#louisiana saturday night

[thatbanditqueen]

Louisiana Saturday Night, a new fic.....

I have been working on a new WIP set at the Louisiana Hayride from 1954 - 1956, and will probably post chapter one in the next few days. It starts in October 1954, when 19 year-old Elvis had never played outside the small clubs of Memphis, except for that once. At the Opry. And that didn't go too well.

Now he faces his biggest audience ever at the Lousiana Hay Ride: over three thousand people in-person (a thousand more than the Opry!) and millions over the radio. He has only recorded two singles, never been away from home much or gone beyond second base with a girl, and doesn't know much about life as a touring musician. But he's eager to learn and grab every opportunity he can with those long, inexperienced slender fingers.

This fic will have my usual blend of poorly executed dry humor, fluff, smut and angst.

please comment or reblog if you want to be tagged - here is a preview.

Here is a snippet from Chapter 1: Hot Wax

Approximately 9:15 p.m.

Saturday, October 16, 1954

The Municipal Auditorium in Shreveport, Louisiana

The first time she saw Elvis up close he was hunched over the sink tapping his fingers along the porcelain rim. Rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet, he reminded Freddie of a bottle rocket about to blow. She smiled at the thought of him bursting through the ceiling like a comic book hero, his oversized sports coat trailing behind him like a long pink cape.

She wasn’t sure if he was recovering from his first set or talking himself into the second, but what she did know was that this kid was as green as they came. Horace had been reading Pappy the riot act yesterday when she walked by his office, yelling at him for booking “some hillbilly who just fell off the turnip truck, cuz Sam Philips brings you a bottle of Jack every time he comes through town.”  The audience out there had been so taken aback by his country bop they’d forgotten to clap, and she doubted Pappy would be allowed to invite him back.

As she watched the show up in the control booth, Freddie had wondered if Elvis’ performance had gone over better with the radio listeners who hadn’t had to watch his stilted, awkward movements on stage. There was a ragged emotional tenor to his voice, and now that she was standing right in front of him she had to admit he had a dark, sultry allure that was strikingly different from all these other boys doing their best Gene Autry impression.

But geez, now the poor kid began to mutter into his reflection and she hoped he wouldn’t cry. Freddie barely knew how to deal with the girls she found balling in the bathroom. 

“Um, hey there. You ok?”

Elvis jerked around and ran his hand through his sopping wet hair and straightened up, stiff like a deer caught in the headlights. 

“Most folks are nervous their first time. That’s a big crowd.”

“Don’t you worry about me, honey, I ain’t nervous.” He looked her over, a sneer forming at his mouth. “Didn’t you heard the man? I’m the hottest thing on wax. Mr. Logan just asked me to play a second set.”

“Oh - uh - well, I guess I was wrong.”

“MMhmmm. Just getting geared up to go back on stage.” He settled his hands at his waist and shot her a sulky fierce glower, then waggled his eyebrows in a challenge.

“Oh, well that's good. Maybe you can answer something for me then.”

“Anything baby.” 

He softened and bit his lip, giving her what she took to be his version of a come hither look. He looked like he was fighting back a sneeze and Freddie had to swallow her laughter. 

“Why are you in the Ladies’ Powder Room?”

Elvis paused and looked down for a beat as he shook his head and laughed.

She nodded toward the shelf of perfume bottles, powders and the basket of dainty pink sanitary napkin boxes with Kotex printed along the sides.

He let out a low whistle and rubbed his mouth.

“Man o man, I guess you got me, might be jus a lil nervous. I ‘spose I really weren’t watching were I was going, huh?”

Freddie couldn’t help the way she dumbly smiled back, noticing up close how long and thick his eyelashes were as he looked down at her through them. She suddenly had the urge to take his hand and lead him to the green room where she could make him a hot cup of tea and comfort him and give him all the advice she had from her four years of working at KWKH. But instead she took a deep breath and fidgeted with her cardigan.

“I won't tell anyone you were in here. It can be our secret."

other fic taglist - i won't tag you again on this unless you comment you want to be tagged:

@whositmcwhatsit

@from-memphis-with-love

@vintageshanny

@shakerattlescroll

@peskybedtime

@be-my-ally

@ellie-24

@missmaywemeetagain

@powerofelvis

@arrolyn1114

@lookingforrainbows

@eliseinmemphis

@kingdomforapony

@everythingelvispresley

@richardslady121

@dkayfixates

@artlover8992

@freudianslumber

@amydarcimarie

@toreigh

@18lkpeters

@yynneessmons

@ashtag6887

@waiting4brucewayne2adoptme

@returntopresley

@rjmartin11

@louisejoy86

@notstefaniepresley

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@j-v-9-2

@beeandheroddobsessions

@doll-elvis

@burningloverdoll

@ohjustpeachy1

@everythingelvispresley

@velvetelvis

@horror-movieshoes

@ooihcnoiwlerh

@moonchild-daniella

@lialocklear

@obsessionisthecure

@tacozebra051

@elvispresleywife

@bisexualwvtson

@father-of-2cats

@lillypink

@godlypresley

@crash-and-cure

@misspresley

@daffieapple

@louisejoy86

@burningloverdoll

@stargirllily19

@amydarcimarie

@elvisrealgf

@littlehoneyposts

@eapep

@stylespresleyhearted

[djmonet]

cowards put the end of the song!!

