#THIS IS LONG AS HELL

[leonkennedygvrl]

“what’s your motive?”

cw; alternate universe, ceo leon, personal assistant reader, slowburn, enemies to lovers but like one sided, angry sex, p in v, cream pie, desk sex, leon is pissed, you’re rebellious asf, pussy spanking, bareback, orgasm denial, dirty thoughts, degradation, bratty reader cus we love that, the list goes on.

trigger warning; out of character leon for the bitches that get offended. (don’t even interact w me, i did specify au, thnx!)

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

leon was really wrong to hire you, based on the interview and your experience, he took the bait. you were so sweet, intelligent and perfectly fit for his company.

well, at least he thought so.

first day, you seemed to deliberately fuck up his coffee run - he asked for a light black, you came back with an americano. but he let it slide, because he’s a good boss.

second day, you were tidying up his office like he asked - until he noticed some important files crumpled like rubbish and chucked into the bin (and when he thought it couldn’t get worse) you had also put his presentation he’d worked on for weeks in the paper shredder.

third day, you had wrote some inappropriate things on the wall in the women’s bathroom - which had complaints flying in, and leon was getting progressively more sick with your antics.

everyday was another petty, childish ‘prank.’ and you hardly took the work seriously, that leon sat on his desk at early hours of the first day to the second week you’ve been here.

he was contemplating whether he should fire you or not, he knew you were capable of doing well - but for some reason you just weren’t trying.

and what annoyed him the most, was that the pranks had become more… provocative ever since the third day.

walking past leon, you couldn’t help but brush your bodies together. or you’d bend down in front of his desk, chew on his lucky pen whilst he watched, or your skirt would get shorter… and shorter, and shorter.

what was just a funny little joke to you, was him having to rush to the bathroom and wank one off - almost. every. fucking. day.

you walked in, shiny stilettos clacking on the ground and all - impatiently pressing the button to the elevator, your hands fell to your sides with an annoyed groan as it began moving.

you dug into your purse, picking out a stick of watermelon gum and chucking it into your mouth - then a small mirror as you glossed your lips, puckered them a few times and grinned.

another day of mischief, which was what you originally thought.

but the moment you exited the elevator, a colleague, or well - the only person who tolerates you (because she’s chill) aka, sheva alomar approached you.

“heya girl, i don’t know whatcha’ did this time, but boss is callin’ for you, and he didn’t seem all hunky-dory.” sheva said, eyeballing you in a way that practically said ‘you’re fucked.’

but you only shrugged it off. “maybe he woke up on the wrong side of the bed?”

“it’s serious, apparently.” she said almost immediately after, then sighed. “just, good luck.”

you watched as she walked away, and then you giggled to yourself; eyes finding the door to his office.

thinking that you might as well, since it was inevitable to avoid him considering you were his personal assistant - you made your way towards the door, hearing the silence flood the open area.

your hand reached the door knob, ready to push it down when the door suddenly opened - and you gasped softly, looking up to see the meanest stare coming from leon.

his eyes were narrowed, brows furrowed enough for his forehead to wrinkle whilst the strands of dirty blonde fell on his visage. not to mention, the frown (that was usually always there) on his face.

you swallowed hard, nervous butterflies fluttering in your stomach. he looked like he was fuming.

but at the same time, leon didn’t bother hiding the way his gaze fell to your unbuttoned shirt, the glimpse of cleavage leaving him indifferent in expression - but not in thoughts.

all he could think about was what you’d look like on your knees, glazed lips tightly embracing his cock whilst you gagged and choked.

that’ll shut you up, like a good girl.

or perhaps the face you’d make when he’d stretch out that tiny cunt, would you cream or would you squirt? or both?

“inside, now.” leon said, stepping to the side and leaving the door open for you.

reluctantly, you complied - the spacious office you knew so well, that you messed with numerous times, that you secretly adored.

because, thing was, you pulled these vacuous tricks to catch his attention and seemingly… it worked.

leon closed, and locked the door behind him, watching as you sat on the seat in front of his large, mahogany desk clattered with papers, a monitor and boring office things.

he rolled up his sleeves, clearing his throat with a deadpan expression as he slumped down onto his chair behind the desk - his forearms rested atop it, veins protruding from his elbows and down.

that immediately caught your attention, those hands - big and muscular, his fingers thick in such an attractive way and the callouses on his palms, from what? ? ?

weights? guns? knifes? holding thighs? necks? breasts. . . ?

“we need to talk about your behaviour.” leon said after a while, voice stern, raspy.

innocently tilting your head, you flashed him a sweet smile. “my behaviour? what about it? i hope i haven’t been upsetting you, sir.”

leon’s jaw visibly clenched, and you could see the pure hatred lust in his expression. “upsetting me? do you think this is some sort of fuc—“

he stopped himself, needing to be professional. he was glad the desk covered his lower-half, otherwise the raging erection he had right now would become rather apparent to you.

fucking, fuck, fuck you…

leon sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose - all the while, you continued to grin, humming quietly. “listen, i hired you because from what your experience tells me you can work well and make good for this company. but i didn’t hire you so that you could be immature, with all these pranks of yours.”

“what pranks?” you asked, feigning a frown. “i don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.”

sir.

is that what you’d call him when he was pounding your little lady pussy?

his nostril twitched, and he was just about at his limit. “stand up.”

like on instinct, your body followed his orders - anything for him.

“tell me, do you think you’re funny?” leon asks, walking around the side of the desk, towards you, slowly.

“i am humorous when i want to be, sir.” you smiled.

“and these past couple weeks, you’ve been humorous?”

he stepped closer, and closer, and closer, until he towered over you.

“the past couple weeks i’ve been working hard sir, in order to exceed your expectations.” you replied, shrugging your shoulders whilst your hands snaked behind your back, swinging your torso in cutesy. “are you alright sir? you seem… angry.”

and you knew he was, you also knew he was hungry. the bulge in his trousers didn’t seem to lie, and you took his momentary silence a chance to actually appreciate him.

leon wore a white collared shirt which emphasised the swell of his biceps, or the way his pecs poked through deliciously… the grey button up vest complimenting his small red tie, and the matching grey trousers.

he was delicious.

“am i angry?” leon scoffed, turning his head to the side as he hid an arrogant smirk - “i don’t know, you tell me.”

his hand reached out, gliding up your arm - sending shivers down your spine. his fingertips were just hardly grazing the skin, trimmed nails tickling. “i’m growing tired of this, you know?”

“tired of what?” you breathed, feeling goosebumps arise at his mere touch.

and suddenly, his hand was around your neck in a flash - pushing you back against his desk, and your hands immediately clasped the edge of it as a soft gasp escaped your lips.

he moved in close, breath mingling with yours. “don’t try to be all innocent on me, i’ve had fuckin’ enough. seeing you bend that fuckin’ ass down, or wear those slutty little skirts.”

you shuddered, his raspy tone making your clit throb in arousal and all of a sudden all the sensations became scarily more apparent.

his other hand, tauntingly found your thigh… grazing upwards, thumb rubbing circles. he moved his lips to your ear, huffing.

“y’know how fuckin’ hard it makes me?” leon growled, glancing down as he gripped the hem of your black tube skirt, pulling it up shamelessly. “all quiet now, huh? i’m going to ruin you, do you know what that means? or is your stupid little bitch brain too small to comprehend that?”

he spoke in a mocking voice that made you feel small, embarrassed, even. “sir…”

“nah, nah… stay quiet, it suits you better.” his fingers traced your panties, sheer peach pink lace with tulip embroidery. an eyebrow leaped up, feeling how fucking soaked you were. “oh? this is turning you on?”

that shitty, bitchy demeanour you kept seemed to have fucking disappeared - your head rolled back, a sultry whimper escaping your pretty little lips.

his eyes narrowed, and hastily— his hand spanked your pussy, hitting that sensitive clit through your thin, lacy material. “fuckin’ answer me.” he hissed into your ear.

“does this turn you on?” then his fingers held the hem of your panties, and moved them to the side. exposing your bratty cunt he wanted a taste of.

“sir!” you whined, lips pouting before he pinched your clit hard which made your eyebrows arch inwards and your thighs twitch.

