the paper intimate and personal letters which Julian had written to him from Vienna. Dr. Julian's letters revealed "how he fooled the [Howard] president into accepting his plans for the chemistry building" and "how he bluffed his good friend into appointing" a professor of Julian's liking. Through the summer of 1932, the Baltimore Afro-American published all of Julian's letters. Eventually, the scandal and accompanying pressure forced Julian to resign. He lost his position and everything he had worked for.

Some happiness for Dr. Julian, however, was to come from this scandal. On December 24, 1935 he married Anna Roselle (Ph.D. in Sociology, 1937, University of Pennsylvania). They had two children: Percy Lavon Julian, Jr. (August 31, 1940 – February 24, 2008), who became a noted civil rights lawyer in Madison, Wisconsin; and Faith Roselle Julian (1944– ), who still resides in their Oak Park home and often makes inspirational speeches about her father and his contributions to science.

At the lowest point in Julian's career, his former mentor, William Martin Blanchard, professor of chemistry at DePauw, threw him a much-needed lifeline. Blanchard offered Julian a position to teach organic chemistry at DePauw University in 1932. Julian then helped Josef Pikl, a fellow student at the University of Vienna, to come to the United States to work with him at DePauw. In 1935 Julian and Pikl completed the total synthesis of physostigmine and confirmed the structural formula assigned to it. Robert Robinson of Oxford University in the U.K. had been the first to publish a synthesis of physostigmine, but Julian noticed that the melting point of Robinson's end product was wrong, indicating that he had not created it. When Julian completed his synthesis, the melting point matched the correct one for natural physostigmine from the calabar bean.

Julian also extracted stigmasterol, which took its name from Physostigma venenosum, the west African calabar bean that he hoped could serve as raw material for synthesis of human steroidal hormones. At about this time, in 1934, Butenandt and Fernholz, in Germany, had shown that stigmasterol, isolated from soybean oil, could be converted to progesterone by synthetic organic chemistry.

Private sector work: Glidden

In 1936 Julian was denied a professorship at DePauw for racial reasons. DuPont had offered a job to fellow chemist Josef Pikl but declined to hire Julian, despite his superlative qualifications as an organic chemist, apologizing that they were "unaware he was a Negro". Julian next applied for a job at the Institute of Paper Chemistry (IPC) in Appleton, Wisconsin. However, Appleton was a sundown town, forbidding African Americans from staying overnight, stating directly: "No Negro should be bed or boarded overnight in Appleton."

Meanwhile, Julian had written to the Glidden Company, a supplier of soybean oil products, to request a five-gallon sample of the oil to use as his starting point for the synthesis of human steroidal sex hormones (in part because his wife was suffering from infertility). After receiving the request, W. J. O'Brien, a vice-president at Glidden, made a telephone call to Julian, offering him the position of director of research at Glidden's Soya Products Division in Chicago. He was very likely offered the job by O'Brien because he was fluent in German, and Glidden had just purchased a modern continuous countercurrent solvent extraction plant from Germany for the extraction of vegetable oil from soybeans for paints and other uses.

Julian supervised the assembly of the plant at Glidden when he arrived in 1936. He then designed and supervised construction of the world's first plant for the production of industrial-grade, isolated soy protein from oil-free soybean meal. Isolated soy protein could replace the more expensive milk casein in industrial applications such as coating and sizing of paper, glue for making Douglas fir plywood, and in the manufacture of water-based paints.

At the start of World War II, Glidden sent a sample of Julian's isolated soy protein to National Foam System Inc. (today a unit of Kidde Fire Fighting), which used it to develop Aer-O-Foam, the U.S. Navy's beloved fire-fighting "bean soup." While it was not exactly Julian's brainchild, his meticulous care in the preparation of the soy protein made the fire fighting foam possible. When a hydrolyzate of isolated soy yuh protein was fed into a water stream, the mixture was converted into a foam by means of an aerating nozzle. The soy protein foam was used to smother oil and gasoline fires aboard ships and was particularly useful on aircraft carriers. It saved the lives of thousands of sailors and airmen. Citing this achievement, in 1947 the NAACP awarded Julian the Spingarn Medal, its highest honor.

Steroids

Percy's research at Glidden changed direction in 1940 when he began work on synthesizing progesterone, estrogen, and testosterone from the plant sterols stigmasterol and sitosterol, isolated from soybean oil by a foam technique he invented and patented. At that time clinicians were discovering many uses for the newly discovered hormones. However, only minute quantities could be extracted from hundreds of pounds of the spinal cords of animals.