Unmute

[coeurdeverre82]

[evieplaylists]

new orleans // playlist

imagine yourself in a jazz bar at night, surrounded w chatter while you move your body to the music. warm amber hues, sunset reds and oranges, boozy feelings, a tipsy smile on your face, the smell of cigarettes caught in your hair and a sweet date by your side.

-

-

i initially made this playlist to use for while i study so there are a few unrelated instrumentals but the jazz vibes got to me hahah.

[ruler-of-turtle-kind]

@re-dracula

late one night I was sippin a bud

down came Vlad and he sucked out my blood

now i burn when i touch the sunlight

Transylvania Saturday Night

[codedsoul]

SNL - Maine Justice w/Justin Timberlake

[kawaiijohn]

Storms! Friday 3/14 and Saturday 3/15

🇺🇸 there hasn't been a day 2 (tomorrow) high risk severe weather forecast since 13 years ago in 2012.

this has happened three times. ever.

tomorrow is looking to possibly be a significant tornado outbreak preceded by another tornado/wind storm outbreak today late into tonight.

The NWS does NOT use strong language unless they are certain something IS going to happen.

So for them to be this certain an outbreak is going to happen means /it is likely going to happen/

Today/Tonight

...SUMMARY... A regional outbreak of severe thunderstorms is likely this afternoon through tonight across parts of the Lower/Mid Mississippi Valley and portions of the Lower Ohio Valley and Mid-South. Numerous tornadoes, several of which could be strong to intense, widespread severe gusts ranging from 60 to 100 mph, and scattered large hail up to baseball size all appear likely.

Satruday/Tomorrow/Late Tonight

...SUMMARY... A tornado outbreak is likely on Saturday across the central Gulf Coast States and Deep South into the Tennessee Valley. Numerous significant tornadoes, some of which should be long-track and potentially violent, are expected on Saturday afternoon and evening. The most dangerous tornado threat should begin across eastern Louisiana and Mississippi during the late morning to afternoon, spread across Alabama late day into the evening, and reach western parts of the Florida Panhandle and Georgia Saturday night.

As of 4:20pm Friday, here is our tornado risk for Saturday. Hatched means SIGNIFICANT, EF2+ tornadoes.

30% hatched hasn't been used in a long ass time.

Tell your loved ones who live in these areas about the weather. Have a plan. Have a go bag.

Do you know where your pets' carriers are? Can you get them contained/leashed/moved during an emergency?

Do you know where your medications are if you need to shelter?

Ask yourself these questions before bad weather strikes.

Don't be scared! Be prepared!!

[justinspoliticalcorner]

Robert Reich:

You think I’m exaggerating? This is exactly what happened to Mahmoud Khalil on Saturday night. Khalil, who graduated from Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs in December, has a green card. His wife, who is eight months pregnant, is an American citizen.

Immigration agents appeared at his apartment building and told him he was being detained. He now appears to be in a detention facility in Louisiana. Khalil did nothing illegal. He has not been charged with a crime. He expressed his political point of view — peacefully, non-violently, non-threateningly. That’s supposed to be permitted — dare I say even encouraged? — in a democracy. So why is he in jail?

Khalil was one of the leaders of last year’s peaceful pro-Palestinian protests at Columbia University. In a post on Truth Social, Trump conceded Khalil was snatched up and sent off because of his politics. “This is the first arrest of many to come,” wrote Trump. “We know there are more students at Columbia and other Universities across the Country who have engaged in pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, anti-American activity, and the Trump Administration will not tolerate it.”

Where, may I ask, are the “First Amendment absolutists” such as Trump First Buddy Elon Trump when it comes to protecting speech that the Trump regime finds objectionable? Where are all the Republicans who for years have accused liberals of “cancelling” their views? Where are the conservatives who have claimed for even longer they only want to conserve traditional American values? Nearly 13 million people in the United States hold green cards. Tens of thousands more are here temporarily as foreign students and professors. Apparently all are now in danger of being arrested if they speak their minds. If this assault on civil liberties stands, Trump could just as well arrest and expel permanent residents who voice support for, say, transgender people or DEI or “woke” or Ukraine, or anything else the regime finds “anti-American” and offensive. If it stands, what’s to stop the Trump regime from arresting American citizens who support any cause the regime doesn’t like — such as, say, replacing Republicans in Congress in 2026 and putting a Democrat in the White House in 2028?