“pussys cryin’ for me, hm?” leon cooed, pulling his head back to watch your expressions contort. “you just needed to be put in your damn place, and all of a sudden you’re not a brat.”

then his hand pulled away, gliding up and roughly grabbing your hair in a bunch — not quite caring whether it hurt you or not, the way you gasped was enough to satisfy him.

he turned you around, your hands taking hold on the edge of his bureau as you tried to push back against him but to no avail - his hand, pulsing with veins glided down your back and bent you straight over.

leaning down, he kissed the lobe of your ear, hot breath making you shudder. “you’re going to take what i give you,”

“like a good girl.”

with your skirt lifted to around your coccyx, leon’s gaze dropped to your ass - inches away from the tent in his pants, begging to be touched, to be played with. “gorgeous little ass f’ me, too bad the owner is a fucking brat, huh?”

you made a great effort to stay quiet, tears pooling your lash line with your elbows harshly pressed onto the wood, your thighs squeezed together why were you aroused?!

it had to be the way he spoke, perhaps? his deep, sagacious tone that had you always in a trance, or the way he aggressively manhandled you out of pure anger. it’s not like you didn’t want this, you did, horribly.

you just acted like you didn’t (maybe you were a bit of a tsundere)

nah, you just liked annoying him.

“s—sir, this is inappropriate.” you weakly mewled, trying to keep up that annoyingly innocent facade that fooled fucking no one (it did) “you can… sniffle get fired for this”

leon chews the inside of his cheek, draping his head down as he laughed condescendingly, and then abruptly grabbed the fat of your ass, making it simple in between his knuckles and your breath hitch.

“inappropriate? since when did you care about what’s inappropriate?” leon scoffs, kneading the doughy flesh, biting his lower lip at the sight. “you’re a slut, you want this.”

“no!” you bit back, turning your head over your shoulder to stare at him stubbornly with a pout as your leg hiked up and smacked the back of your mid-thigh.

leon’s hand abandoned one cheek, and shot out to grab your ankle, pulling it over the desk and effectively spreading you further.

“dirty girl, you’re wearing panties a size too fuckin’ small.” leon groaned, watching as the lace undergarment stretched upon your fat pussy, your fat dripping pussy.

you ‘mm’ed in embarrassment, wiggling your hips because you were trying not to give in. now your hole was throbbing and your body was burning, and you NEEDED him.

“sir… stop teasing me.” you begged, face falling flat onto the desk, fingers clenching tightly.

he was finally making you give in, putting you in your fucking place. he tilted his head, innocently.

“aww, i’m not teasing you, baby.” leon ‘sympathetically’ taunted, rubbing your ass, your thighs, everywhere.

“i’m just giving you what you deserve,” his finger hooks into your panties, pulls it up, “and this is it” and smacks it back down onto you like an elastic slingshot, making you moan.

“sir, please!”

he chuckles, darkly, eyeing your pussy for a hot minute before he grunts. “i guess i just can’t resist this”

leon rips your panties, the scratchy noise making you whimper - you really liked those ones! damn! then a finger traces your folds, thick and hot, smearing the slick to your clit and making it all slippery and hard to play with.

but oh so delicious as his digit plopped inside you, extracting a gasp, as he slid in knuckle deep, then back out and in.

he could feel how tight your spongey walls gripped him, the hot flesh making him anticipate impatiently. “god, i don’t think i’ll be able to take myself out of this pussy.”

leon hoped he thought that, instead of vocalising it - but oh well, truth is told.

“sir—“ you mewled, breath becoming heavy, he was hitting every spot just right, thrusting just right, pleasuring you just right.

“say leon,” he demanded, shoving a second finger in, and curling it to slam your g-spot repeatedly making you writhe and gasp. “say it, unless you want me to stop.”

“leon!” you almost screamed, rocking back against his fingers - you were so close, so so close.

“leon, leon, leon, i—“ and he interjected your orgasm with a pull out of his fingers and a slick grin on his handsome face.

“you didn’t think i was going to let you cum so easily, did you?” leon laughed, you were so pathetic it was actually entertaining for him. why didn’t he do this sooner?

you slump down in defeat, you deserved this after all - but that was about to be the best orgasm of your life so you were rather disappointed.

“answer me.” he growls.

you exhale, feeling your stomach buzz when his voice dropped an octave. “no—no, sir… leon, i didn’t think so… i don’t deserve to cum.”

leon was rather surprised - behind the mask he well, masked. you were submitting, you weren’t being a brat. you were actually kinda… cute.

“flip onto your back f’ me.” leon said, voice much softer than before.

you complied, skirt rolled up to your abdomen and pussy coated with wetness - he was afraid to look at that shining glory, otherwise he might just cum in his pants.

but it was also you he could appreciate. hair sticking to your forehead with sheer sweat, lips parted and glossed in saliva, face flushed and how your eyes gazed at him longingly, begging him to fuck you.

leon couldn’t take it anymore, he wanted needed you.

quickly, and clumsily unbuckling his belt leon palmed himself for a few moments, a throaty groan leaving him at finally feeling some sort of physical pleasure. “fuck… you ready for me, baby?”

your eyes brightened up the moment he said that, and you nodded eagerly, biting your lower lip as you watched him.

leon slipped his cock out, squinting as he rubbed the bulbous tip up… and down… your folds, uuuup… and… dooown…

and when he reached down again, he pushed into you, eyebrows creasing as your pussy immediately clenched down on him and you moaned delectably.

“oh, fuck.” leon grunted, his hands moving below your knees, holding your thighs apart as he bottomed out in you - his other head kissing your cervix, and your warmy wetness hugging his frenulum.

the erotic noises leaving you only spurred him on, having him begin to pound into you - his hair messy with sweat, beads of it dripping down his forehead whilst his fingers clenched around your legs, threatening to leave a mark.

“l—leon..” you whimpered, feeling his dick slowly throb as he pulled out halfway - your body tensed, and he slammed back in.

“yeah? shameless little bitch, you just needed this pretty thing to be fucked and abused, huh?” leon groaned, his eyes narrowing before he threw your calves over his shoulders and he fisted his desk, thrusting his chubby dick in and out of your sopping pussy, making you a feel a lashings amount of pleasure.

he had you folded in fucking half while he used you, while he put you where you belong. and you were a complete mess, clit swollen and just begging for some sort of attention, your nipples so erect leon couldn’t resist using one of his big hands to pinch them in between thick fingers.

the way he felt, stretching you out so nicely — reaching the deepest parts of you, each roll of his hips leaving you trembling and gasping whilst electric waves buzzed through your body.

and leon just adored the way your pussy held him, took him, the way your slick crawled down his thick balls, the spongey wall inside you restricting his dick from even leaving your cunt.

“l—leon, leon… s’ too much–“ you mewled, hips jerking as you pressed your hands against his abdomen, feeling him tense.

he bit his lip, watching your face closely, feeling your pert nipples. he feigns concern, tilting his head. “aw, need me to slow down? hmm?”

you nod expectantly, your lips continuously parting with great big huffs escaping. your thighs were twitching and trembling, and that made leon’s dick pulse inside of you. he was so turned on, having wanting this since you started those innocent seeming eyes staring at him whilst you said all the pretty ‘yes sirs’ convincing him just why he should hire you when it was clearly a mistake.

and he does slow down, but torturously. his head not quite reaching where you wanted anymore due to his shallow, gently condescending thrusts, and the shit-eating grin on his face made you want to scream of pure frustration.

now, you know how he felt!

“leon…” you said, hesitating. “please.”

leon raised an eyebrow strands of hair sticking to his forehead and his cheeks slightly flushed in exhaustion and arousal - lord, the face alone you were making was spurring him. he didn’t know how much longer he could last, but he really wanted to show you what respect fucking meant.

thumbing your clit with painfully pleasurable pressure, in turn made your chin tremble whilst you writhed bashfully, trying to push yourself down on his half-inserted cock.

leon pulled out at your pathetic attempts, face stern again as he grasped your wrists and pinned them to either side of your head - immediately slamming his chubby, slick-coated dick back into you, making you yelp.

“are you forgetting this is a punishment?” leon hissed, eyes narrowed, he replaced his hold with one hand so his other could tear off the buttons of his vest, pulling it off hastily making your eyes glimmer as you were met with the sight of his delicious pectorals bulging through his shirt, veins protruding from his neck.

hard, rough, aggressive. he was trying to break you, and you were positive he was succeeding. your eyes rolled to the back of your head, body limp and shuddering, but now you were being too loud.

he wasn’t going to let you diminish his reputation (more than you already had) so he shoved his thumb into your mouth, pressing down hard onto your tongue, incoherent babbles leaving you muffled.

this had to be the best sex of his life, using you as nothing but a doll your tight pussy wrapped around him so snugly, so comforting and special despite the uh… initial situation.

