#north african relish

[strle]

2023/2024 Soup Bucket List

Because a linked list posted publicly to your own tumblr is still the best way to keep an easily accessible collection of links on your phone. Complied from the links i liked the look of in the Culture Study Soup Extravaganza thread, Chunky Soups

Ginger Garlic Chicken Noodle Soup Deb Perelman Lemony White Bean Soup With Turkey and Greens Melissa Clark, NYT Vegitable Soup (Vegan!) Cooking Classy Smoky Sweet Potato Chicken Stoup, Rachel Ray Dilly Bean Stew with Cabbage & Frizzed onions Alison Roman Instant Pot Curried Cauliflower & Butternut Squash Foraged Dish Lasagna Soup SkinnyTaste Chicken Tortilla Soup What's Gaby cooking Creamy Wild Rice Chicken Soup with Roasted Mushrooms Halfbaked Harvest Chicken and Rice Soup with Garlicky Chile Oil Bon Apetit Greek Lentil Soup ✓ Limey Ginger Chicken & Rice Soup Pinch of Yum (tbh, 2x+ the ginger) Navy Bean Soup with Worcester Vegan Coconut Lentil Bon Apetit Instant Pot Wild Rice Soup OTTOLENGHI Magical Chicken & Parmesean Soup Red Curry Lentils w Spinach NYT Chicken Stew with Olives & Lentils & Artichokes Dishoom Daal in the slow cooker(?!?!) North African Chickpea and Kale with Quinoa Sweet Potato Chili with Kale 3 Bean Chilli from Pinch of Yum Stracciatella (egg and parm and spinach) Martha Stewart Slow Cooker Buffalo Chicken Chilli

Pureed Soups Red Lentil Soup with Curry and Coconut Milk Vegetarian Times Tomato and White Bean Soup With Lots of Garlic Ali Slagel, NYT Creamy Thai Carrot Sweet Potato (Vegan!) Half Baked Harvest Broccoli Chedder, Smitten Kitchen ✓Creamy Cauliflower & Chick Pea A Cedar Spoon ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ ✓Golden Soup (also Cauliflower & Chickpea) Pinch of Yum ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ Tomato Harissa Coconut Bisque Dishing up the Dirt ✓ Carrot Soup with Miso & Sesame Smitten Kitchen SO GOOD Bacon Cheddar Cauliflower GF! Iowa Girl Eats Instant Pot Corn Chowder (vegan!) 7 vegetable and "cheese" soup (vegan!) Jamie Oliver Sweet Potato & Chorizo Roasted Butternut Squash Soup (NYT) Curried butternut squash soup with Coriander Pumpkin Soup with Chili Cran-Apple Relish Rachel Ray

Magic Mineral Broth Recipe

Paleo Soups

braised ginger meatballs in coconut broth Smitten Kitchen Italian Sausage Stew Paleo Plan NoBean Sweet Potato & Turkey Chilli

[ailendolin]

Hello! Got another prompt!

CapHavers and Promise please! Try not to make it too heartbreaking :)

Thank you for the prompt, anon! I did try not to make it too heartbreaking but I'm afraid your ficlet still ended up quite bittersweet. I hope you'll enjoy it anyway!

List of prompts is here. Filled prompts are here, here, here and here on AO3.

Prompts are closed.

————

Goodbye

They’d once made a promise to each other, on a starry summer night when fireflies were dancing above the lake. “Let’s meet here again when the war is over. A year afterwards, to the day.”

The bottle they’d been sharing between them had finally given voice to the fears and worries they usually swallowed and buried deep under layers of professionalism, had finally made them brave. They might have been a little drunk that night but the Captain, for his part, had never forgotten a single word that had been said. He’d held that promise close to his heart, had taken comfort in it when Havers left for the North African front and he’d suddenly found himself bereft of his companionship and support. The years afterwards had been difficult and terribly lonely, but the thought of seeing Havers again – one day when the world had risen from the ashes of destruction – had kept the Captain marching on.

He had often dreamed of their reunion. So often that by the time the war was finally over, there was not a single possible scenario that he had not watched play out in his mind a thousand times over.

Or so he’d thought. The one thing he had never imagined was being dead when the day finally came around.

His death had come as quite a shock to him. He was still young, after all. Too young to die like this. He’d always thought he’d die in battle – would have preferred it over what had actually happened – but in the end, a hero’s death had not been granted to him. He had been granted to die at Button House, though, and the Captain supposed that was the next best thing. He had many good memories of the place; would even go so far as to say he had been the happiest here in life, if only for an all too brief period.

Most importantly, though, it gave him the chance to keep his promise.

The Captain had no idea if Havers would be there that day. He had kept tabs on him as much as he could during the war, had congratulated him via letter when he’d heard he had been promoted to captain himself, and relished every letter he had received in return. But the war lasted a long time and eventually, the Captain had lost track of him. They had both been reassigned so often at that point that letters stopped finding their ways to them. The Captain had no way of knowing if Havers was still alive or if he’d been notified of his former captain’s death. He supposed if Havers had, he wouldn’t bother coming to Button house today. There would be no point.

And yet, just after noon, he heard soft footsteps on the dry grass behind him. With his heart in his throat, he turned around, desperately trying not to get his hopes up as he saw a lone figure coming towards him – not dressed in his uniform as the Captain had always imagined but wearing beige trousers and a dark blue button down instead. Havers looked breathtaking, so different from how the Captain remembered him. Civilian life suited him extraordinarily well but the war had left its mark on him too: an unfamiliar scar ran down the left side of his face and his left shirtsleeve hung empty from his shoulder. His eyes, though – his eyes were as warm and kind and gentle as they’d always been.

As if some unconscious part of him knew that the Captain was there, Havers came to a stop just a few feet away from him. He looked out over the lake for a very long time before he heaved a heavy sigh that made him look older than he truly was. “Today was supposed be different.”

The Captain could feel his sadness deep in his own bones. “Yes, it was.”

“When I heard what happened, I … I didn’t want to believe it at first. It just seemed so cruel, you know? To survive all those years of war only to die the moment it is over. It’s not fair.”

Havers shook his head and took a shuddering breath.

“I never meant for our goodbye to be so final, Captain. Had I known–“ He broke off to wipe a hand down his face. His eyes were red and shimmering wetly in the sunlight when he continued. “God, I’m so sorry it ended like that.”

He buried his head in his hands, and when his shoulders began to shake, the Captain placed one of his hands on them, nausea be damned. “I know. I’m sorry too.” 

They stood there for hours, and when the sun began to set and Havers finally gathered up the courage for another goodbye, the Captain knew in his heart that it was the last one and he would never see him again.

[extseventeen]

Breakfast Bliss: Exploring the Best Breakfast in Jeddah, From Traditional to Modern

Across the world, breakfast is often referred to as the most important meal of the day, and in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, it is a meal that is taken even more seriously. Besides exploring the rich culinary heritage and a blend of diverse cultures, you can treat yourself to some of the most delicious breakfast in Jeddah that is sure to satisfy every palate. From traditional Arabic breakfasts that transport you to the heart of local culture to modern interpretations that cater to contemporary tastes, Jeddah's breakfast scene is a delightful journey worth exploring.

Traditional Arabic Breakfast

Begin your morning adventure with a traditional Arabic breakfast, also known as "Sobhiah." You can also try several classic Arabic breakfast dishes, including:

1. Foul Medames: This hearty breakfast staple consists of mashed fava beans mixed with olive oil, lemon juice, and a host of seasonings. It is usually served with fresh vegetables and warm pita bread.