Robert Reich is spot-on regarding the illegal arrest of Mahmoud Khalil on bogus charges of “supporting terrorism”: “If it stands, what’s to stop the Trump regime from arresting American citizens who support any cause the regime doesn’t like?” That could include support for LGBTQ+ rights, defending Ukraine and Canada from attacks on their sovereignty, showing support for pro-Palestine causes, or any other cause that Tyrant 47’s regime opposes.

[robertreich]

Friends,

One of the purposes of “flooding the zone,” as the Trump regime is trying to do — shocking and awing us with its blitzkrieg of bonkers orders — is to make it almost impossible to sort out what we should be incredibly freaked out about from what we should merely freak out about.

I’m incredibly freaked out about the regime grabbing people from their homes who are legally in the United States, with permanent status — not just visas permitting them to work or study here but green cards — and then whisking them away to prison because they’ve engaged in constitutionally protected speech that the regime doesn’t like.

You think I’m exaggerating? This is exactly what happened to Mahmoud Khalil on Saturday night. Khalil, who graduated from Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs in December, has a green card. His wife, who is eight months pregnant, is an American citizen.

Immigration agents appeared at his apartment building and told him he was being detained. He now appears to be in a detention facility in Louisiana.

Khalil did nothing illegal. He has not been charged with a crime. He expressed his political point of view — peacefully, non-violently, non-threateningly. That’s supposed to be permitted — dare I say even encouraged? — in a democracy.

So why is he in jail?

Khalil was one of the leaders of last year’s peaceful pro-Palestinian protests at Columbia University.

In a post on Truth Social, Trump conceded Khalil was snatched up and sent off because of his politics. “This is the first arrest of many to come,” wrote Trump. “We know there are more students at Columbia and other Universities across the Country who have engaged in pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, anti-American activity, and the Trump Administration will not tolerate it.”

Where, may I ask, are the “First Amendment absolutists” such as Trump First Buddy Elon Trump when it comes to protecting speech that the Trump regime finds objectionable?

Where are all the Republicans who for years have accused liberals of “cancelling” their views?

Where are the conservatives who have claimed for even longer they only want to conserve traditional American values?

Nearly 13 million people in the United States hold green cards. Tens of thousands more are here temporarily as foreign students and professors. Apparently all are now in danger of being arrested if they speak their minds.

If this assault on civil liberties stands, Trump could just as well arrest and expel permanent residents who voice support for, say, transgender people or DEI or “woke” or Ukraine, or anything else the regime finds “anti-American” and offensive.

If it stands, what’s to stop the Trump regime from arresting American citizens who support any cause the regime doesn’t like — such as, say, replacing Republicans in Congress in 2026 and putting a Democrat in the White House in 2028?

Does anyone remember Senator Joe McCarthy’s communist witch hunts? I do. They weren’t pretty. Careers were ruined; reputations, destroyed. They remain a stain on American democracy.

American democracy. That’s what’s at stake. The Trump regime is out to trash it. The regime doesn’t believe in the First or any other amendments. It doesn’t believe in the Constitution.

Let’s commit to ending Republican control of Congress in 2026 and sending this regime packing in 2028 — if there’s still a democracy that enables us to do so.

https://robertreich.substack.com/p/the-trump-regime-will-arrest-some

[saywhat-politics]

"This is the first arrest of many to come," the president said of Mahmoud Khalil, a green card holder abducted by immigration agents and sent to Louisiana.

President Donald Trump confirmed Monday that federal immigration agents arrested and detained Mahmoud Khalil, a Palestinian activist and recent Columbia University graduate who was taken this weekend — despite being a permanent legal resident of the United States — for helping peacefully lead antiwar protests on campus last year.

Despite not having a warrant, plainclothes agents abducted Khalil Saturday night as he returned to his university-owned apartment with his wife, a U.S. citizen who is eight months pregnant. Agents claimed they were revoking Syrian-born Khalil’s green card and also threatened to detain his wife, according to his attorney.

The Department of Homeland Security confirmed Khalil’s arrest before Trump announced it himself Monday afternoon, with the president labeling the Palestinian man a “Radical Foreign Pro-Hamas Student” without providing any evidence to support that claim. The arrest was first reported by Zeteo.

“This is the first arrest of many to come. We know there are more students at Columbia and other Universities across the Country who have engaged in pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, anti-American activity, and the Trump Administration will not tolerate it,” Trump posted on Truth Social, again claiming without evidence that antiwar activists on college campuses are “paid agitators” and not students.

[thatbanditqueen]

@i-r-i-n-a-a you are always so lovely, he was such a beautiful gentle funny dork. Ugh. Happy monday and thanks for reading!

Louisiana Saturday Night Chapter 2

Hot Button Baby

Warning: Consensual smut, fingering, boys talking about sex and being crude.