“fuck.” leon muttered under his breath, his eyebrows arching inwards as his jaw clenched - he was close too close.

leon leaned down his back hunching as his breath caressed your ear. “you’re not cumming til’ i fill you up, til’ i fuckin’ own this slutty pussy.”

pussy that was officially his

if you thought that things would be hunky-dory after this, you were dead wrong. call him a sadist. what-the-fuck-ever (like leon would say) you caused this, it was your fault.

and you loved every second.

leon’s breath began to shake as his orgasm ruptured close, heavy balls that slapped against your flushed glutes tightening as he bit his lower lip.

you were a mess, beads of perspiration now coated your tomato face, tongue threatening to loll out. the office heavy scented of sex, lust and passion. of sweat, of musk, of your signature fucking perfume that lured him in. he kissed along your jawline, perhaps you needed some affection to cool the storm, pecking the corners of your lips.

but you did something sly, ripping one hand out of his tight grasp (somehow) and grabbing the back of his head efficaciously tugging his hair as your wet lips met his.

leon was taken aback by the sudden action and while you expected him to be irritated, he wasn’t. continuing to thrust, he closed his eyes and touched tongues with you in a heated kiss - a guttural grunt merging into your mouth.

you weren’t going to hold on much longer, and leon could tell by the way you were squeezing him like a goddamn vice.

he pulled away, grinning ear-to-ear as he kissed and licked along your neck, his fingers pulled the hood of your clit open to thoroughly stimulate the hypersensitive bundle of nerves making you whine as he fucked into you harder, panting in pure unadulterated arousal.

“shit, shit..” leon whispered, cock kicking inside you as he released your bound wrists and instead grabbed your hips, the flesh dimpling in between his knuckles whilst he gritted his teeth.

you gazed at him, blown away, blissed out. “you—you close?”

“mhm.” he moaned, voice shaky. “gonna fuckin’ cream pie this sweet cunt, want to so bad.”

leon sucked on the sweet spot of your neck, making you quiver as you hit your lip to stifle a moan you knew would be way too loud. “can i?”

of course. it was leon, of course he could cum inside you. that’s what you wanted, you were finally getting what you fucking wanted.

you nodded frantically, eyebrows creasing as you desperately held back your orgasm, desperately trying to impress him but it was hard with his thumb on your raw, swollen clit and his fat cock splitting you open, hitting your g perfectly with each railing thrust.

“f—fuck..!” you whimpered, eyes clenching shut as your hands grasped the edge of the desk whilst leon sped up, he was so vocal at this rate - breathing heavily like an athlete after a runathon, groaning from the deepest strain of his throat.

leon cursed in his head, he couldn’t hold back anymore - he squeezed your hips, cock pulsing as spurts of thick, sticky sperm shot into your pussy whilst he buried his face into the crook of your neck, moaning.

he rubbed your clit even faster, continuing to jerk his sensitive dick in your walls. “cum, fuckin’ cum for me.”

the words pushed you over the edge your back arching and a downright pornographic mewl leaving you - your thighs trembling like an airplanes turbulence whilst leon huffed into your soft skin, the deathly grip your pussy held from your orgasm sending him through a kaleidoscope of prurience.

it was a specially concupiscence moment but neither really cared, leon leaned back to get a good look at you - his dick still kicking in your pussy, before he slowly hesitantly pulled out.

he watched as his cum leaked out of your gaping, hot hole. it made his stomach stir because what a fucking sight for sore eyes. and even if you had been a bitch, he cared about you.

“you okay?” leon sighed, releasing his hold on your hips and stroking the skin of your knee with his thumb.

“i’m more than okay.” you giggled breathlessly, wetting your lips as a small, very small smile spread on leon’s face.

“good.”

[bitchysouljellyfish]

“El día que me quieras”

Rodolfo Parra/Reader

Inspired by this and the incredible writings of @yeyinde because God their writings are to die for! Title is inspired by the song of the same name by Carlos Gardel! The indented writing is done by yeyinde!

Enjoy!

The ocean is a distant roar beyond the sprawling green cut into the fells. The scent of heliotrope and sun-ripened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses around you like a heartbeat.

Your finger taps the porcelain mug on the patio table, eyes soaking in the crystalline shore in the distance, basking in the sun. The warmth. The door slides open. Music from inside drifts out. Los Cojolites. He has a fondness for son jarocho. You can smell the sweet mole he's cooking waft through.

He comes up behind you, hands on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on your bare skin. You lean back, head pressed to his tummy as you squint up at him. He's bathed in ochre from the sun: a halo around him that bleeds into your retinas until all you see his the shape of him. Your pulse quickens.

He smiles down at you, lunar white. Love in shades of vermillion leak from the curve of his mouth.

"Want some company, cariño?"

As if you'd ever say no.

Alejandro introduced you to him.

You were the medic, part of the Task Force 141 that had came to Las Almas to assist with El Sin Nombre. You were dwarfed by the other two men who accompanied you, El Fantasma and Soap who had you tucked into the middle of them, protecting you from harm as you protected them from the Reaper.

"This is Seargeant Major Rudolfo Parra, my right hand man. Ghost, Soap, and Bog." He points to you last, and you give him a smile and a nod and he feels the sun on his face like never before. You were radiant, the stress and trauma gracing your eyes but it didn't stop the rays of hope that shined through them. He almost didn't notice the strange call sign.

"Tengo miedo de los fantasmas." He attempted to joke but got nothing but a flat stare in return. "And...Bog?"

You sighed in exasperation, Soap chuckling and slapping his knee in glee. "Feel free to call me Doc instead, Sergeant Major. Soap is terrible with call signs." And that is where it ended, the conversation going serious as he drove through the streets of his home with the gradual realization that eyes were on him, but they were not vicious.

The name Bog stuck much more easily than Doc, to your dismay he could tell, but he had to admit. It fit you. You bounced back from injuries and stressful situations like the soft ground you were named after, yet you could spew acid at those deserving.

"You be safe huh, Darlin'? Can't be too careful with our good ol'doc." Graves's southern drawl cuts through the comms.

You sighed, irritation and anger apparent in your voice. "It's Doctor or Captain, Commander Graves. I give you respect you give me respect."

"What about Bog?"

"Friends can call me Bog."

"We aint-"

"No."

Soap snickered through the ear piece, Ghost telling them to stay focused before the comms went silent again. You were waiting at headquarters with Rudy and the other members of his unit on standby in case there was any medical emergencies while the others went through the cartel compound.

"Doctor?" He asked, because you certainly didn't look old enough to have one.

You turned with wide eyes, doe like he recalled, before smiling and showing your ID card. "Got it while I was enlisted, then I went to Officer Candidate School and the rest is history."

"Your family must be proud, as should your team to have such capable hands with them." He turned his chair so he was resting his arms on the back, one eye and ear out on the cameras.

"Gaz thinks differently, says I'm a torturer with a needle but that's just because he's afraid of them." Then you put a finger to your lips and pursed them, winking at him so slyly that it made his heart leap into his throat. "But I'm not supposed to tell anyone that."

He laughed, resting his head on his hand and tried to keep the admiration out of his eyes. "You have my word, bonita, I won't tell a soul."

You and him spoke like that for ages, only breaking when the on ground team needed something. Your chairs were significantly closer together than when you had started.

He had become so smitten with you in the small time he had known you that when they were relieved of duty he didn't want to end the conversation. He walked you back to a room just for you, female soldiers weren't common in Mexican Special Forces, talking low and walking slow as to prolong his time with you. You had told him about your home in America, somewhere cold that got snow every once in a while and he had watched as you spoke animated about what you would do with your family.

"What about you Rudy? Any experience with snow?"

"Enough to know I am not built for it," he laughed, "No, my home is by the coast, with plenty of warmth for the rest of my days."

"Oh a beach man huh? Am I gonna get the chance to see you in a speedo?" You smirked at him, stopping at your door and peering up at him through your lashes.

"I am Mexican, Bonita, not European, but..." all of the confidence he had managed to keep throughout the night melted away suddenly. Shaking hands reached for your fingers, just enough for them to curl around your knuckles and you held them twice as tightly. "I could take you, some day, when this has calmed down. You would like it. I will make you so much food and drinks you would not know what to do with it all."

You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, feather light and petal soft but it was enough to knock him off his feet. "Its a date. Good night Rudy."

"Buenos noches, bonita."