2. Mana'eesh: These savory pastries, similar to flatbreads, are topped with za'atar (a blend of herbs and spices), cheese, or ground meat. They are baked to perfection and served fresh from the oven.

3. Falafel: Jeddah offers some of the most delectable falafel you will ever relish. These deep-fried balls are made from ground chickpeas or fava beans and are often served with tahini sauce and vegetables in warm bread.

4. Tea and Coffee: No Arabic breakfast is complete without a cup of strong Arabic coffee or mint tea.

Modern Breakfast Delights

For those who prefer a more contemporary and diverse breakfast experience, Jeddah has an array of cafes and eateries offering a fusion of international and Middle Eastern flavors. Some of the modern breakfast choices include:

1. International Buffets: Many hotels in Jeddah offer lavish breakfast buffets with a wide selection of dishes, from traditional Arabic specialties to international favorites like croissants, omelets, and pancakes.

2. Avocado Toast: The global trend of avocado toast has made its mark in Jeddah, with cafes serving this healthy and delicious breakfast option, often topped with eggs, feta cheese, or smoked salmon.

3. Smoothie Bowls: Start your day with a refreshing and nutritious smoothie bowl, often prepared with blended fruits, yogurt, granola, and a variety of toppings.

4. Shakshuka: This North African and Middle Eastern dish features poached eggs in a flavorful tomato and chili pepper sauce, served with crusty bread for dipping.

5. Vegan and Gluten-Free Options: Jeddah's evolving breakfast scene also caters to dietary preferences with vegan and gluten-free breakfast items, including plant-based pancakes, dairy-free smoothies, and gluten-free bread.

Conclusion

In Jeddah, breakfast is not just a meal; it is a cultural and culinary journey. To discover the best breakfast in Jeddah, embrace the city's diverse breakfast offerings and savor the flavors that make the morning meal a truly blissful experience. Whether you are in the mood for a traditional Arabic breakfast or a contemporary culinary creation, this vibrant Saudi Arabian city offers a breakfast experience to suit your preferences.

Located on Al Yamamah Street, Ext. Seventeen is one of the best breakfast places in Jeddah, serving a fusion of Middle Eastern and Western cuisine that takes care of every single detail to make every plate perfect.

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[indtravels01]

Best Foreign Tour Packages from India for 2023-2024

Introduction

Traveling has the power to transform us, broaden our horizons, and create memories that last a lifetime. For those seeking international adventures, the world is their playground. From the bustling streets of New York City to the serene beaches of Bali, foreign tour packages from India offer a gateway to explore diverse cultures, cuisines, and landscapes. In this blog, we'll take you on a journey through some of the most popular foreign tour packages from India that promise unforgettable experiences.

Europe: The Grand European Tour

Europe is a continent that needs no introduction. A Grand Europe Tour package typically covers multiple countries, allowing you to experience the best of Europe in one incredible journey. Highlights may include:

- Exploring the romantic streets of Paris.

- Admiring the historic architecture of Rome.

- Taking a scenic cruise along the fjords of Norway.

- Enjoying the vibrant nightlife in Amsterdam.

- Relishing Swiss chocolates amidst the stunning Swiss Alps.

Southeast Asia: The Enchanting Bali Getaway

Bali, Indonesia, is a tropical paradise known for its lush landscapes, pristine beaches, and rich culture. An Enchanting Bali tour package might include:

- Relaxing on the iconic beaches of Kuta and Seminyak.

- Visiting the beautiful Uluwatu Temple perched on a cliff.

- Exploring the artistic streets of Ubud.

- Participating in water sports like snorkeling and scuba diving.

- Experiencing traditional Balinese dance performances.

North America: The All-American Road Trip

For those seeking adventure and diversity, an All-American Road Trip is a dream come true. Explore the vast landscapes, vibrant cities, and unique cultures of the United States and Canada. Key stops may include:

- Exploring the vibrant neighborhoods of New York City.

- Witnessing the natural wonders of the Grand Canyon.

- Experiencing the glitz and glamour of Las Vegas.

- Visiting the historic sites of Washington, D.C.

- Exploring the multicultural city of Toronto in Canada.

Africa: The Serengeti Safari

For wildlife enthusiasts and nature lovers, a Serengeti Safari in Africa offers a chance to witness the "Big Five" and experience the untamed beauty of the African savannah. This package might include:

- Game drives in Tanzania's Serengeti National Park.

- Watching the Great Migration of wildebeests and zebras.

- Visiting the Ngorongoro Crater, a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

- Exploring the vibrant city of Arusha.

- Experiencing the Maasai culture and traditions.

The Mystical Bhutan Expedition

Bhutan, the Land of the Thunder Dragon, offers a unique blend of spirituality, stunning landscapes, and preserved traditions. A Mystical Bhutan Expedition might involve:

- Visiting the iconic Tiger's Nest Monastery in Paro.

- Exploring the charming capital city, Thimphu.

- Trekking in the beautiful valleys of Punakha and Phobjikha.

- Experiencing Bhutanese festivals and cultural rituals.

- Admiring the breathtaking Himalayan scenery.

Conclusion

These popular foreign tour packages from India offer a glimpse into the diversity and wonders of the world. Whether you're an adventure seeker, a culture enthusiast, or someone in search of tranquility, there's a package for every traveler. So, pack your bags, embark on a journey of a lifetime, and create memories that will stay with you forever as you explore the beauty and culture of our world.

[aghotel]

A fun family outing at Blackpool Zoo

Looking for a delightful family outing in the beloved seaside resort of Britain? Look no further than Blackpool Zoo, where you can embark on an educational and entertaining day out for the entire family. Sprawling across 37 acres of scenic parkland and picturesque lakes, this remarkable zoo is home to over 1500 animals hailing from various corners of the globe.

Prepare to be captivated by the diverse array of resident creatures, each boasting unique shapes and sizes, providing an opportunity for you to delve into the fascinating world of the animal kingdom. As you venture towards the Big Cat House, you will find yourself face to face with formidable predators like the awe-inspiring Amur Tiger, Alyona, and the dynamic duo of African lions, Wallace and Khari. Afterwards, elevate your experience at Giraffe Heights and marvel at these majestic creatures.

One of the standout features of Blackpool Zoo is its exclusive family of gorillas residing in the North of England, consisting of Bukavu, the silverback, alongside Miliki, Njema, and their young ones, Meisie, Moanda, and Makari. Additionally, you can witness a herd of six magnificent elephants roaming freely in the Project Elephant Base camp. Carefully designed to cater to the needs of these colossal beings, the camp is equipped with state-of-the-art facilities, including the largest indoor area in the UK.

Blackpool Zoo To enrich your visit with educational insights, daily talks and animal feeding sessions are available, granting you a glimpse into the lives of your favourite animals. Immerse yourself in the wonders of the animal kingdom through up-close encounters in Amazonia and Lemur Wood, captivating both children and adults alike with a taste of real-life wildlife.

To round off your visit, Blackpool Zoo offers a multitude of amenities and attractions. Delight in the multi-level adventure play barn, explore the charming gift shops, enjoy leisurely rides on the miniature train, and relax in the inviting picnic areas. When hunger strikes, indulge in a delectable meal at one of the restaurants or grab a cup of coffee at the cosy café.