In 1940 Julian was able to produce 100 lb of mixed soy sterols daily, which had a value of $10,000 ($86,000 today) as sex hormones. Julian was soon ozonizing 100 pounds daily of mixed sterol dibromides. The soy stigmasterol was easily converted into commercial quantities of the female hormone progesterone, and the first pound of progesterone he made, valued at $63,500 ($543,000 today), was shipped to the buyer, Upjohn, in an armored car. Production of other sex hormones soon followed.

His work made possible the production of these hormones on a larger industrial scale, with the potential of reducing the cost of treating hormonal deficiencies. Julian and his co-workers obtained patents for Glidden on key processes for the preparation of progesterone and testosterone from soybean plant sterols. Product patents held by a former cartel of European pharmaceutical companies had prevented a significant reduction in wholesale and retail prices for clinical use of these hormones in the 1940s. He saved many lives with this discovery.

On April 13, 1949, rheumatologist Philip Hench at the Mayo Clinic announced the dramatic effectiveness of cortisone in treating rheumatoid arthritis. The cortisone was produced by Merck at great expense using a complex 36-step synthesis developed by chemist Lewis Sarett, starting with deoxycholic acid from cattle bile acids. On September 30, 1949, Julian announced an improvement in the process of producing cortisone. This eliminated the need to use osmium tetroxide, which was a rare and expensive chemical. By 1950, Glidden could begin producing closely related compounds which might have partial cortisone activity. Julian also announced the synthesis, starting with the cheap and readily available pregnenolone (synthesized from the soybean oil sterol stigmasterol) of the steroid cortexolone (also known as Reichstein's Substance S), a molecule that differed from cortisone by a single missing oxygen atom; and possibly 17α-hydroxyprogesterone and pregnenetriolone, which he hoped might also be effective in treating rheumatoid arthritis, but unfortunately they were not.

On April 5, 1952, biochemist Durey Peterson and microbiologist Herbert Murray at Upjohn published the first report of a fermentation process for the microbial 11α-oxygenation of steroids in a single step (by common molds of the order Mucorales). Their fermentation process could produce 11α-hydroxyprogesterone or 11α-hydroxycortisone from progesterone or Compound S, respectively, which could then by further chemical steps be converted to cortisone or 11β-hydroxycortisone (cortisol).

After two years, Glidden abandoned production of cortisone to concentrate on Substance S. Julian developed a multistep process for conversion of pregnenolone, available in abundance from soybean oil sterols, to cortexolone. In 1952, Glidden, which had been producing progesterone and other steroids from soybean oil, shut down its own production and began importing them from Mexico through an arrangement with Diosynth (a small Mexican company founded in 1947 by Russell Marker after leaving Syntex). Glidden's cost of production of cortexolone was relatively high, so Upjohn decided to use progesterone, available in large quantity at low cost from Syntex, to produce cortisone and hydrocortisone.

In 1953, Glidden decided to leave the steroid business, which had been relatively unprofitable over the years despite Julian's innovative work. On December 1, 1953, Julian left Glidden after 18 years, giving up a salary of nearly $50,000 a year (equivalent to $480,000 in 2019) to found his own company, Julian Laboratories, Inc., taking over the small, concrete-block building of Suburban Chemical Company in Franklin Park, Illinois.

On December 2, 1953, Pfizer acquired exclusive licenses of Glidden patents for the synthesis of Substance S. Pfizer had developed a fermentation process for microbial 11β-oxygenation of steroids in a single step that could convert Substance S directly to 11β-hydrocortisone (cortisol), with Syntex undertaking large-scale production of cortexolone at very low cost.

Oak Park and Julian Laboratories

Circa 1950, Julian moved his family to the Chicago suburb of Oak Park, becoming the first African-American family to reside there. Although some residents welcomed them into the community, there was also opposition. Before they even moved in, on Thanksgiving Day, 1950, their home was fire-bombed. Later, after they moved in, the house was attacked with dynamite on June 12, 1951. The attacks galvanized the community, and a community group was formed to support the Julians. Julian's son later recounted that during these times, he and his father often kept watch over the family's property by sitting in a tree with a shotgun.

In 1953, Julian founded his own research firm, Julian Laboratories, Inc. He brought many of his best chemists, including African-Americans and women, from Glidden to his own company. Julian won a contract to provide Upjohn with $2 million worth of progesterone (equivalent to $17 million today). To compete against Syntex, he would have to use the same Mexican yam, obtained from the Mexican barbasco trade, as his starting material. Julian used his own money and borrowed from friends to build a processing plant in Mexico, but he could not get a permit from the government to harvest the yams. Abraham Zlotnik, a former Jewish University of Vienna classmate whom Julian had helped escape from the Holocaust, led a search to find a new source of the yam in Guatemala for the company.