He had watched you, passing glances through the time you spent with Los Vaqueros and became entranced. You were intelligent, witty, funny, beautiful, and strong, you had to be to carry wounded from the field but it did nothing to rough up the hands you had touched him so delicately with.

Yet those hands, oh those hands, were sculpted by angels he was sure.

You had patched him up after Hassan Zyani left him for dead and Alejandro, his brother in all but blood, saved him from the building, blood running down his head and barely able to walk he was so dazed. He remembered you laying him down, cold water on his face and you soft eyes and gentle hands on his skin and he thought it was heaven. You barked orders to get medical supplies, but made your voice soft and warm when you spoke to him. He noticed then that you always did that, when it was just the two of you or when the attention was away, you spoke to him as if he something soft and gentle to and by God he was.

He was clay in your hands, clay to be molded and shaped to fit into your shape so that your radiance could heat him and bring him back to life so that he may support you and hold you and keep you safe.

"I think a new call sign is in order, hermosa." He whispered, numb to the pain in his head as he raised a hand to hold your face.

"Shh, Rudy, hold still. I'm almost done." You caught his hand, squeezing it tightly as you wrapped the bandages around his head.

"I think Angel is much more fitting. Eres un ángel, esos suaves toques solo podrían pertenecer a una." You smiled and finished the bandages, looking down at him with fondness as you held his hand to your chest.

"I think you have a concussion."

"Perhaps," he shrugged and used his other hand to grasp your cheek. "Or perhaps I have died and the angels had no other choice but to use your face, although I hope that is not the case. I still have to take you to the coast." He struggled to keep his eyes open as the pain medication you gave him started to take effect.

Rodolfo felt something then, firmer but still soft as roses on his lips. "You better." He heard you say, another gentle touch on his forehead that he couldn't recognize before slipping unconscious.

The next time he would kiss you would be just before you left, Valeria in custody and the plane that would cart you away from him waiting behind you. You take his hand and press an envelope into it. "I'm a romantic." You explained, "Write to me?"

He cradled your face and pulled you close, kissing your lips with as much gusto and adoration he could fit into it before he could lose his nerve. The feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck would soon become a favorite of his.

"I will." One more kiss to your lips and you were away.

It would be another six months before he could hold you in his arms again, swinging you around once you came off the airport terminal and committing the sound of your laugh to memory. He wasted no time in taking you to his villa, one hand on your thigh as he drove and you resting against his arm.

And soon the ocean is a distant roar, muffled by the sounds of his Los Cojolites and the sizzling of breakfast he was cooking. The scent of heliotrope and sun-rippened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses in time with his heart. His shirt open and revealing the marks you had given him the night before and that morning and he sees you, sitting on the veranda with a cup of coffee and tour own marks on display. Rodolfo smiles and walks out, settling behind you with a hand on your shoulder and another under your chin as he looks at you with nothing but love.

"Want some company, cariño?"

And he knows you could never say no.

[onebadpunspoilsabunch]

I like to imagine an alternate version of Sweet and Smokey where Smolder doesn't exist, and it's just Fluttershy and Spike reforming Garble. Smolder only exists as Garble's sister just to be the plot device that reforms him.

Actually, you can make an argument that Smolder acts as simply a plot device in every Spike-centric episode since she was introduced. 

In Molt Down, she acts as the plot device that causes Spike to freak out over the Molt and believe Twilight will kick him out.

In Father Knows Beast, she acts as the plot device that causes Spike to realize that something is off about Sludge. 

In Sweet and Smoky, she acts as the plot device that causes Fluttershy and Spike to even go to the Dragonlands to help Garble.

...

Oh, anyway, a possible version of Sweet and Smoky without Smolder…

One thing I will say for S&S is that they choose the perfect two characters to reform Garble. Spike obviously, because he has the most personal connection with Garble, and Fluttershy because she had a hatred for older dragons, and Garble had a hatred for ponies.

Like I said before, I kinda understand what they were (maybe) going for in S&S when it comes to the Spike and Garble comparison. They're both products of their environment, culture, and upbringing. Spike isn't afraid of being sensitive because he grew up in a society where it's mostly accepted. On the other hand, dragon society is a bit rougher than that, and they prioritize pushing down softer emotions and being big and strong and whatnot. The younger ones are encouraged to put down their peers for being soft and whatnot, so that explains Garble's behavior. 

Interesting thing to note is that not all dragons are shown to be happy like this. The brown dinosaur one nicknamed Barry wants to sleep on pillows, and the big blue one named Scalio secretly enjoys hugs, and playing harmless pranks…

So we have Spike, who isn't afraid of being sensitive because he grew up in a more accepting society, and then we have Garble, who tries his best to act in the way that's accepted by his society.

The conflict would be that Ember and Spike had successfully helped the dragons become more friendly with each other, and are even starting to be nicer to other creatures. Even Garble's friends. Garble is the only one who is stuck in his ways, because he believes that it's going against everything dragons stand for, and he's afraid of the dragons abandoning their culture for pony culture, or at the very least the two cultures incorporating aspects from each other. Basically he wants to keep the culture “pure”.

And you know what? There's nothing wrong with Garble being proud of culture. In the episode, they could have Garble showing Spike the positive/cool aspects of dragon culture that Spike hasn't seen YET (keep in mind it's been implied through scattered dialog that since Gauntlet of Fire that Spike and Twilight have learned more about dragon culture, but they still don't know EVERYTHING), like their art, or the treasure they collect, the different armors they wear, their battles, different types of dragon species like elemental dragons and Chinese dragons, their long history, etc etc you name it. Spike will be genuinely interested and excited about Garble's lesson, and Garble will feel a sense of pride in educating this young dragon who doesn't know the deeper aspects of his species and culture. 

That will show that there's nothing wrong with Garble being proud of his culture, it's just that dragons shouldn't prioritize the negative/outdated aspects of their culture. 

Maybe one of the reasons Garble's pissed at Spike is because Spike is the ambassador helping Ember make important decisions and changes to dragon society, but Spike didn't grow up in dragon society, so he isn't as engulfed in the culture and Garble sees it as him making changes to make dragon society more like pony society. 

If Garble were to explain that to Spike, he would understand, and say that he's not trying to erase dragon culture or whatnot, but he actually wants ponies and dragons to get along and share each other's cultures with each other, but in order for that to happen the dragons need to drop the negative aspects. 

I didn't forget about Fluttershy. While Garble is I guess educating Spike, Fluttershy is with Ember watching the dragon eggs hatching.

Ember uses the Bloodstone Scepter to summon the actual parents, the bigger dragons. Fluttershy is still terrified of older, bigger dragons.

But when watching the dragon parents interact with their newborn babies, Fluttershy realizes that older dragons are still capable of love and kindness, and she starts to interact with them, her fear beginning to go away.

Later in the episode where Spike has given up on Garble's attitude, and Garble has given up on changing Spike's mind on changing dragon culture, Fluttershy runs into him. Of course he acts rude to her, and she puts him in his place. She is still happy from her interaction with the dragon parents, and hopes to return to the Dragonlands sometime soon to interact with them, and maybe learn more about dragon society. Garble is confused on why a “soft and sensitive” pony would want to interact with dragons and learn more about their culture, and Fluttershy confesses that before she was afraid of dragons, but after interacting with them sees that not all of them are scary. Garble educates Fluttershy in the same way he did Spike, and Fluttershy is interested. She points out similarities between pony and dragon culture, and Garble acts like he's not interested. But Fluttershy tells him some impressive things that ponies have done, and Garble can't pretend to be unimpressed anymore. He begrudgingly asks to hear more about pony culture. 

After all that, Garble (once again, begrudgingly) approaches Spike, and tells him that what he's trying to do for dragon society isn't completely terrible (Garble's words, not mine). He had believed dragon culture was superior, and was afraid of it going away or being watered down by dragons accepting friendship, which he viewed as something strictly for pony culture, which he saw as inferior. But pony society has rich and interesting aspects, which he learned from Spike and Fluttershy. 

Spike says that pony society isn't perfect either, and there have been examples of ponies looking down on other species as well (Chancellor Neighsay for instance). 

So Garble gets past his hatred of ponies, Fluttershy gets past her hatred of older dragons, and Spike further helps pony and dragons get on better terms with each other. Not only that, but Spike and Garble are friends again.

Keep in mind that Garble is the first dragon friend Spike ever made (before they became enemies), so thematically it makes sense for them to become real genuine friends again in the final season.

And no horribly contrived crap, like Smolder being Garble's sister, or laugh fire being introduced out of nowhere, or completely retconning Garble's character.