Conveniently located just an 11-minute drive away from Blackpool Zoo, Bluewaters Hotel on Blackpool’s North Promenade is the perfect accommodation option to access the nearby attractions with ease. Treat yourself to breathtaking sunset views from our sea view rooms, relish in delicious breakfast and dinner at our in-house restaurant and engage in fun-filled games with your little ones in the dedicated games room. For ultimate relaxation, make use of our indoor swimming pool, sauna, and spa facilities. With comfortable en-suite bedrooms, on-site parking, and complimentary wi-fi, we strive to make Bluewaters Hotel your home away from home during your getaway in Blackpool. Learn more: www.aghotels.co.uk/bluewaters-hotel

[allwayshungry]

Green Matbucha

[matchamorphosis]

❝ 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐎, 𝐂𝐎𝐖𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋. ❞

summary: you and carmy go on a little adventure through the antiques shops that Chicago has to offer.

pairing: boyfriend!carmen berzatto x fem!mena!reader

genre: smut with plot. wordcount: 2K

warnings: 18+ only. oral sex: fem + male receiving. carmy with rings. heavy spanking kink. public sex//exhibition kink. wrap it before you tap it kids. hair pulling kink. dirty talk. huge praise kink. a hint of jealous!carmy. petnames: “baby”, “sweetheart” and “cowgirl”. creepy men alert.

w.note: this is connected to bebadadobe but this takes place way into the future. reminder that reader is middle eastern north african (that’s what mena stands for). hope you guys enjoy reading, make sure to reblog and give some feedback. muah!

“Shhh, baby we need to stay quiet if this is gonna work.” the stroke of your maybelline lips makes Carmen Berzatto obey with a shiver in delight.

you taste sweet — is the first thing that comes to his mind when you place a single manicured finger to his lips. sweet like the pinkness of a fig — he can’t get enough as he laps up your essence that shimmers under the golden lights of the antique shop.

Gazing down on him, you drink in each motion of his lips with attention. Admiring the way he throws his head back against the green velvet of the sofa as his thin lines of pink open to release their restrained moans. Relishing in the way they close quickly afterwards to slip groans that send vibrations up and down your core.

It makes your pussy hotter, needier as you brush the lips of your cunt against his standing dick. Carmy’s hips thrust forward in response to the contact and you giggle in his ear, slipping your finger out of his mouth.

I know you know I need more of you — he internally pleads, his eyes reflecting off of yours as you mold your lips against his. I want you always, I need you to know that — Carmy wants to say but he’s kissing you harder to get rid of every sentiment of neglect your seemingly harmless finger coated in your cum riddled him with.

Your boyfriend holds you closer in his lap, rough hands soften in pressure when he runs them over the curves, hips, dips of your body. They stop at your lower back and embrace you with a rough spank on your ass, the coldness of his rings sting just a slight but it makes you crave that pain more.

“Harder baby, harder please.” you whine against his lips, one of your hands twining into his hair as the other holds onto his bicep that flexes underneath your touch.

“I should know by now how much of a pervert you are but you always surprise me sweetheart.” Carmy whispers as his rough hands come down on your ass hard, his slender fingers spread as his fingertips dig into your flush.

again baby, again — you know those words are all due to the jealousy that clouds his head in shades of green the same color of his eyes. give me more, you know I need more — your lips seperate from his to give you room to breathe, hot breath wafting between your parted mouths.

“Only good surprises I hope. You know how much I love working you up.” you whisper, your arms hung around his neck whilst your hips rotate in a dirty grind that makes Carmy groan and grip your hips harder.

“You didn’t say a single thing when I was gripping this ass for those creeps to see and you’re getting off to the idea of us getting caught by them?” Carmen whispers those words against your lips. “C’mon cowgirl, explain yourself.” he plays with you before spanking your ass roughly this time to make you whine against his mouth.

God the very thought about the owner of the antique shop and his little band of friends catching you both fucking on one of the sofas did get you special kind of excited. Of course, Carmen knew you both were going to spiral in this mess the moment you two stepped into The Malachite Butterfly.

The Malachite Butterfly was the third antique shop of today, hidden behind the green trees and brownstones of Bridgeport. His girlfriend was in desperate need for furniture for her apartment, although she had a knack for restored items and with her looks and negotiation tactics she got them for a much cheaper price.

As you entered the store hand in hand, you were astounded by the grandeur of the interior and the array of bright, shiny, and polished antiques, trinkets, curiosities, and treasures that were hanging from the walls and ceilings as well as expertly arranged on glass cabinets and wooden shelves arranged in a labyrinth of aisles.

The musty smell of old fabric, wood polish, and candle wax hit Carmen’s nose as his eyes continue to take in the endless sceneries. He’s getting dizzy just from looking everywhere until he snaps to attention when he hears you laugh, although he knows that laugh isn’t genuine at all.

“Hello hello, cowgirl.” is what Carmen thinks he caught from a series of voices in the shop, your grip on his hand tightens a slight and he looks at you after instinctively squeezing back.

“What brings a southern flower like you up here in Chicago?” the voice belonged to a man that stood behind the register counter, Carmen correctly assumed that he was the owner as he inspects the other faces in the venue of the shop.

Four other men either sit or stand around the crowded space near the counter, grinning grins that Carmen knew were nothing but bullshit as they all latched there eyes onto you.

“Oh no no, I’m from here. Born and raised actually.” you give a little smile, your fingers twirl the charms of your shoulder bag. “I just like to get dressed up in my boots whenever I have the chance.” you laugh a little as you halfheartedly kick your black and white cowgirl boots in the air.

The little action gets a crowd of wolf whistles and hollers from them, Carmen scoffs — fucking creeps. He gives them an untamed glare of disgust, they don’t even catch onto the way your smile turns into a straight line of discomfort.

“That’s even better, we don’t see many cowgirls ‘round here. You could be our Chicago cowgirl.” They speak but not directly to you, more so amongst themselves as they have their own little fucked side conversations and laughs that make Carmen’s blood boil.

Carmen wants to say something but you’ve spoken to him about this, you love him with all heart but he’s not your knight in shining armor when it comes to handling these situations. You’re more than capable to deal with weirdo creeps like them and you don’t want Carmy to throw unnecessary punches no matter the pick up lines.

“Yeah, no. I’m actually here with my boyfriend. We’ll just be looking through, if we have any questions we’ll let you know.” you speak up, all ounce of sweetness that usually is ingrained in you gone and replaced with a very reserved politeness.

“No no that shouldn’t be a problem, I’ll assist you and your friend. I know the whole shop like the back of my hand.” the owner of the shop speaks up, not even catching onto your words as he maneuvers from behind the counter to make his way towards you.

that’s because you fucking work here, fucko — Carmen takes your arm in is and you lock it as you hold onto his bicep. Those hands so warm to the touch, they give you a comfort as you anxiously play with the thick rings on his fingers.

“Don’t worry that isn’t necessary. My boyfriend and I are more than capable of getting around a store.” the fakest smile Carmy has ever seen you smile spreads sourly on your face as you both make your way through the entrance of the store.

Leaving the owner and his friends behind, not bothering to look behind your shoulders but Carmy hopes those fucking creeps see him lay a hand and take a handful of your ass before you two disappear behind the large ceiling high paintings.

One little thing led to another as you written down all the things you’re considering on your little notepad. Carmy couldn’t keep his hands to himself, the store was huge and it seemed like you two were practically on your own planet so he just couldn’t help but grab at your ass every now and then.