Summary: Elvis and the guys get into Shreveport late one Friday night and he runs into Freddie. Taking advantage of the opportunity, Elvis takes her out for dinner as he hopes for something more.

Read it here

Thanks to my alpha @whositmcwhatsit for reading multiple drafts of this chapter and to all my Elvis fic friends @vintageshanny @from-memphis-with-love @shakerattlescroll @be-my-ally @missmaywemeetagain @powerofelvis @peskybedtime @lookingforrainbows @ellie-24 for helping me get through the summer and keep hope a live. xoxox

Let me know if you would like to be added to the taglist, and thanks for reading. Reblogs, comments feedback and corrections desired and encouraged

@i-r-i-n-a-a

@artlover8992

@atleastpleasetelephone

@returntopresley

@dkayfixates

@ab4eva

@louisejoy86

[christinebloodwrittings]

Die in your arms #4

Alastor x Fem!reader

Taglist: @littlebluefishtail @maxlynn17 @vxllys @modifiedmonster @sirens-and-moonflowers @qardasngan

Warnings: Implied SA, imprisonment, trauma, mentions of blood.

Masterlist

Proofing made by: @littlebluefishtail

March 1914. New Orleans, Louisiana.

Seven am to seven in the evening, Mondays and Thursdays. Tuesday and Wednesday he gets up at six anyways, but prepares breakfast for both before he leaves. He calls around eight A.M everyday, to check in before the show starts, then he comes back at ten pm, sometimes eleven. You had his steps studied. Well, almost. 

After three months, you discovered that Alastor is very unpredictable. His mouth says words but his eyes show the opposite. He keeps his body language at bay as much as he can, but there are times when he betrays himself. When he’s in pain for example, he’s bad at hiding stress and headaches.

In the dead of night, he returns from ‘work’ reeking of watered down blood. He does that every single Thursday, but the frequency has increased every week since Christmas.  

What kind of trouble can a scrawny radio host like him get into? 

One Saturday morning, a day in which he only writes the scripts for his upcoming week, he was more tired than usual. “Morning” he saluted you without taking his eyes off the semi-blank pages, taking occasional looks at the newspaper. 

He also had your steps memorized. Decisive but soft steps, he also noticed how you walked on your toes instead of putting the weight mainly on your heels, and you don’t like using shoes. 

He only had seen your routine when he’s - obviously - inside the house. It goes without saying that you act way more ‘at home’ or ‘comfortable’ when he’s not around. He was more than aware of that fact.  

He detested your ‘tiptoeing’ or ‘walking on eggshells’ attitude around him. Not in a controlling way, but in a ‘could you please acknowledge that I'm not a threat?’ way, otherwise he felt like his bastard step-father who caused his mother to behave in much the same way. 

Within the first three months he realized he hated your careful demeanor, in an absolutely selfish way, because he wasn’t doing much to atone it, other than avoiding being too ‘present’ or ‘involved’. But then he realized that was exactly what he needed to do in order to create the home atmosphere he started craving.

So, that Saturday morning, after breakfast, he sat nearby as you added a compost of your own making to the soil. Although he thought he was making a good move towards you, he was so difficult to read that you felt as if he was going to pounce on you at any given moment.  

How fucking invasive! You thought, adding more and more strength into the hole making for the tulip bulbs. Why was he staring at you like that? A normal wife would be more than flattered to have her husband’s attention like you do, but you have seen the passive yet menacing stare of a tiger at some point. The feeling is exactly the same as how you felt under his watch, like a prey preparing itself to run for their life.

That, until you decided it was enough…ten minutes after he sat down that is. 

“What’s going on?” he opened his eyes to your strong tone of voice. Which, by the way, has improved quite a bit compared to the dry, hoarse voice you had in November. “I can’t have some coffee in the yard of our house?” He avoided saying ‘my house’ on purpose, - avoiding being an asshole -.

You stabbed the small shovel hard into the dirt and turned to look at him. “The fact that you’re there doesn’t bother me, the staring is the fucking problem” alright, point strongly taken, but the “What about it exactly?” question was bugging him, and unconsciously slipped past his lips. 

You closed your eyes, swallowing a lot of words to just say, “I feel your stare burning the back of my head”, then another deep breath for the following, “If I have to be honest, it does make me angry”, among other feelings. It did feel strangely formal to talk like that, but Rosemary did scold you for the excessive use of foul language, and you really wanted to avoid that from happening again.

“I just…I like watching you work the dirt” he was tongue tied, he had literal goosebumps of excitement. “Do…You want to help?” he nodded, like a kid being offered to lick the frosting off a spoon. It felt off, wrong, but you weren’t going to get more information off the distance. 

If you were going to live in the lion’s den, you might as well get some ways to crush him. 