Who knows, maybe they can even keep the beat poetry thing. Have Garble be into it, and he teaches Spike about it because it's a part of ancient dragon art, only for Spike to reveal that ponies do that too. 

Garble automatically assumes that ponies appropriated it from dragons, but in reality a long time ago a friendly dragon taught it to a pony, and was ok with the pony taking it back to their society. 

Either that, or it's just something that both societies came up with. That's cool too.

Wow, this is long. If you made it to the end, I salute you :)

[wingsoverlagos]

Mark Lewisohn and the No Good, Very Big Scoop

A few weeks ago, I made a post showing that Kim Bennett, the crucial interviewee who provided the crux of Mark Lewisohn's "debunking" of a classic Beatles myth, was not, as Lewisohn has suggested, completely absent from Beatles history. Kim Bennett had been quoted in an issue of Beatles Book Monthly, in which Mark Lewisohn, aged 10 1/2, also made a brief appearance.

That was a teaser, and now that any interest it may have stirred has had time to die out, it's time for a proper introduction to what has become an unwieldy examination of Tune In's biggest scoop.

I came across Kim Bennett in that issue of Beatles Book Monthly while I was working on a "Lewisohn vs." post focusing on George Martin's memoir, All You Need Is Ears. Checking those citations went off the rails before the train had left the station. It led me to take a closer look at the way Lewisohn tells the story of how the Beatles signed their contract with Parlophone. This section of Tune In represents the biggest Beatles "myth" that Lewisohn busted, and it has been discussed in any number of reviews and interviews since the book's release. Yet the evidence given for Lewisohn's biggest scoop was thin, and relied disproportionately on the word of Kim Bennett, a man whose story only saw the light of day because of Mark Lewisohn--or so he would have us believe.

I did some digging. I found the aforementioned quote from Bennett. Then I found another one, in another issue of Beatles Book Monthly. Then I found him in the pages of a prominent book of Beatles history. Then another book, and another.

Kim Bennett's evolving story was the first red flag, but the more I dug, the more problems I found with Lewisohn's choice to present the Bennett version as definitive. The other supporting evidence Lewisohn brought to the table was, at best, thin. Evidence supporting the classic narrative went unaddressed. His heavy-handed authorial choices evinced a man trying to overturn a narrative to further his own reputation and book sales, not a historian using his best judgment to parse conflicting accounts and come to his best assessment of the truth.

My intention here isn't to attack Kim Bennett or to defend George Martin from an unflattering portrayal of his role in the Beatles' contract signing. Nor do I think Kim Bennett's account should be stricken from the record entirely. My focus is on Lewisohn's choice to present Kim Bennett's story as an undeniable Truth in the story of the Beatles. At best, his historical judgment utterly failed him, at worst--and far more likely, in my view--Lewisohn put forward a substandard work of history solely for the sake of grabbing headlines by disrupting a traditional narrative.

There's a lot to discuss with the Bennett/contract story, which I'll discuss in future posts. My ~tentative~ table of contents is:

0. Mark Lewisohn’s Star Witness 1. An Introduction and Primer >You Are Here< 2. The Evolving Story of Kim Bennett, Pt. 1: Before Lewisohn 3. The Classic™ Contract Story, and Why Lewisohn Distrusts It 4. The Evolving Story of Kim Bennett, Pt. 2: Tune In 5. Lewisohn’s Other Sources 6. Lewisohn’s Portrayal of Kim Bennett & George Martin

For now, I'll set Kim Bennett aside and briefly address another Busted Myth in Tune In: the story of young John Lennon, forced to choose between his mother and father.

Alf Lennon and Billy Hall: A Lewisohnian Microcosm

Along with the story of the Beatles’ Parlophone contract, Tune In’s new take on the traumatic custody dispute over John Lennon is one of the book’s most discussed “revelations.” This story plays out over a few pages (unlike the Kim Bennett/Contract narrative, which sprawls across several chapters), but it demonstrates many of the same heavy-handed writing choices Lewisohn makes to prop up a “definitive” version of events without adequate evidence or analysis. The tactics Lewisohn uses fall into three broad categories: (1) misrepresenting opposing evidence and (2) inflating the credibility of supporting evidence, and (3) creating a false dichotomy between two accounts.

I'm sure you're familiar with this classic tale. It’s been written in nearly every Beatles biography starting with Hunter Davies’ The Beatles (1968), as told to Davies by John’s father, Alf Lennon. The story goes like this:

Alf Lennon took five-year-old John to Blackpool, ostensibly as a holiday, though he planned to keep his son. They lived with a friend of Alf’s for two weeks. That friend planned to emigrate to New Zealand; Alf decided he should emigrate as well, with John in tow. These plans were foiled by the arrival of Julia, and a custody dispute ensued. At an impasse, Alf asked John who he wanted to stay with. John at first picked Alf, but when his mother started to leave, he ran after her.

The story has been embellished over the years, but those are the core facts as related by Alf. Mark Lewisohn doesn’t believe it happened this way. He tracked down the friend Alf and John stayed with in Blackpool, Billy Hall, and asked for his version of events. Hall’s testimony would form the basis for one of Lewisohn’s major MythBusting moments.

I’m not going to dissect these events in depth here. What I want to illustrate is the way Lewisohn sells the reader on his interviewee, Billy Hall, and Hall’s version of events. From Tune In Ch. 2:

Lewisohn starts by introducing Billy Hall as the "only living witness" and "the only person to relate the events impartially."

I’ll give him “only living”, but Lewisohn does nothing to demonstrate his impartiality. Generally, one would assume a guy relating the story of a disagreement his friend had with his ex would have some degree of bias. Lewisohn knows this, but to overturn this classic narrative, he needs the reader to trust Billy Hall. He can’t show Hall’s impartiality, so he must tell the reader.

“Witness” is also doing some heavy lifting here. More on that soon.

Before jumping into Hall's version of events, Lewisohn tells us how how “[e]very account” of the story has been told to date. With this phrasing, Lewisohn purposefully obfuscates opposing evidence; rather than acknowledge that Alf Lennon himself gave this story, he presents it in the vague terms of "[e]very account." Acknowledging that these accounts arise from a primary source would give them strength, so Lewisohn portrays it as another old chestnut in the pile of oft-repeated Beatles stories. It might seem like a simple turn of phrase here, but we’ll see this tactic pop up again soon.

Framing aside, the passage highlighted in blue is in keeping with Alf’s story as told to Davies. That changes once we get to the phrase in pink. According to Lewisohn, “[e]very account…turned on the vital fact” that John would first emigrate with Billy Hall’s parents. This is just a lie. I have read multiple accounts that do mention Hall’s parents involvement in the plan, but, crucially, they play no role in the story Alf Lennon told Hunter Davies. Davies writes, “The friend he was staying with in Blackpool was planning to emigrate to New Zealand. Fred decided to go with him. All the preparations were made, when one day Julia arrived at the door.” (Davies 1968, p.8)

Hall’s testimony doesn’t contradict the premise that Alf wanted to take John to New Zealand (“…Lennie said he might [emigrate to New Zealand] too…and at some point it was mentioned that it would be a great place to raise Johnny”), but says definitively that his parents had no intention to emigrate. To present this as a proper MythBusting, Lewisohn makes the detail Hall contradicts (his parents involvement) central to the story as a whole (“[e]very account….has turned on...”) He’s moved the goalposts by framing a detail he can debunk as crucial to the story, when that detail wasn’t present in the primary source to begin with.

Then, in yellow, Lewisohn lets us know that the classic version of events "is fantasy." Or rather, Lewisohn lets us know that Billy Hall says its fantasy. It's a heavy-handed introduction. Hall is never given any pushback, and we're left with the impression that Lewisohn wants the reader to believe Hall's conclusion.

Hall goes on to say that Alf couldn’t have emigrated anyway because Alf, “had to go back to sea. He had to go back. We were only on leave.” This is a blatant example of Lewisohn refusing to question or push back against an account he wants the reader to believe. Alf Lennon already had a history of going AWOL, so “It couldn’t have happened because Alf wouldn’t go AWOL” isn’t convincing evidence. Lewisohn doesn’t bring this up, though, and indeed provides no comment on this section of Hall’s testimony. He lets it stand unquestioned.