The more he groped at it, the smoother and arousing his remarks he whispered in your ear became. Of course, this game wasn’t as fun than when you both took turn getting the other to make the first move and you ultimately won when you straddled his lap on this very couch.

Of course, you didn’t think that you were going to be taking your game this far but you aren’t complaining now. It was exhilarating, the thought of someone walking into this corner of the shop literally sent electric sparks of pleasure up and down your spine.

Carmen licks his lips and you know you’re done for. “Carmy stop fucking doing that.” you whisper shifting in his lap, grinding against his throbbing cock. Those hands in his hair pull at his curls, not soft enough but hard for him to moan in pleasure as his blue hues meet your sweet mascara one.

“Doing what? This?” Carmen says as he licks his lips again, he knows it drives you crazy and he stands correct when you pull his hair harder. “It’s a bad habit sweetheart, I can’t help it. Why don’t you like my little imperfection?” Carmy playfully comes back softly but the quick slap he gives you on your ass is anything but soft.

You yelp into his neck at the impact, bracing your hands on his broad shoulders when he spanks you once then twice, not caring anymore if those bastards at the counter hear. Right now it seems as though you both understand what you need without having to express it because your limbs, motions, and lips work in sync.

Taking his cock in one hand as his other cups your waist and racks up the hem of your satin slip. You know it’s going to wrinkle by the time you both are done but you don’t say a word as Carmen guides your pussy just over his leaking tip.

“Because your little imperfection drives me absolutely mad, that’s why.” you whisper and he laughs, before giving him two quick kisses on his lips before you slowly bring your hips that Carmy’s hands possessively hold down, taking his thick, throbbing cock into you.

One reason is because you know Carmy’s mouth gets so lonely when you give his dick your undivided attention. Second reason is because you love the way he spills his moans into your mouth when you’re walls squeeze around him.

Biting your bottom lip when you see how deep his blush has spread from his face to his neck. The way his blue hues close shut, those brown lashes curtaining the skin under his eyes. Taking your finger, you trace down from his hairline down to the hill-like slope of his nose, then down the space above his lips then stopping at his open mouth.

Carmen’s lips curve into a smile at the action, he maintains his hold on your hips, and your own trace the tattoos on his fingers, forearms, and biceps. His rings reflect the light of hundreds of gleaming chandeliers above you both, casting gleaming glimmers across the mirrors and polished vases.

“God Carmy, you feel so fucking good.” you cry a moan into his neck, continuing the up and down motion of your pussy enveloping each inch of his cock. “You’re so perfect baby, everything about you is perfect.” you’re praise ignites a match within him, turning his bloodstream into fire.

more, more of your sweet words please — that thought flickers on and off in his mind as both his hands slap on your ass before gripping your hips. i’ll do anything for them, I know you know that — his hands help rock you, finding a rhythm that helps make you both whimper and moan into each other’s mouths.

“You feel so— fuck, so so good sweetheart, you’re so fucking good. Don’t stop, please don’t.” Carmen rasps, wanting you closer and closer but with so little time and the knot twisting inside his belly he’s instead thrusting his dick deeper and deeper into you.

“I’m close, shit I’m close. Keep doing that, yeah baby just like that. You’re doing such a good job.” you moan in his ear following a little yelp when he speaks your ass again, your breath hitched in your throat when his cock rubs against your sweet spot just fucking right you tighten around the thick width of him.

“Fuck! Y/n sweetheart please do that again. Fuck me, do that again please.” your boyfriend whimpers into your mouth, his hips thrusting forward with a single purpose and it’s to see you crumble into nothing in his arms.

“Like this baby? This is what you want? Take it baby, it’s all yours. All of me for you.” you whisper as your grind increases, the velvety wetness enfolding his cock with every compression of your walls.

Carmy’s teeth grit at the burning pressure building up in his abdomen, he’s swimming in a sea of pleasure and he’s happy to let the waves swallow him up when you bite that little bit of ear that makes his cock jump and his weight melt into the couch.

The pleasure is blinding, fluttering rapidly deep within you like a plethora of butterflies caught within a jar. With every stroke Carmen’s girthy cock has against your walls makes you pull harder on his curls, and with every hit his fat tip has against your golden spot springs tears in your eyes.

“You’re so good to me Carmy, always so good.” you moan as he kisses up and down the space of your neck. “Carmy baby, your cock feels like heaven inside of me—” Carmy’s hips drive upwards, inciting a gasp to escape from you when he pulls you off his lap to lay you down on the couch.

One of his hands hold onto both of yours as he pins them above your head, your legs wrapped around his waist as his other bends your leg to dig his cock deeper into you. “I love your pussy, it wraps around me so fucking good. Fuck! Fucking love you.”

Those golden brown curls curtains both your hot faces as your noses bump into each other, your teeth catch his bottom lip and he can’t help but grunt into your mouth as his thrusts get tougher.

“My pussy loves you too, baby.” you giggle and that sweet sound makes him delirious, he rocks into you harder to the point where you’re mistaking the lights above you as stars.

Each one of the butterflies within you are on fire and you cum all over his cock hard and heavily. Singing your sweet noises as Carmy pumps his cock so deep into you as he reaches his own ending high.

“I’m so close sweetheart, so fucking close.” he pants into your mouth, the ruthenium of hips getting sloppier by the second. “Go on then baby, come for me.” those words go perfectly when he slips your tongue in your mouth and you embrace it as he pulls out and spills each drop of his cum onto your exposed, messy clit.

Spots cloud Carmen’s vision, it’s taking all his power to not let all his tired weight drop o to you but you wrap your arms around his neck and pull him into you. A symphony of your pants and sighs play in the space, his face in the crook of your neck inhaling you.

“Carmy?” you whisper to him, his head lifts up in attention as he looks at you. “Y/n?” He responds, you tuck a lock of hair behind his ear and he smiles at the action.

“I know I haven’t told you this before but I adore your imperfections.” there’s a shade of guilt within your voice, Carmen easily can catch it but he eases your worries with a stroke of his thumb on your cheek.

“Even when they drive you mad?” he teases, his lips lightly hovering yours, spreading warmth over them like butter. “Especially when they drive me mad.” the tip of his nose touches yours and you feel your heart flutter.

A soft kiss is exchanged between you both and you both clean yourself ups. Getting off the couch, you and Carmen look at the scandalous mess that you’ve left on it. “Yep, this is it. This is the couch.” you grin and take Carmen’s hand as you walk with him to the register.

“So you enjoyed you’re search, cowgirl? Find anything ya like?” The man behind the counter says with a sleazy smile and the same faux southern accent that make his friends cackle.

“Yeah actually,” you smile to Carmen, getting out your wallet from your shoulder bag after kissing Carmen’s cheek and rejecting his offer to pay for you.

“I’m thrilled to hear that. Say, between you and me—” the man leans over the counter, giving you wink. “I’ll give ya forty percent off. This place is a bit busy around this time of the year but since no one’s around I’ll give ya the deal.” he attempts to slide his hand over yours but it’s at a lost when you pull your body away and take the clipboard within his other extended hand.

Carmen doesn’t care that his smirk is really apparent. “That’s amazing! Thank you.” you reply as you write down all the necessary shipping details on the spreadsheet. “It’s the green velvet couch with the wood detailing for $400.”