In July 1956, Julian and executives of two other American companies trying to enter the Mexican steroid intermediates market appeared before a U.S. Senate subcommittee. They testified that Syntex was using undue influence to monopolize access to the Mexican yam. The hearings resulted in Syntex signing a consent decree with the U.S. Justice Department. While it did not admit to restraining trade, it promised not to do so in the future. Within five years, large American multinational pharmaceutical companies had acquired all six producers of steroid intermediates in Mexico, four of which had been Mexican-owned.

Syntex reduced the cost of steroid intermediates more than 250-fold over twelve years, from $80 per gram in 1943 to $0.31 per gram in 1955. Competition from Upjohn and General Mills, which had together made very substantial improvements in the production of progesterone from stigmasterol, forced the price of Mexican progesterone to less than $0.15 per gram in 1957. The price continued to fall, bottoming out at $0.08 per gram in 1968.

In 1958, Upjohn purchased 6,900 kg of progesterone from Syntex at $0.135 per gram, 6,201 kg of progesterone from Searle (who had acquired Pesa) at $0.143 per gram, 5,150 kg of progesterone from Julian Laboratories at $0.14 per gram, and 1,925 kg of progesterone from General Mills (who had acquired Protex) at $0.142 per gram.

Despite continually falling bulk prices of steroid intermediates, an oligopoly of large American multinational pharmaceutical companies kept the wholesale prices of corticosteroid drugs fixed and unchanged into the 1960s. Cortisone was fixed at $5.48 per gram from 1954, hydrocortisone at $7.99 per gram from 1954, and prednisone at $35.80 per gram from 1956. Merck and Roussel Uclaf concentrated on improving the production of corticosteroids from cattle bile acids. In 1960 Roussel produced almost one-third of the world's corticosteroids from bile acids.

Julian Laboratories chemists found a way to quadruple the yield on a product on which they were barely breaking even. Julian reduced their price for the product from $4,000 per kg to $400 per kg. He sold the company in 1961 for $2.3 million (equivalent to $20 million today). The U.S. and Mexico facilities were purchased by Smith Kline, and Julian's chemical plant in Guatemala was purchased by Upjohn.

In 1964, Julian founded Julian Associates and Julian Research Institute, which he managed for the rest of his life.

National Academy of Sciences

He was elected to the National Academy of Sciences in 1973 in recognition of his scientific achievements. He became the second African-American to be inducted, after David Blackwell.

Legacy and honors

In 1950, the Chicago Sun-Times named Percy Julian the Chicagoan of the Year.

Since 1975, the National Organization for the Professional Advancement of Black Chemists and Chemical Engineers has presented the Percy L. Julian Award for Pure and Applied Research in Science and Engineering.

In 1975, Percy L. Julian High School was opened on the south side of Chicago, Illinois as a Chicago public high school.

In 1980, the science and mathematics building on the DePauw University campus was rededicated as the Percy L. Julian Mathematics and Science Center. In Greencastle, Indiana, where DePauw is located, a street was named after Julian.

In 1985, Hawthorne School in Oak Park, Illinois, was renamed Percy Julian Middle School.

Illinois State University, where Julian served on the board of trustees, named a hall after him.

A structure at Coppin State University is named the Percy Julian Science Building.

In 1990, he was inducted into the National Inventors Hall of Fame.

In 1993 Julian was honored on a stamp issued by the United States Postal Service.

In 1999, the American Chemical Society recognized Julian's synthesis of physostigmine as a National Historic Chemical Landmark.

In 2002, scholar Molefi Kete Asante listed Percy Lavon Julian on his list of 100 Greatest African-Americans.

In 2011, the qualifying exam preparation committee at the Albert Einstein College of Medicine was named for Percy Julian.

In 2014, Google honored him with a Doodle.

In 2019, asteroid 5622 Percyjulian, discovered by Eleanor Helin at Palomar Observatory in 1990, was named in his memory. The official naming citation was published by the Minor Planet Center on 27 August 2019 (M.P.C. 115893).

Nova

documentary

Ruben Santiago-Hudson portrayed Percy Julian in the Public Broadcasting Service Nova documentary about his life, called "Forgotten Genius". It was presented on the PBS network on February 6, 2007, with initial sponsorship by the Camille and Henry Dreyfus Foundation and further funding by the National Endowment for the Humanities. Approximately sixty of Julian's family members, friends, and work associates were interviewed for the docudrama.

Production on the biopic began at DePauw University's Greencastle campus in May 2002 and included video of Julian's bust on display in the atrium of the university's Percy Lavon Julian Science and Mathematics Center. Completion and broadcasting of the documentary program was delayed in order for Nova to commission and publish a matching book on Julian's life.

According to University of Illinois historian James Anderson in the film, "His story is a story of great accomplishment, of heroic efforts and overcoming tremendous odds...a story about who we are and what we stand for and the challenges that have been there and the challenges that are still with us."