Here's how Lewisohn introduces us to the custody dispute between Alf and Julia:

Lewisohn describes the well-known version of events as “painted vividly in John Lennon docudramas.” Again, Lewisohn neglects to inform the reader that this story comes from from Alf Lennon - one of the three people in the room where it happened. The “docudramas” didn’t make up this chapter in John’s life—they based it on the words of his father, and accounts of people close to John (e.g. Cyn.) We would expect Alf to have some bias in the matter, but that’s no reason to complete discount his story.

Also note Lewisohn’s use of charged language to highlight how melodramatic the “docudrama” version of events is. Silly of you to believe such made-for-TV sensationalism, reader! Luckily, Lewisohn has found someone who “recalls what actually happened.”

How Lewisohn knows this is “what actually happened”, he doesn’t say. But trust him—this isn’t just another version of events, it’s the version of events. Billy Hall says:

(The “Terry-Thomas character” mentioned here is Bobby Dykins, Julia’s boyfriend)

Right off the top, Hall says that the conversation happened in a different room. THIS is Lewisohn’s decisive witness—a guy who didn’t see things go down. Have you ever lived with someone, readers? Ever had a college roommate who got into a fight with their significant other in the other room? Even if you did your best to eavesdrop, would you be able to confidently say what happened if you were asked to recount it sixty years later? Would you weigh your word more heavily than the people in the room itself?

Billy Hall is only a “witness” in the loosest sense. He can tell us what happened around the fateful meeting, but he has no information on the actual event.

Billy tells us that Alf told him “I’m letting Johnny go back with his mother—she’s going to look after him properly.” Okay. Maybe Alf was broken up about events but wanted to save face in front of his friend. Maybe Alf wasn’t broken up, having just spent two weeks parenting after spending much of John’s life as an absentee dad. There’s nothing here that precludes a tense exchange occurring in the room. The room where Billy Hall wasn’t.

Finally, and damningly, “I really can’t remember if Johnny was in there too.” So Hall admits that he has no memory of the crucial detail of whether or not John was in the room, yet Lewisohn wants us to believe his account is “what actually happened.”

I commend Lewisohn for seeking out people like Hall, people peripheral to the Beatles’ story that may nevertheless add depth to it, but I seriously question his choice to present Hall’s version of events as definitive. He presents Hall’s story without question or criticism, outright telling us that a story told sixty years later by a man who wasn’t in the room where it happened is impartial and definitive. Meanwhile, Alf Lennon’s account isn’t attributed to him—it’s veiled behind catch-alls like “[e]very account”, or conflated with “docudramas.” Lewisohn clearly isn’t treating these accounts with equal scrutiny; he’s purposefully uplifting a version of events that contradicts accepted “myth.”

One final point that drives this home is Lewisohn’s choice to portray Billy Hall and Alf Lennon’s accounts as mutually exclusive. Rather than looking for how these two stories might dovetail, he creates a false dichotomy between them. This begins by framing the role of Billy Hall’s parents as crucial to the existing narrative, but it’s most clear in the utter absence of effort by Lewisohn to reconcile these two accounts. Aside from the point regarding his parents, what does Billy Hall contradict here? His portrayal is different from many dramatizations, but there’s very little that goes against Alf’s account. There’s no reason to completely throw out one or the other; there is every possibility these are two angles on the same story, not two mutually exclusive events.

But “Alf and Julia Lennon’s argument over John’s custody was maybe more sedate than sometimes depicted” isn’t getting headlines. It doesn’t make for a good talking point, and it certainly isn’t increasing Lewisohn’s prestige as the man finding out the True Story of the Beatles. Put simply, Mark Lewison chose to portray Billy Hall’s story as busting a Beatles’ myth not because a careful examination of the evidence supported that conclusion, but because disrupting a narrative would increase his profile and the profile of Tune In.

This isn’t an isolated example. We’ll see many of these tactics again with the story of Kim Bennett.

Sources:

Davies H. 1968. 2009 Edition. The Beatles. New York (NY): W.W. Norton & Company. 408p.

Lewisohn M. 2013. The Beatles: All These Years Vol. 1: Tune In. New York (NY): Crown Archetype. [ebook]

[imvgincs]

“i knew you’d be here. ” ph!chooji

. 𓇬 𝖒𝖊𝖒𝖊𝖘 .

                           with   worry   etched   along   her   features,   sooji   paced   back   and   forth   in   the   other's   dark   apartment.   her   nerves   wound   tight   like   a   coil   ready   to   spring   as   she   glanced   at   her   watch   for   the   umpteenth   time.   the   ticking   of   the   second   hand   echoing   in   the   silence   that   enveloped   the   room.   every   creak   or   shuffle   from   outside   his   entrance   made   her   heart   skip   a   beat.   hoping   it   was   him,   fearing   it   might   not   be.

                           and,   she   had   escaped,   slipping   away   from   the   danger   he   had   protected   her   from   and   had   potentially   put   himself   in   for   her   sake.   now,   as   she   waited   for   him   to   return,   guilt   gnawed   at   her.   was   he   safe?   had   he   managed   to   evade   whatever   risk   he   faced   out   there?   the   weight   of   uncertainty   pressed   down   on   her   chest,   making   it   hard   to   breathe.

                           the   familiarity   of   him   lingered   in   the   air,   a   bittersweet   reminder   of   the   man   she   had   come   to   care   for   deeply.   her   mind   replaying   their   last   moments   together   where   he   had   insisted   she   leave   haunted   her.   his   voice   tinged   with   urgency   and   concern,   promising   he   would   buy   her   time.   but   minutes   stretched   into   what   felt   like   hours,   and   each   passing   second   felt   like   an   eternity.   sooji   found   herself   at   the   window,   peering   out   into   the   night,   searching   for   any   sign   of   him.   the   city   below   buzzed   with   its   usual   chaotic   rhythm,   oblivious   to   her   inner   turmoil.

                           in   her   own   mind,   she   thought   a   silent   prayer   to   whatever   powers   might   be   listening,   willing   him   to   come   back   safely.   the   wait   was   unbearable,   each   passing   moment   sharpening   her   worry   into   a   fine   point   of   desperation.   but,   when   the   door   finally   creaked   open,   sooji's   breath   caught   in   her   throat.   and,   there   he   stood,   chaos.   relief   flooded   through   her,   almost   overwhelming   her   with   emotion.

                           the   girl   hadn't   even   bothered   to   let   him   finish   what   he'd   been   saying   before   she   glitched   herself   in   front   of   him.   without   a   second   thought—her   concern   for   him   had   taken   center   stage,   wrapping   her   arms   around   him   in   a   tight   embrace.   everything   she'd   been   been   feeling   had   suddenly   come   to   crash   into   her   all   at   once.   despite   how   out   character   it   may   have   been,   she   couldn't   find   it   in   herself   to   care.   if   he'd   suddenly   decided   he   hated   her.   it   didn't   matter   as   the   feeling   him   in   her   arms   was   grounding   enough.   as   long   as   he   was   okay,   that   was   all   that   mattered.

                              ❛  sorry,  ❜   she   muttered   into   his   chest.   not   daring   to   pull   away   in   fear   her   eyes   might   well   up   in   tears   if   she   did   so   before   composing   herself.   ❛  i   know   i   shouldn't   be   here,  ❜    and   he   could   throw   her   out.   he   could   declare   he'd   realized   she   was   bad   news   and   this   wasn't   fun   anymore.   he   could   do   anything   he   wanted,   but   it   didn't   stop   the   peace   she   had   knowing   he   was   here.   ❛  i   just..  ❜   she   paused.  ❛  i   had   to   make   sure   you   made   it   back   okay.  ❜    she   confessed,   her   voice   soft   but   earnest.   for   once,   honesty   winning   over   caution.

[darksouls2yuri]

hey is it okay if i eat my nature valley oats and honey granola bar here. yeah its the kind that comes as a two pack and immediately disintegrates into millions of annoying crumbs. its okay my ants that follow me everywhere will eat them. youll have ants now though.

[boricuacherry-blog]

For those who are mixed with Native...Choctaw and Chikasaw Indians bought, sold, and owned African American slaves. So either Native or Caucasian, you could still have DNA of an oppressor (this is a practice that persisted even after the tribes' removal from the Deep South to Indian Territory). And most tribes had slaves, white, Spanish, etc.