“You’re gonna have to be a bit more specific cowgirl. I think me and you are gonna have to take a look in the back together to see what you want me to give you. I got a whole buncha green couches.”

it’s the only one with a cum stain — Carmy wants to snap, annoyed that they still have the audacity to continue to pursue you. However, he snaps his head to you in shock because it’s you who says it.

“It’s fresh too, you wouldn’t mind cleaning it up for me before you ship it would you?” you say in such a matter of fact tone that the owner and his friends can’t help but shut up for a second to register it.

Finishing up with the clipboard and hand it right back to the owner who fumbles as he hands you your receipt. “I-I guess I can give the cleaners a call before I do.” he stammers.

Finally, you grin a genuine smile and take the receipt from him. “Thank you! I’ll spread the word about the shop.” you smile at Carmy as you take his hand and guide him out of the shop.

The bell attached to the door jingles for the last time, letting the owner and his friends know you’re finally gone.

“Cowgirl, we cannot show our faces back on those terrains again.” Carmy laughs and you grin, “I don’t mind that at all.”

carmen berzatto tags: @squidlywiddly87 . @celestianstars . @emilykjh .

[petermorwood]

I bought some minced lamb last week with an eye to BBQ during incoming hot weather, but the weather turned out so hot enough that standing over glowing charcoal didn’t appeal. In addition the horseflies were especially rambunctious; I swatted three off me in the couple of minutes I was checking the outdoor temperature and deciding Nope, too hot.

Eating food outside is fine, being fed on outside, not so good.

*****

So the other night I used it to throw together this Lamb Kofte Tajine, a vaguely North African version of meatballs in tomato sauce. “Throw together” is accurate, I winged it without consulting any books or recipes and even the cooking procedure is highly inauthentic; far too fast for one thing. It worked, though, and was very good.

(The last time was an Indian-influenced treatment: more slowly cooked, just as vague, just as good.)

Putting already-minced meat in a food processor may seem excessive; however there’s a good reason when making kofte / kofta / kufteh (etc.). These are North African / Middle Eastern / Indian meatballs, the original word means “pounded”, and processing recreates a very fine pestle-and-mortar texture which holds together without assistance from egg or breadcrumbs.

*****

A vegetarian version could simply replace the meat meatballs with lentil ones; there are plenty of recipes online including Moroccan-style. I also think this would work splendidly using falafel; they might not keep the crunch of freshly fried ones, but they’ll have the same crust and mouthfeel as the grilled kofte.

This was even good cold, not that there was much left. I plan to remake the basic sauce then boost it with harissa (Tunisian chilli relish) or zhoug (Yemeni coriander relish) to see if it makes as good a dip as my imagination suggests. That imagination is also suggesting not just home-made pita bread to dip in it, but pita cut into strips and fried in olive oil so it stays crunchy.

Yum...

*****

Anyway, here’s how to make the sorta-kinda-tajine.

Sauce

1 onion, chopped finely 2-4 cloves of garlic, chopped finely 50 ml olive oil 1 tsp allspice 1 tsp chilli 1 tsp cinnamon 1 tsp cumin 1 tsp ginger 1 tsp paprika ½ tsp cloves Two 400 g tins of chopped tomatoes

Kofte

500 g minced lamb 2 tsp black pepper 1 tsp cumin 1 tsp mint

300 g couscous

1 small or ½ large preserved lemon, chopped finely (If unavailable, use 2 Tbsp lemon juice and 1 tsp salt)

Method:

Heat the olive oil in a pan and sauté the onion and garlic until soft. Add the dry spices and stir fry for a minute. Add tomatoes and simmer for about 10-15 minutes. while preparing the meatballs.

Turn the grill (broiler) full on and preheat.

Put the minced lamb and its dry spices in a food processor and whizz until well combined. Form into meatballs; 500g of minced meat should become 8 of about golf-ball size.

Put the meatballs on the grill rack and brown on all sides, then transfer to the sauce and simmer gently, uncovered, for about 15 minutes while preparing the couscous as per packet instructions.

If there are none, put the couscous in a saucepan and cover with boiling water, stir, and put on a lid. Leave for five minutes, check for tenderness and re-lid for longer if need be, otherwise fluff up with a fork.

Remove the sauce and meatballs from the heat, stir in the chopped preserved lemon and serve on a bed of couscous. The sauce should be thick, fragrant, tangy but not hot.

For heat, use harissa or zhoug. These are usually sold as jars of salsa-like paste, so stir 2 Tbsp of relish into 2 Tbsp of EV olive oil and set it out in a small bowl with a spoon. (NB, heat varies with brand, so taste-test before use!)

*****

When I plated up, I got fancy with some pickled chillis, a couple of strips of preserved lemon peel and a sprinkle of toasted sesame seeds.

Not absolutely necessary, but certainly photogenic...

[questionsonislam]

In our time, stress is mentioned too often. What can be the main source of stress?

Sometimes we see appalling pictures in newspapers. They are mostly the pictures of poor and desperate North African people. Each one of them is like a live skeleton. There is almost no distance between the bones and the flesh. They shout with the state of theirs with all their strength: We are hungry; give us your helping hand.

Material hunger thus makes people so desperate, so weak, and so powerless. On the other hand, there are the restless mobs who have nearly no material problems but want to console themselves with amusement, debauchery, alcohol or drugs. Their problems are more intense than those previously mentioned are.

Soul is the sultan of the country of body. In the humans who are starving, the servant is weak while in the humans who are restless the sultan is miserable. The former, every possessor of conscience and fairness pities, shows mercy toward them; and the latter, every one reproaches and becomes their enemy. However, it is they who are in dire need of mercy and help; because they are both ill and they are against medicine notwithstanding. The healers should show utmost mercy and patience toward them. Only people of knowledge pity sinners. Abdulkadir Geylani.

It is not only these people that seek peace and bliss today. Almost everyone bears a scar of this wound. Therefore, we should first attempt to give lesson to our selves:

Why are we sometimes afflicted with psychological troubles, why do we get impatient and make our souls suffer with the feeling of being unable to do anything? We occupy ourselves with everything from our bodily health to economic situation, from our status in public to worldly desires; and when we do not solve these we become upset and uneasy.

Why do we go under the world rather than wander on it; and serve to the material that is supposed to serve us?

The situation of ours tires our souls and drains its strength. We cannot succeed in persevering against all these, because, as Bediüzzaman beautifully puts it, we distribute our strength of patience to the past and to the future; we no longer have strength in our patience toward the present and finally we are conquered by troubles and desperation.

When we go into the source of all these, we are faced with this mistake: We have mixed satisfaction of the self with contentment of the heart.

The one who sticks to the wrong way strains himself. This is the mistake that tires us, makes us suffer, and finally makes us desperate. The moment we abandon this mistake we will be heading for peace and bliss.

The self is fed with evils. And evils stain the heart, make the conscience uneasy, and disturb peace. This very vicious circle is the main source of stress and unease. The ones who cannot overcome this circle lose peace in their hearts and consciences more and more as they feed their selves. And they search for its remedy again in satisfying their selves.

Just a few examples:

The self supports meanness. It supposes that the more money it spares the more peaceful it will be. However, the heart and the conscience take relish in feeding the needy.

The self enjoys arrogance. Peace of the heart and the soul is, though, is with humility and modesty.

The self is fond of games and entertainment. However, the mind commands working and making efforts and finds peace with them.

Finally, the self is captivated by mortal and transitory material. The heart, though, is in love with the eternity. As is seen, all troubles stem from these clashes. And the human finds peace not by feeding his self-but by contenting his heart.