“Then come here and make yourself useful” you hand-motioned him to get closer. 

It came out harsher than he intended, but he felt like he'd taken a good step. He made you say ‘I feel’, which in the few psychology books he had read, was a way of communicating what your body couldn't. 

You took a quick glance back at him, that turned into a solid minute, just to watch him rolling up his sleeves, realizing that he was not as scrawny as you thought. But of course the suit hid all of that. 

“So, what can I do, boss?” He chuckled as you shook your head. “Your fingers are larger so make a hole deep until the brim reaches your second finger joint, not your knuckle” Your hands were considerably smaller than his, he found that adorable. 

Bossy, he thought. 

On the other hand, you weren’t going to lie, Alastor is a very good looking man. The mustache was a bit much, but the smart look his glasses gave him, his chocolate skin color, light brown eyes. And his hair! He had a haircut where the left side was kept gel smooth towards his nape, while the right side had a fringe of curls hanging down over his glasses. The side without gel looked fluffy and soft.

Damn you, good looking monster. You bite back. 

“Is there a way to predict what color they will turn out?” you heard him, far away, echoing in the distance. Which was odd considering he was just a few feet from you. “No, you just plant them, with the green tip up, and just wait” the sunlight flickered above you, but you figured it was just a passing bird.

“What color are you hoping for?” his voice was suddenly close, his side of the dirt already done with what you had asked. “White or maybe pink tulips” you answered softly. 

He didn’t want to push his luck, given that you eyed him up and down, “You also gave me roses and mint, I planted the seeds separated because they do not like each other, they compete for nutrients like leeches” you made worm fingers near your face, just to show him how nasty they were. 

He seemed to listen intently to what you were saying, not in a ‘I’m forced to do so’ way, but really interested, he saw you turn your eyes away from him, light shining and fading just as quickly. “How do you know so much?” he copied the way you tucked in the bulbs with dirt, as he wondered. 

“My mind is a little foggy, but I just know” you lied, it was from the first book your father gave you, an herbology book to put some color to the garden. Oh how you missed the vines with tiny pink flowers growing outside your window.  

“Where I grew up there was a big cinnamon tree. I never developed a taste for tea, but my mother loved her black tea with a stick of cinnamon.” He once called it sock water in front of his mother, when he was a very young boy, she tickled those words away. The memory brought him a tender smile.

“How wholesome” memories slipped off your mind, especially your mother’s face and voice. “You don’t remember anything from your childhood?” you suddenly heard him from in between the void, “Not much, but I do remember smells, lights, and the taste of apple pie…” crunchy crust, soft inside, the lovely taste of cinnamon. But then, there was just darkness, where could everything else be? “Other than that, it’s…pretty blank”.

“I’m not a fan of sweets, but my mother had a recipe for apple pie, I can try and take a crack at it, if you wish” In contrast with his brown skin, he had lighter coloured marks going upwards into his forearms. “Your mom liked sweets?” you wondered, feeling his eyes following your stare up his arms. “Baking made her happy” Him eating them was the thing that made her happy, you thought, and you weren’t wrong.

“I think it wouldn’t hurt to try”, success! He had made a good step forward. 

Soft jazz played from the gramophone near the stairs, a cheerful tune with no lyrics, just the drums, bass, and the occasional trumpet solo. When the high notes were struck but the pace never fastened, he heard you humming in repeat, softly, just for yourself. Truth be told, he noticed that any tune that carried enough feeling through the bridge brought a smile to your face.

When the needle moved to another song, he started humming as he kneaded the dough. The piano was his favorite, you could tell by the way he made the movements of the keys against the marble of the counter, and his feet moved to press an invisible pedal. 

“Cinnamon and a splash of lemon” he added to the filling, your hand flinching away a little when he tapped the bowl, prompting you to move it more to the space between you.

He was so close.

He gave off a smell of tree bark, freshly cut grass and rainwater. Very pleasant, charming, and dangerous. But you remembered every poisonous stench of the men that attended the brothel, he not only was a threat, he was a true rose. Beautiful and inviting, until you get too close and get caught by its thorns. But, somehow he didn’t smell of sweat off alcohol, like other men. 

You gave off a smell he couldn’t adequately describe. He couldn’t get close enough to try, either. Though, he was quickly distracted by the sight of your bare hands, a knot tying a noose in the inside of his throat.  

He remembered having your hands in his, but he had never seen them without gloves or bandages. Your right ring finger was crooked, a cut where it was obvious it had been sliced ​​like a ham and glued back onto your right middle finger. Both of your hands had healed scars on their knuckles, and what looked to be cuff scars on your wrists.

Despite the time, there were parts of your skin that would not return to their original color, nor any amount of cream and ‘regenerative’ treatments would help either. Your knuckles were forever disfigured, no wonder you were still using bandages despite them being already healed. It did caught his attention.