High Cheekbones and Straight Black Hair? 100 Amazing Facts About the Negro: Why most black people aren’t “part Indian,” despite family lore. BY: HENRY LOUIS GATES JR. Posted: April 21 2014 6:45 AM 

 Amazing Fact About the Negro No. 76: What’s the truth behind the legend in many African-American families about having a Native American ancestor? Zora Neale Hurston once wrote with characteristic irony that she thought she was “the only Negro in the United States whose grandfather on the mother’s side was not an Indian chief.” Like most African Americans I’ve interviewed, I was raised believing that one of my great-great grandmothers was all or part Native American, with “high cheekbones and straight black hair.” In my family, this was gospel. No one even thought about the possibility that it might not be true, since—sure enough—there were plenty of people on my family tree, as family photos attested about those who had passed, who did in fact have those proverbial and much-valued cheekbones and some variation of that long and silky straight black hair. What struck me about our mysterious Native American ancestry, even as a child, was how very important it was to my mother’s 11 siblings, and how just as important it was to my dozens of cousins. Being “part Indian” was a much discussed and much bragged about aspect of the Coleman family’s collective identity, even if no one was certain when or how these American Indians had entered our family tree, where they had mated with our black ancestors or from what tribe they hailed. I once asked my Uncle David, our meticulous family historian, what tribe we should tell people we were part of. “Cherokee,” he replied, as if self-evident. When I pointed out that the Cherokee lived in what is now Georgia, the Carolinas and East Tennessee, my uncle responded, unflappably, “That’s right—it was the Iroquois.” I admire a person who can improvise on his feet. But the problem with that answer is that we happen to be able to trace the various branches of the Coleman family to the middle of the 18th century, and since those ancestors all lived in a 30-mile radius of my hometown of Piedmont, W.Va., the likelihood of one of them being an Iroquois was about as likely as her being a Cherokee (in other words, zip!). Well, we might not know what tribe we came from, but we had ancestors who possessed those cheekbones and that hair, and that—and the strength of family lore—was quite enough. I wish you could have seen my inbox the morning after the episode of African American Lives aired in 2008, in which we revealed my genetic admixture. To my own surprise, I have to confess, the results showed that I had a surprisingly high amount of European ancestry (50.5 percent) but only 0.8 percent Native American ancestry. (I am 48.2 percent sub-Saharan African.) No one seemed to mind all that white ancestry, but the low level of Native American ancestry caused something of a family crisis. I thought my computer was going to explode. I didn’t realize I had so many cousins who were so deeply committed to being “part Indian.” And the venom those emails contained!

 These were some very angry cousins. “Skippy, how could you embarrass our family like that, in front of the nation?” ran one line of attack, while another questioned the accuracy of the tests. 

“That test is one big fat lie.” After all, Big Mom herself had told us all about her Indian ancestry, and how could “science” be more authoritative than Big Mom, your own grandmother. Boy. Then followed the mountain of photographs of our ancestors that my cousins sent, demonstrating, prima facie, that all you had to do was to look at those faces and that hair to know that that test wasn’t worth a bucket of spit, the same spit geneticists used to analyze your DNA in the first place.

 You need to correct these aspersions you have cast on our family, Skippy. Right now. I would soon learn that my cousins’ reactions were typical of the reactions I get all across the country when I lecture about our people’s genetic composition. When I ask black people to raise their hands if they believe they have significant amounts of Native American ancestry, almost everyone raises their hands. Here are the facts, according to geneticists Joanna Mountain and Kasia Bryc at 23andme.com: The average African American is 73 percent sub-Saharan, 24 percent European and only 0.7 percent Native American. So, most of us have quite a lot of European ancestry and very, very little Native American ancestry.

 And if this Native American DNA came from exactly one ancestor, it surfaced in our family trees quite a long time ago—on average, perhaps as many as 10 generations, or 300 years, ago, which means about 1714. (This date is very important in terms of the numbers of Africans who had even arrived in the United States by then, and I will return to this point when I try to explain why most of us don’t have much Native American ancestry.) Bottom line? Those high cheekbones and that straight black hair derive from our high proportion of white ancestors and not, for most of us at least, from our mythical Cherokee great-great grandmother

. Sorry, folks, but DNA don’t lie. Despite these averages, however, some African Americans do have significant amounts of Native American ancestry, though almost no black American person today has as much Native American ancestry as they do European ancestry, by quite a long shot. (This does not include black people of Hispanic origin, in that Hispanic Americans tend to have far more Native American ancestry than African Americans do.) Again, here are the statistics: Whereas virtually all African Americans have a considerable amount of European ancestry in their genomes, only 19 percent have at least 1 percent Native American ancestry, and only 5 percent of African American people carry more than 2 percent Native American ancestry. How do these percentages translate into ancestry? Well, if you have 5 percent Native American ancestry in your admixture result, that means you had one Native American ancestor four to five generations back (120 to 150 years ago). If you have 2 percent Native American ancestry, you had one such ancestor on your family tree five to nine generations back (150 to 270 years ago). One percent of Native American ancestry means that this ancestor entered your bloodline six to 10 generations back (180 to 300 years ago). 

So, Why Do We Have Little Native American Ancestry? Well, first, let’s start with the obvious: In order to mate in significant numbers to be statistically significant, a sufficient number of Native Americans and African Americans had to have been living near each other. 

I decided to ask several historians specializing in Native American and African-American contact when those times and places might have been. Surprisingly, they told me there were only a few periods in American history—and only a few circumstances—when this could have been possible, since the average slave and the average Native American never even crossed paths. As Claudio Saunt of the University of Georgia told me, “This has to be, given geography. 

Most Indians did not live on the margins of the slave states.” This is a simple but telling fact of American history, one that makes it quite impossible for significant numbers of Native Americans to have interacted with significant numbers of African-American slaves. 

 According to Saunt, “One [period in which they could have interacted] was certainly before 1715. In that early period, by one estimate, fully one-third of all slaves in South Carolina were Indian, but of course the absolute numbers were small. Indian slavery declined rapidly after that period, so contact would have occurred only when fugitive slaves ended up in Indian country—which they did in small numbers—or when Indians went to the [British or Spanish] colonies to trade,” but, as he concludes, “of course, the absolute numbers were small.” Ira Berlin of the University of Maryland concurs with Saunt, informing me that “the chances of mixing were greatest in the 17th and early-18th century, especially before the American Revolution.” Eric Foner of Columbia University agrees that opportunities for mixing most likely would have occurred very early in American history: “Presumably, blacks and Native Americans would be in proximity to one another during the Colonial era—before Indians were pushed further inland. Some slaves escaped to find refuge with Indian tribes, especially the Seminoles.” Foner points to 17th-century New England, Virginia and Upstate New York as where mixing might have happened, because “many slaves were said to escape to Indian nations [located at these places] during the 17th and 18th centuries.” David Eltis of Emory University suggests “early 18th century South Carolina as a strong possibility with Indian slaves sold into the Caribbean (and New England earlier) as well as African slaves coming into Charleston (and New England) first from the Caribbean and, beginning in 1701, directly from the Gambia. There must have been Indians and Africans working on those early rice plantations together.” Eltis also points out that Katherine Hayes’ recent book Slavery Before Race “has fascinating evidence of Indian and African slaves working together in 1660s and 1670s Long Island.” These historians all pinpoint these few locales, home to a small number of Indians and Africans, within a very early American historical timeframe as places where black people and Native Americans lived close enough to form family bonds. Each also points out a much later period when mixing no doubt occurred—during and after the Trail of Tears—which I shall discuss below. This timeframe, however, presents a problem for explaining Native American ancestry in blacks. I promised to return to the date of 1714, and Saunt’s answer affords me the opportunity to do so. By 1715, few Africans had arrived in North America through the slave trade. In fact, according to Eltis’ Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade Database, only about 29,800 Africans had disembarked from slave ships by 1714 (half before 1700 and half after)—a very small part of the 388,000 or so Africans who would eventually arrive here and from whom most of us are descended. The first of three large waves of Africans would surface in this country only after 1714. By 1750, for instance, some 145,970 had arrived. But most of these, as we can see, arrived after 1714. Therefore, for most of us, the odds of being descended from an African who arrived in North America before 1700 and mated with a Native American, although possible, are very small. Barbara Krauthamer of the University of Massachusetts has identified Martha’s Vineyard and Louisiana as rare places “where people have documented biological and family connections from the 18th century through the early 20th century,” an extended period. 

 The real major exception in American history to the absence of contact between Native Americans and African Americans, as I mentioned above, was with the so-called Five Civilized Tribes—the Creek, the Choctaw, the Cherokee, the Chickasaw and the Seminole. They were located in the Southeast, in parts of what are now Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia and Florida, until they were forcibly moved to Indian Territory, which became the state of Oklahoma in 1907, in the dreadful Trail of Tears during the 1830s. They were known as “civilized,” in part, because they owned black slaves. (The actor Don Cheadle is descended from ancestors owned by the Chickasaw, for example.) 