The divine cure of all kinds of depressions and unease:

Be aware that it is in the remembrance of and whole-hearted devotion to God that hearts find rest and contentment. (Ar-Rad Surah, 13:28)

Only the remembrance of God, i.e. mentioning him, can content the heart of the human who is in need of many a material and spiritual favor. Therefore, whatever man remembers except Him, it is a remembrance of the created; and whatever he loves other than Him, it is a love towards a mortal. It is because this superior heart is not satisfied with this inferior commodity that it always disturbs the unwary man. Therefore, what we call boredom, unease, despair, and stress is always the shouting of the greedy heart out of hunger and for fear of death.

[96thdayofrage]

Lewis rose to prominence in 2012, when she led the first teachers strike in Chicago in 25 years — a walkout many say inspired a wave of teacher activism and the beginning of the Red for Ed, the national movement in which teachers went on strike to demand better pay and working conditions.

The 2012 Chicago Teachers Strike showed teachers they could take on the powerful and win.

Lewis served as president of the Chicago Teachers Union from 2010 to 2018, when she resigned due to health issues. She was diagnosed with brain cancer several years ago. She was 67 years old. Her death was announced by her former spokeswoman and confirmed by sources close to the CTU.

Lewis was born on July 26, 1953. A proud daughter of Chicago Public School teachers, she went to Kenwood Academy in Hyde Park on the South Side. She left her junior year to go to Mount Holyoke College and then transferred to Dartmouth College. She said she was the only African American woman in Dartmouth’s graduating class of 1974.

Before becoming president of the teachers union, she was a chemistry teacher in Chicago Public Schools for more than 20 years.

Lewis is remembered as being passionate and outspoken, but also highly intelligent, wildly funny and warm, and someone who always recalled details about people’s lives and asked about them.

“She had a boisterous love of life and she made people feel seen,” said Jackson Potter, a friend and one of the founders of Lewis’ union caucus, called CORE. “Though she was childless, she felt like all the babies in the world were her children.”

He said Lewis’ ability to make people laugh helped her be a good leader. It allowed her to bridge divides and gave people a way to relate to her.

Potter said Lewis’ humor and warmth also allowed her to get away with espousing what were considered radical ideas at the time.

She attacked the rich and the powerful, who she saw as trying to insert themselves into public education through charter schools and other corporate-inspired education reforms. At a rally in Union Park in October 2012, Lewis held up a blank sheet of paper. She said it listed the qualifications of the people making education policy.

“What’s on it?” she asked. “Nothing, nothing, nothing.” The crowd that packed the park then started chanting, “nothing, nothing, nothing.”

She went on to make the argument that teachers want to be collaborative, but once competition is introduced, it takes away the desire to work together for the common good of children. She also saw the introduction of market approaches into public education as devaluing the work of teachers and siphoning money away from regular public schools, a process she said hurt children.

“I don’t care what they say, ‘We will not harm our children’” she said. “You are asking us to do harm to children. I don’t think people understand that.”

Lewis also moved the union away from bread and butter issues, like pay and benefits, to broader issues of social justice. Under her tenure, the union put forth a manifesto called The Schools Chicago’s Students Deserve that laid bare the wide distance between what CPS said it should provide students and what it does.

The Schools Chicago’s Students Deserve called for teachers to be treated as professionals, for fully staffed schools with nurses and social workers and for lower class sizes.

“We needed someone to swing” Lewis’ message resonated because she was willing to stand up for teachers at a time when teachers were under attack and somewhat downtrodden. She unapologetically labeled people as villains and enemies if she thought they disrespected public school teachers and public education.

Chief among them was former Chicago Mayor Rahm Emanuel.

Early on in her tenure as union president, she emerged from a meeting with Emanuel and revealed he had sworn at her. This came after she called the longer school day he was pushing a “babysitting” initiative.

“He jumped out of his chair and said, F-you Lewis,” she recalled. “And I jumped out of my chair and said, who the F do you think you are talking to? I don’t work for you.”

Lewis said she went on to use “infinitely more colorful South Side language,” as did the mayor.

Nora Flanagan, who taught with Lewis at Lane Tech High School on the North Side, said she thinks teachers were inspired by that moment.

“That was when Karen made it clear that this was going to be a fight and we all were like, ‘Okay, let’s do this,’ and we took off our earrings and had someone hold our shoes and got ready for a big fight with a new, very powerful mayor,” Flanagan said. “We needed someone to swing, to make it obvious this might get ugly, but she was ready and we should be ready too.”

Lewis was known for throwing verbal bombs. She called Emanuel the “murder mayor” when the union was on the front lines in the fight against the historic closing of 50 schools in 2013.

“Look at the murder rate in this city. He’s murdering schools. He’s murdering jobs. He’s murdering housing. I don’t know what else to call him. He’s the murder mayor,” she said during the school closing fight.

And she once told a group of community and business leaders that then-Gov. Bruce Rauner, who for years held up the passage of a state budget until his agenda was approved, was a new “ISIS recruit … because the things he’s doing look like acts of terror on poor and working-class people,” she said.

Potter said it took courage for Lewis to speak that way and it was a risk. He said even some members of the union would tell him that “Karen was too much.” He saw that as a euphemism for her being “too black.”

Potter said, though she didn’t like it, she would often have Potter or one of the other white officers go to member meetings in the white strongholds on the far Northwest and Southwest sides.

“In some ways, Karen was a consummate diplomat because she could span all these different environments, but in other ways she was the most smash-mouthed person I have ever known because she would not be afraid to say it like it was,” he said.

James Franczek, the chief labor attorney for the school district, said Lewis used rhetoric that people were not used to and that made some uncomfortable.

“My first impression was, ‘Wow, this woman is sort of off the rails,’” he said. “Karen has many positive traits but subtlety is not one of them.”

While Franczek said he disagreed with Lewis on most issues, he said he wound up liking her personally. In the years after the arduous 2012 negotiations, he would have dinner or coffee with her and they would talk about some of the things she loved — opera, classical music and what books she was reading.

“She disagrees with you on almost everything, but she does it with a sense of humor that makes those disagreements enjoyable,” Franczek said.

Franczek called Lewis a “force of nature” and someone who is so “unique he doesn’t think there will ever be another leader like her.”

Her intelligence and wit earned the respect of even her staunchest adversaries. When she retired, Mayor Emanuel sent her matzah ball soup, a traditional Jewish food. Emanuel called her a friend and said he respected her advocacy for the children of Chicago.

“A fearless truth teller” Current Chicago Teacher Union Vice President Jesse Sharkey, like Potter, was part of the group of young, upstart high school teachers who founded the CORE union caucus to take on the union leadership they ultimately replaced. They criticized former leaders for letting the school district increase privatization without a fight and for being unwilling to take on the broader social justice issues in public education.

Sharkey said he relished watching Lewis become “like a folk icon in the city.”

“Her ability to speak to the mass media and working-class people in the city really caught hold of the imagination of people broadly in Chicago,” he said. “It was amazing to see unfold.”

But he said it would be wrong to make Lewis out to be a cuddly figure who was friends with Emanuel. As with many black leaders, he said the tendency is to try to remove their sharp edge.

“This is the person who called Rahm Emanuel the murder mayor and was willing to take on the powerful and the establishment,” Sharkey said. “She has been a voice for black workers, she has been a voice for the underdog.”