He wondered, what the hell happened that forced you to fight to that extent?

He swallowed a lump of saliva, then pointed to your right hand, “Does it hurt?” then moved down to also ask for your wrist. You looked up at him wondering what was the purpose of the question, if it was pity or just curiosity, but you couldn’t tell by the look on his face only. 

Shrugging your shoulders you turned back to the bowl, mixing the filling, “Not anymore” you limited your answer to a half told truth. “You don’t have to answer, but, is there a reason for the bandages?” You thought about his question for a minute, not paying attention to how his eyes scanned your up and down.

“Comfort, that way I avoid unwanted friction and looks” the way you shot him an accusatory sideway eye, made him choke down a scoff. “May I?” he took a deep breath trying not to laugh, to ask for your hand. He had his over yours, with the intention to simply touch, but you ended up putting your hand over his knuckles.

‘So, not touch but look, I can do that’ he thought as he pulled a little to get your hand closer as he adjusted his glasses. He hummed, inspecting the variety of reliefs and depths. Definitely the result of a crude fighting style, yet strong.

The wrist lines though, those weren’t made by the police handcuffs. He mentally noted that it had to be a bigger and thicker kind of cuff to make such a damage, and also a lot of resistance. 

Thinking about that just made his knot worsen.

He gently motioned his hand down, your hand shakily coming back to the side of the bowl. “I noticed you were looking at mine earlier” from the corner of your eye you saw him roll his sleeve higher, “If you wish, you can do the same”. You put the spoon and bowl aside, with one hand you grabbed hold of his index and middle finger, pulling down gently yet no less tensely. With your other hand you touched the pale streaks of skin upwards. Causing all sorts of chills up Alastor’s spine. 

Alastor didn't know if he regretted his offer or if it was a good idea to begin with. You looked like a blind person reading braille as you touched him. There was the amusing way you made sure he couldn't grab you if that was his intention, that took his mind aside from his nerves. In the position he was in, Alastor recognized that you could easily twist his fingers if he did something wrong. 

'So cautious, I like it' he thought now seeing how you simply observed the skin he was so mocked for.

He heard you humm and set his arm to his side, then your attention went back to the mixing bowl. Just like that. So it was okay for you to invade his personal space, but not the other way around?! Perhaps he could see how far he could push that boundary.

“Did it hurt?” you spoke softly, but he couldn’t tell if it was out of concern or curiosity. “Yes, but I don’t regret it” another humm, this time in understanding.

A deafening silence was created. To alastor the music of the gramophone seemed so far away, echoing in between thoughts and questions. 

“Can I try something?” He bit his tongue as soon as he spoke, but he couldn’t take his words back when they already had caught your attention. “Another recipe?” you could hardly believe you sassed him, how did he get you so comfortable?

“No” he laughed, “I’ve never been fond of physical contact, but-” the feeling of his skin that had lingered on your hands began to burn, had you done something wrong, will he do something to punish you for taking such liberties? He offered, how could he be mad?! doesn't matter you were going to make sure to block anything he was thinking of doing. 

“Oh, then I overstepped, I’m sorry” Alastor felt as if you had shut a door straight against his face, “No, it feels odd but, unlike others you don’t do it…with bad intentions”. He saw you eye him up and down sideways, would that mean you opened the door again, just a smidge? “I just want you to know, that you can touch me whenever you feel like it” he was probably shooting himself with that invitation, but he wanted to know if you’d take his hand or grab him by the arm - so to speak.

One motion, you made one downwards with your finger for him to move a bit to your level, given that he’s taller than you. But he had to be ridiculous, instead of bowing down, Alastor knelt down in front of you again. Just like the night after the wedding. And with a fucking shit-eating grin, definitely enjoying your confusion/flustered mix of emotions. 

Before your peripheral blind spot, you spotted a knife, if you were quick enough you could grab it and slit his throat. End this whole farce once and for all. It had become oh so annoying, his smile, his confidence, and his false sense of chivalry.

He was mocking you, with every smile and soft, considerate touch. He's a fucking monster, just another pervert of the bunch, he'll be quick to take advantage of the slightest spark of trust you give him.

'But still...' you brought your hand to his face, running down his jaw to the Adam's apple on his neck. 'What a nice sternocleidomastoid, how would it look skinned and open?' under your hand you felt him swallow. Was he nervous? How shameless.

'You're studying me and you're not ashamed to show it’ Alastor mocked mentally, his eyes locked on yours. His mind was alert and yet his body surrendered to your warmth. While having your hand on his neck, it was like looking at himself in a mirror. What a depraved look you had, he felt as if you were visually making your way between every strand of his muscles, perhaps seeing how many ways to make him scream in agony.

"Soft," you whispered unconsciously. As soon as he appeared, your predatory gaze disappeared, your hands moving up to his hair, enjoying his well-defined curls between your fingers.