As Krauthamer (author of the recently published Black Slaves, Indian Masters: Slavery, Emancipation, and Citizenship in the Native American South), told me, while “in the aggregate, most Native Americans and African Americans, free and enslaved, most likely had little contact over the 18th and 19th centuries,” the major exception to this involved these five tribes. “There is an abundance of evidence,” she said, “that documents ‘family’ and biological ties among African Americans and Native Americans in the Choctaw, Chickasaw, Cherokee, Creek and Seminole nations. The Choctaw, Chickasaw and Cherokees were slaveholding nations; so much that contact occurred in the context of slavery—i.e. sexual abuse of enslaved women. “In the Creek nation, there is evidence of forced contact and childbearing but also of more consensual relationships, when Creeks incorporated runaway slave women from the southern states into their own communities and families. Among the Seminoles [of Florida], similarly, the evidence of more consensual relationships is quite solid,” an assertion confirmed by the 1860 U.S. Census, which stated, “The small tribe of Seminoles, although like the tribes above mentioned, transplanted from slaveholding States, holds no slaves, but intermarry with the colored population.” But even in these tribes, the number of slaves was quite small: According to the 1860 Census, four of these tribes (the largest being the Cherokee) owned 7,369 slaves, compared to a total of 3.9 million slaves in the United States that same year. Nevertheless, black slaves made up about 12.5 percent of the total population in Indian Territory in 1860, a sufficient ratio within a recent enough period to mate rather broadly and leave a significant genetic legacy among African Americans today. Claudio Saunt stresses that these figures are undercounts, but the total numbers are tiny, even if we double them (404 free black people also were living in Indian Territory that same year). In other words, if you can trace your ancestry, as Don Cheadle can, to black ancestors living in what is now Oklahoma between 1840 and 1908, your chances of being among the “genetic 5 percenters” is much higher than for any other African Americans. And chances are you probably do have a significant amount of Native American ancestry. If you don’t descend from ancestors who lived with these Native American tribes or in Oklahoma, the odds are much greater you have very little Native American ancestry. Did My Native American Ancestry Disappear From My Genome? Many black people ask me this, when they’re horrified to discover that their family stories about Native American ancestors aren’t confirmed by their admixture tests. Well, in fact, DNA inherited from our very distant ancestors does virtually “disappear” over time, becoming extremely difficult to measure if inherited long enough ago.

 After all, 50,000 years ago, we were all Africans, as any scientist can affirm.

 Yet when I test white people for the show Finding Your Roots, few have any measurable African ancestry, because admixture tests are reliable only a few hundred years back. Could the low percentages of Native American ancestry be explained by its disappearance? According to Kasia Bryc, if a person believes that “somehow we do not see their Native American ancestry, even though it is there, this is very unlikely, and we have no reason to believe that the Native American signal would be lost in the population as a whole.” In fact, all of this has been computed by Graham Coop, a professor of population biology at the University of California, Davis. According to Coop, the percent probability of an ancestor not passing on any DNA to you is basically zero back 180 years (assuming each generation is 30 years), and is only about 5 percent back 210 years or seven generations ago, to 1814. However, if you had one Native American ancestor who joined your lineage about 300 years ago, again in or before 1714, there is a 54 percent chance you would not have inherited any of his or her DNA. “In other words,” Bryc told me, “the number of genealogical ancestors you have from 10 generations ago is, in theory, 1,024 people, but in fact you probably only have DNA from about 500 of them.” However, because so few Africans had arrived in this country by 1714, as we have seen, this would not be a common scenario. The amount of Native American DNA that we may have inherited from a putative Native American ancestor wouldn’t have disappeared from our genomes, since most likely that ancestor would have appeared many years later, within what we might think of as the window of inheritability. Why Does It Matter So Much to us! In response to the vehement questioning and protests that the small amount (if any) of Native American ancestry generates among black people who take admixture tests, I’ve thought long and hard about the answer to this question. Barbara Krauthamer sums up her thinking this way: “Of course the myths about Indian ancestors endure for so many reasons, from a glimmer of truth to a desire to distance from Blackness to romanticized notions about Indians.” Add to this that at least since Thomas Jefferson compared Native Americans and African Americans in his infamously racist Notes on the State of Virginia (1781-1785), commentators have been valorizing Native Americans as America’s original “noble savage” and contrasting their nobility against the supposed inferiority of America’s “ignoble savages,” our black ancestors. Who wants to be thought of as ignoble or distinctly inferior? Then, too, there are those of us who love the idea that the people of color—the Indians and the escaped slaves—were sitting around campfires smoking peace pipes and plotting revenge against white settlers. But, by and large, that didn’t happen, unless your ancestor made it into the ranks of the Seminoles down in Florida. So how about those “high cheekbones and straight black hair?” As anthropologist Nina Jablonski, author of Living Color: The Biological and Social Meaning of Skin Color, explains it, “Everyone wants to feel good about their ancestors. Having a Native American in one’s background is ennobling and elevating, but having physical traits associated with European subjugation is not. “The appearance of high cheekbones and straight hair in some African Americans is not because of partial Native American ancestry, but because of admixture with Europeans. When Africans with generally broad faces and Europeans with generally narrow faces have children, the effect is an anatomical compromise—a more prominent middle face and the appearance of high cheekbones. Many African Americans have relatively straight hair and freckles, too, because of part-European ancestry.” If it’s any comfort, genealogists say white Americans have the same Cherokee great-great grandmother fantasy that many black Americans share. But here’s the difference between white and black claims of Indian ancestry: Ultimately, I think it was much easier for black people to invent a putative Native American ancestor to explain mixed-race features and hair textures than to confront the terrible fact that we have so much European ancestry because of forced or cajoled sexuality during slavery, “especially the sexual violence that established those ties of ancestry” in the first place, as Krauthamer put it to me. The fact that so much of our genetic admixture arose from rape is one of the most dreadful, and most visible, legacies of “the peculiar institution” called American slavery. As always, you can find more “Amazing Facts About the Negro” on The Root, and check back each week as we count to 100. Henry Louis Gates Jr. is the Alphonse Fletcher University Professor and founding director of the Hutchins Center for African and African American Research at Harvard University. He is also editor-in-chief of The Root. Follow him on Twitter and Facebook. What ever nature makes is what you are! No such thing as 3/5 of a human! Half this and half that. Nor black yellow white or redskins! Your Asian Afrakan or Asian!

[dreamingawayyour1ife]

long hair>>>>

[sc4bpuppy]

The new eyeliner hits different bc I purged my old expired makeup and it's really fucking good it's the blackest black kohl waterproof eyeliner by joah which I think Is a newer drugstore brand that's mimicking/marketing lots of kbeauty products [glass skin foundation mainly] [I also think it's either owned by or is KISS cosmetics under a new name] but the kohl aspect intrigued me. This shit is really good. It come with a sharpener but is a retractable pencil so you can have thick or thin liner depending on what you like. It also comes with a smudger. And I don't know if it's just because I have sensitive skin but it really hurt my eyes and there's actually no smudging this liner. Apply scarcely at first. I can remove some excess better with my spit than with water or micellar jelly though. Here's the liner I'm gonna sleep in tonight and see if I can wear it tomorrow. Don't worry, I dont sleep with mascara I make sure that is removed. Cuticle oil seems to take it off without a lot of friction. I might get an eye infection. I'm kind of okay with this. For science. I'm incredibly bored during this period of quitting smoking but I also feel like my mind is being freed. To think about experiments or anything else besides sit there and want a cigarette

[honeypleasejustkillme]

i thought i was at my lowest but holy shit it gets lower

[seance]

DEAD BOY DETECTIVES + the onion headlines

[cinnagrrl]

i don't think i can thug this shit out anymore

[hinamie]

alongside someone like you

[pineapple-frenzy]

Book 2 au: sparring sessions and short hair katara

They like to have sparring sessions in order to keep their bending skills sharp. They allow themselves to go all out and not hold back at all cause they know if anyone got hurt, Katara could just heal them

But anyways, wouldn't it be kinda funny if Zuko accidentally burned Katara's hair tho? Aofkqldkkajfjd

The "I think we can save the hairloops" line is from @linnoya-writes thank you for that!! :>>

[maiaczy]

Bubbles

[floweroflaurelin]

How do you want to do this?

—

Goodbye, Faithful Caregiver.