Sharkey said Lewis was a “fearless truth teller” who was a “lightning rod of criticism.”

“She bore it with incredible grace and a tremendous amount of patience and really helped to give people confidence to create a movement,” he said.

Stacy Davis Gates, the current union vice president, said on the day the Chicago Board of Education voted to close 50 schools, Lewis declared she was going to shift the political landscape of the city. Lewis was gearing up to run for mayor against Emanuel when she was diagnosed with brain cancer.

While Lewis didn’t get to challenge Emanuel, her vision played out, said Davis Gates. For one, Emanuel is no longer mayor, having decided not to run for a third term in 2019.

And in 2019, Sharkey and Davis Gates led the teachers out on an 11-day strike, demanding many of the supports and resources called for in that 2012 document, The Schools Chicago’s Students Deserve.

The contract they negotiated includes commitments for hundreds more nurses and social workers, as well as class size caps, for the first time.

Davis Gates said it was Lewis that gave union leaders and teachers in Chicago the conviction to take on the fight.

“You see all of the threads and the fruits of her labor manifesting in a way where you don’t have just the one, you have the mightier, you have the more stable, you have a chorus of voices shaking their hand and demanding the justice she embodied as the leader of this union,” she said.

Sharkey also gave Lewis a powerful nod on the eve of the October 2019 strike. As he stood before throngs of members in their red shirts, Sharkey declared, “This is the house that Karen built.”

[fightmeyeats]

Fantasy Racism™ Sure is Pretty White: A Critique of “Carnival Row”

One of the problems with the “politically relevant” fantasy genre is that it frequently offers “representation” and “relevant” critiques of social problems in ways which favor the representation of the oppressions people face, rather than of the people themselves--meaning metaphors which parallel fantasy races to people of color while using a predominantly white cast. Often times this further reifies the unmarked categories of the cultural context the work is produced in (ie whiteness as the dominant & default category), further marginalizes and dehumanizes people of color, and positions white folks as the victims of metaphorical white supremacy. Amazon’s new streaming original Carnival Row is an unfortunately clear example of this continued fetishization of white poverty/desperation/vulnerability at the expense of communities of color. 

Spoilers below. 

While one might rightly critique the “trauma porn” genre and the way that people of color are often brutalized on screen or depicted only as victims of violence in discussions of oppression, with the solidarity and resistance of communities of color erased from dominant narratives, substituting white bodies into these sequences of violence does not offer us a useful subversion. In her book What You Are Getting Wrong About Appalachia, Elizabeth Catte talks about the historical and contemporary use of a particular image of white poverty. The focal example of Catte’s book is J.D. Vance’s memoir Hillbilly Elegy (2016) where Vance consistently uses the image of the bad, dependent poor white to reify racist images of poverty and undermine the need for programs and systems to support poor folks--just one example of this is the way he insists that the “welfare queen” is real and implicitly argues that the use of this stereotype to undermine welfare programs is not racist because he has known white welfare queens. Outside of contemporary use, Catte also gives examples such as how in the 1960s “white poverty offered [white people uncomfortable with images of civil rights struggles] an escape--a window into a more recognizable world of suffering” (59), and the quotes Appalachian historian John Alexander Williams comments on the way that, in the displays of Appalachian poverty, “‘the nation took obvious relish in the white skins and blue eyes of the region’s hungry children’” (qtd Catte 82). This obsession with white poverty has little to do with addressing the actual problem; instead, it is a tool used to obscure oppression, resistance, and transformative solutions to these problems. 

Carnival Row offers a discourse on colonialism, racism, and xenophobia intended to mirror the political climate of the real world, namely the violence experienced by refugees and undocumented immigrants. It also attempts to comment on the way that Global North/colonial nations often create or are implicit in the creation of catastrophes which cause Global South/colonized nations and regions to become unsafe and result in refugee migrations, as well as the subsequent way that many times when refugees end up immigrating to the very nations that played a role in the collapse of their homelands, they are met with violence on multiple levels and their traumas are ongoing. In this current moment, this kind of discourse/intervention is “relevant” (I use scare-quotes because while the treatment of refugees in many Global North nations is horrendous in this current moment, this is not a new problem the way it sometimes is imagined) and I’m even willing to concede that there are some things which I think are done well. However--and this is a big however--the choice to make a predominantly white non-human population the metaphorical stand in for real life people who are predominantly of color greatly undermines what the series is attempting to accomplish. The implicit message is that it is easier for general audiences to sympathize with and recognize the personhood in non-human white figures than it is to sympathize with and recognize the personhood in real life people of color who are actively experiencing the violence fictionalized in this series. Furthermore, even as the victims obscure the real role white supremacy plays in xenophobia and the violence experienced by migrants and refugees, it still is a form of trauma porn. The only real difference is that because of the dominant whiteness of the victims, this version of trauma porn allows for the voyeuristic participation in systems of violence wherein many who are passively complicit (or even actively responsible) in the very systems causing violence are able to relate to the victims and experience a sort of cathartic release which allows them to maintain their complicity, feeling “good” that they consumed “politically relevant” content which allowed them to “care” safely, without having to address the reality that they are part of the brutalizers not the brutalized.

One of the ways that the show attempts to somewhat skirt around this problematic of white victimhood is by giving many of the white refugees, namely the main character Vignette (played by British actor/model Cara Delevigne), Irish accents and setting it in a time period which ambiguously mirrors the time before (as Noel Ignatiev puts it) “the Irish became white”. Celtic whiteness is used both in Carnival Row and with the case of Appalachia, and seems to be a particular favorite flavor for the fetization of white poverty. My personal theory is that this is because, when used in this way, the British colonization of Celtic peoples works to simultaneously obscure the racialized realities of both poverty and colonialism--in this fashion, Celtic whiteness is Othered just enough to justify the creation of white victimhood as a fetish object, but still undeniably white enough to connect this victimhood to the universal construction of whiteness. While there is nothing inherently wrong with including Ireland (or Scotland or Wales) in discourses of colonialism/neocolonialism because Ireland and other Celtic lands were and are colonized by the British and this colonization has had a clear and lasting impact on these regions and these peoples, using it as part of the fetishization of white poverty does not further anti-colonial goals, and again is being used to displace and obscure the way racism and white supremacy are central to anti-refugee and anti-immigrant rhetoric, policies, and popular practices.

During the first few episodes, I tentatively imagined myself commenting on the only semi-positive aspect I saw in the show’s use of whiteness: while obscuring metaphors for white-supremacist politics are deployed in many fantasy works, they often position people (humans) of color as being members of the human-supremacist groups which are meant to reflect real life white supremacy, further obscuring the real stakes of the topic being discussed. For the first four episodes, Carnival Row avoids this problematic and gives a representation of the metaphorical anti-immigrant/“pro-Brexit” crowd exclusively through white humans--and bonus points, they can be found in both the political elite and the working class/poor. While the whiteness of fantasy races means that the real life targets of white supremacist violence (people of color) are obscured, at least this allows us to remain clear on who is responsible. That, unfortunately, changes in episode five. One of the major places where we can see this change is in the introduction of Sophie, a woman of color, who takes over her (white) father’s seat in parliament after his death. Sophie gives a speech where she mobilizes her status as a woman of color to further fantasy-racism, stating that her mother had “desert blood” and experienced racism, but that the city overcoming racism and recognizing the value of racial diversity does not apply to the “Critch” because “our differences are more than skin-deep” (ep 5, 34:15). While this is predominantly intended to differentiate real racism (which I guess has been solved?) from Fantasy Racism™, it also serves to undermine the dehumanizing politics of racism which are continuously deployed. It reassures audiences that real life racism can be solved because race is just skin deep and we’re ultimately all pretty similar. This obscures the historical and contemporary claims about “race science” and “racial difference” which often explicitly and implicitly justify racism. While in this present moment “race science” has become a more latent belief--most people laugh at the idea of measuring skulls--everyone with a White™ Facebook friend who's taken a 23-and-Me to prove they’re 0.005% African can speak to continuing beliefs in biological race theory. 