Where did your blood-hungry look go? It was a drastic change, almost as much as going from one song to another. From a dull and sadistic one to an innocent and happy one, how interesting.

Both of your hands were in his hair now, drawing his face to your collarbone. Now that he was close enough, he tried to decipher, what was your smell? Dirt, dried blood, burnt skin, alcohol and bandages, what a sad aroma. He was suddenly so depressed, he couldn’t enjoy being so close to you. 

“May I?” he put his hands up, aiming for your arms. "No…unless. If I put your hands on a specific spot, do you promise not to move them from there?" how about giving him the chance to slip and give you a reason to harm him? A fake image of trust to feed his ego.

Your heart started pumping loudly inside your ears, as you put his hands up the sides of the unmarked sides of your waist. Unmarked, but not untouched. He felt how a shiver went up your skin, even through the thick layers of fabric. 

An image of brown and red leaves flooded your mind, warm sunlight and a swing, your legs swinging back and forth, the momentum making the wind lift your hair. Oh how you missed not having to feel invisible hands touching your skin, eyes on the walls, mirrors and dark corners. Just living under the warmth of the sun and the spring breeze, sweetly and innocently.

The sound of the needle hitting the end of the record pulled you back to reality. You took a deep breath, and notice just how close you were, your unmarked cheek pressed against the crown of his head, arms around his neck.

As soon as Alastor felt you move back, he immediately removed his hands from your waist. Reluctantly closing his eyes as he was kicked down by the cold again. Couldn't you stay for five more minutes? But he just silently turned to watch you walk around the kitchen island and change vinyl records, with an inevitable longing stare you never caught sight of.

“What language is this?” you muttered to yourself, attempting to read the burgundy cover. “It’s French” his face was so close, you could smell his shampoo again. “Mon coeur s'est envolé, it means ‘My heart flew away’” Since you’ve never heard French before, you couldn’t tell if he was being truthful, he might as well be just speaking gibberish to impress you. 

“You speak french?” you looked up at him. “A variety. I speak Cajun, after all I’m creole” You hummed again, this time an ‘oh’ he couldn’t decipher. “It’s a waltz version of the original, would you like to play it?” he moved the needle up for you to put the A side up. 

He had you almost caged inside his arms. His right one down the level of your eyes, the other out of sight. But how come you didn’t feel so threatened? Still possibly in danger, but…how come?

To Alastor you seemed so tense, hesitant. He really wanted to hold a steady pace with you, but somehow he kept going backwards. What drove you to be so extreme with your emotions? 

Most of the time you look at him like a pest, others you don’t even look at him at all. That bloodlusted stare was the most sincere sight he had of you since he met you, and he couldn’t settle with just those crumbs, he wanted more. 

“Could you say something else in French?” oh wait, were you actually interested? Alastor smiled and got his face as close to your ear as he could without pressing himself at all to your back. “What would you like me to say?” his breath and velvet voice tickled your ear, “Anything”.

He took your hand, raising it so he could softly kiss your scarred wrist, “J'aimerais t'embrasser” he whispered against your ear, as if he was telling you a secret, something for your ears only. “What does that mean?” he softly lifted your hand, turning you around on your heels. “It means, you owe me a dance” his hand pulled your back from the same height you allowed him to touch, just so your chest could be closer to his, “Would you do me the honor?”.

‘What the hell is wrong with me?’ Alastor slapped himself internally. In his way of thinking, there were two possible options that could explain what was going on with him. 

The hug you gave him made him go too far out of his comfort zone where he felt in control and he tried to counteract it by making you feel uncomfortable. Or he was actually enjoying your company.  

Utterly preposterous.

He put the pie to bake, then started the song again.

[embodiedfutures]

nov 9 - nov 13 readings

hi! this is reaux (she/they)! as many of you know, BFP is slowly waking up and will be undergoing a full makeover in the coming months. in the mean time, to help get back into the pattern of posting and to continue to share resources, i want to start posting what i read each week!

without further ado, here is everything i've been learning from and engaging with so far just between last saturday night [nov 9, 2024] and right now [wednesday afternoon, nov 13, 2024]! i tried to post this on tiktok @/edgeofeden.17 (go check me out for cool political talks and reading recs!) with my reactions as well, but they said it violated community guidelines :(

journal article: The House on Bayou Road: Atlantic Creole Networks in the Eighteenth and Nineteenth Centuries

wikipedia: Plaçage

wikipedia: Signare

paperback book: Africans In Colonial Louisiana: The Development of Afro-Creole Culture in the Eighteenth-Century

article: Why Is Gen Z So Sex-Negative?: A prehistory of the Puriteen.

article: Policy-makers must not look to the “Nordic model” for sex trade legislation

article: Sex workers face unique challenges when trying to unionize: Anti-sex work stigma and labor status create roadblocks in sex workers’ fight against the industry status quo

wikipedia: Decriminalization of sex work

short youtube video: "Decriminalization of sex work does not mean the decriminalization of human trafficking."

short youtube video: What About Legalization? Decriminalization is the only solution

short youtube video: Dis/Ability and Sex Work Decriminalization

short youtube video: "Helping people through police is inherently coercive." - Gilda Merlot

wikipedia: Page Act of 1875

essay: Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power by Audre Lorde

wikipedia: Erotic Capital

long youtube video: KATHERINE MCKITTRICK: Curiosities, Wonder, and Black Methodologies // 09.14.20

journal article: Black life is Not Ungeographic! Applying a Black Geographic Lens to Rural Education Research in the Black Belt

journal article: Black matters are spatial matters: Black geographies for the twenty-first century

journal article: Unspoken Grammar of Place: Anti-Blackness as a Spatial Imaginary in Education

short video: Chicago Works | Andrea Carlson: Shimmer on Horizons

zine: Evaluating What Skills You Can Bring to Radical Organizing

diagram + workbook?: The Social Change Ecosystem Map (2020)

essay: How to Build Language Justice

guide: Anti-Oppressive Facilitation for Democratic Process: Making Meetings Awesome for Everyone

radical resource library: Center for Liberatory Practice & Poetry

short essay: The Short Instructional Manifesto for Relationship Anarchy

essay/blog post: Access Intimacy: The Missing Link

i think that's everything? whew. let's see how i finish off the week! if you need PDFs for anything i didn't directly link, lmk and i'll find a way to get it to you. might upload it to my google drive or something!

--

topics: Louisiana Creole history + heritage, women of color + erotic capital, sex work decriminalization, Black geography, revolutionary organizing, language, relationship anarchy, disability, intimacy

[misfitwashere]

ROBERT REICH

MAR 11

Friends,

One of the purposes of “flooding the zone,” as the Trump regime is trying to do — shocking and awing us with its blitzkrieg of bonkers orders — is to make it almost impossible to sort out what we should be incredibly freaked out about from what we should merely freak out about. 

I’m incredibly freaked out about the regime grabbing people from their homes who are legally in the United States, with permanent status — not just visas permitting them to work or study here but green cards — and then whisking them away to prison because they’ve engaged in constitutionally protected speech that the regime doesn’t like. 

You think I’m exaggerating? This is exactly what happened to Mahmoud Khalil on Saturday night. Khalil, who graduated from Columbia’s School of International and Public Affairs in December, has a green card. His wife, who is eight months pregnant, is an American citizen. 

Immigration agents appeared at his apartment building and told him he was being detained. He now appears to be in a detention facility in Louisiana. 

Khalil did nothing illegal. He has not been charged with a crime. He expressed his political point of view — peacefully, non-violently, non-threateningly. That’s supposed to be permitted — dare I say even encouraged? — in a democracy. 

So why is he in jail? 

Khalil was one of the leaders of last year’s peaceful pro-Palestinian protests at Columbia University. 

In a post on Truth Social, Trump conceded Khalil was snatched up and sent off because of his politics. “This is the first arrest of many to come,” wrote Trump. “We know there are more students at Columbia and other Universities across the Country who have engaged in pro-terrorist, anti-Semitic, anti-American activity, and the Trump Administration will not tolerate it.”

Where, may I ask, are the “First Amendment absolutists” such as Trump First Buddy Elon Trump when it comes to protecting speech that the Trump regime finds objectionable? 

Where are all the Republicans who for years have accused liberals of “cancelling” their views? 

Where are the conservatives who have claimed for even longer they only want to conserve traditional American values? 

Nearly 13 million people in the United States hold green cards. Tens of thousands more are here temporarily as foreign students and professors. Apparently all are now in danger of being arrested if they speak their minds. 

If this assault on civil liberties stands, Trump could just as well arrest and expel permanent residents who voice support for, say, transgender people or DEI or “woke” or Ukraine, or anything else the regime finds “anti-American” and offensive. 

If it stands, what’s to stop the Trump regime from arresting American citizens who support any cause the regime doesn’t like — such as, say, replacing Republicans in Congress in 2026 and putting a Democrat in the White House in 2028?

Does anyone remember Senator Joe McCarthy’s communist witch hunts? I do. They weren’t pretty. Careers were ruined; reputations, destroyed. They remain a stain on American democracy. 

American democracy. That’s what’s at stake. The Trump regime is out to trash it. The regime doesn’t believe in the First or any other amendments. It doesn’t believe in the Constitution. 

Let’s commit to ending Republican control of Congress in 2026 and sending this regime packing in 2028 — if there’s still a democracy that enables us to do so. 

[outofcharacterproductions]

Oh you get out your fiddle

then you get out your bow

take off your shoes and

you throw them on the floor

free meeeeeeeeeee