Ultimately, like many other “politically relevant” fantasy works, Carnival Row’s use of a white washed Fantasy Racism™ as a metaphor for the systems of oppression that, in the real world, affect people of color remains highly problematic. In both our personal viewing practices and in our practices of creating and curating stories, we must think critically. Storytelling is a powerful tool in shaping how we perceive and consider reality, so when we choose to tell stories that represent marginalized communities exclusively by their oppressions, and especially when we choose metaphors that participate in the fetishization of white desperation and whitewash these communities we are doing real harm. 

[balkanfoodking92]

Tripe is eaten in many parts of the world.Tripe soup is made in many varieties in the Eastern European cuisine. Tripe dishes include:

Andouille — French poached, boiled and smoked cold tripe sausage

Andouillette — French grilling sausage including beef tripe and pork

Babat — Indonesian spicy beef tripe dish, could be fried with spices or served as soup as soto babat (tripe soto)

Bak kut teh — A Chinese herbal soup popularly served in Malaysia and Singapore with pork tripe, meat and ribs.

Bao du — Chinese quick-boiled beef or lamb tripe

Breakfast sausages — Most commercially produced sausages in the United Statescontain pork and beef tripe as filler

Bumbar — A Bosnian dish where the tripe is stuffed with other beef parts

Butifarra/Botifarra — Colombian or Catalansausage

Caldume — a Sicilian stew or soup

Callos — Spanish tripe dish cooked with chickpea, chorizo and paprika

Cau-cau — Peruvian stew of cow tripe, potatoes, mint, and other spices and vegetables

Chakna — Indian spicy stew of goat tripe and other animal parts

Ciorbă de burtă — Romanian special soup with cream and garlic

Cow foot soup — Belize — Seasoned, tenderly cook cow tripe and foot, aromatic and ground vegetables with macaroni in a rich glutinous soup.

Dobrada — Portuguese tripe dish usually made with white butterbeans, carrots and chouriço served with white rice.

Dršťkovka (dršťková polévka) — Czechgoulash-like tripe soup

Fasulia bil karsha — Libyan kidney bean soup with tripe

Fried Tripe Sandwich – Popular in St. Louis, Missouri, USA

Držková — Slovak tripe soup (držková polievka)

Dulot or dulet — Eritrean and Ethiopian tripe and entrail stir-fry, containing finely chopped tripe, liver and ground beef, lamb or goat fried in clarified and spiced butter, with garlic, parsley and berbere

Ebyenda or byenda — word for tripe in some Bantu languages of Uganda, tripe may be stewed, but is especially popular when cooked with matooke as a breakfast dish

Fileki or špek-fileki — Croatian tripe soup

Flaczki or flaki — Polish soup, with marjoram

Fuqi feipian or 夫妻肺片— spicy and "numbing" (麻) Chinese cold dish made from various types of beef offal, nowadays mainly thinly sliced tendon, tripe and sometimes tongue

Gopchang jeongol - a spicy Korean stew or casserole made by boiling beef tripe, vegetables, and seasonings in beef broth

Goto - Filipino gruel with tripe.

Guatitas — Ecuadorian and Chilean tripe stew, often served with peanut sauce in Ecuador



Gulai babat, tripe prepared in a type of curry

Gulai babat — Indonesian Minang tripe curry

Guru — Zimbabwean name for tripe, normally eaten as relish with sadza

Haggis — Scottish traditional dish made of a sheep's stomach stuffed with oatmeal and the minced heart, liver and lungs of a sheep. The stomach is used only as a vessel for the stuffing and is not eaten.

İşkembe çorbası — Turkish tripe soup with garlic, lemon, and spices

Kare-kare — Filipino oxtail-peanut stew which may include tripe

Kersha (Arabic Egyptian: كرشة ) — Egyptiantripe stew with Chickpea and tomato sauce.

"Kirxa" - In Malta this is popular traditional dish stewed in curry.

Khash — In Armenia, this popular winter soup is made of boiled beef tendon and honeycomb tripe, and served with garlic and lavash bread.

Kista — Assyrian cooked traditionally in a stew and stuffed with soft rice, part of a major dish known as pacha in Assyrian.

Laray — Curried tripe dish popular in Afghanistan and in the northern region of Pakistan. Eaten with naan/roti.

Lampredotto — Florentine abomasum-tripe dish, often eaten in sandwiches with green sauce and hot sauce

Mala Mogodu — South African cuisine — popular tripe dish, often eaten at dinner time as a stew with hot pap

Matumbo — Kenyan cuisine — tripe dish, often eaten as a stew with various accompaniments

Mutura Kenyan cuisine-tripe sausage, stuffed with blood, organ and other meat, roasted

Menudo — Mexican tripe and hominy stew

Mondongo — Latin American and Caribbeantripe, vegetable, and herb soup

Motsu — Japanese tripe served either simmered or in nabemono, such as Motsunabe

Mumbar beef or sheep tripe stuffed with rice, typical dish in Adana in southern Turkey

Niubie (Chinese: 牛瘪) A kind of Chinese huoguo, popular in the Qiandongnanprefecture of Guizhou province in southwest China and traditionally eaten by the Dong and Miao peoples, the dish includes the stomach and small intestine of cattle. Bile from the gall bladder and the half-digested contents of the stomach give the dish a unique, slightly bitter flavour. It can also be made with the offal of a goat, which is called yangbie (Chinese: 羊瘪).

Pacal — Hungarian spicy meal made of tripe, similar to pörkölt

Pacha — Iraqi and Assyrian cuisine, tripe and intestines stuffed with garlic rice and meat

Packet and Tripe— Irish meal which is when tripe is boiled in water, then strained off and then simmered in a pot with milk, onions, salt and pepper. Served hot with cottage bread/ Bread rolls. Popular in Co.Limerick

Pancitas — Mexican stew similar to menudo, but made with sheep stomach

Pancita — Peruvian spicy barbecue fried food made with beef tripe marinated with peppers and other ingredients

Papaitan — Filipino goat or beef tripe and offal soup flavored with bile



Patsás

Patsás (Greek: πατσάς) — Greek, tripe stew seasoned with red wine vinegar and garlic (skordostoubi) or thickened with avgolemono, widely believed to be a hangover remedy

Philadelphia Pepper Pot soup — American(Pennsylvania) tripe soup with peppercorns

Phở — Vietnamese noodle soup with many regional variations, some of which include tripe

Pickled tripe — pickled white honeycomb tripe once common in the Northeastern United States

Pieds paquets, Provençal dish, consists of stuffed sheep's offal and sheep's feet stewed together

Potted meat

Ṣakí or shaki — word for tripe in the Yorubalanguage of Nigeria, ṣakí is often included in various stews, along with other meat.

Sapu mhichā — leaf tripe bag stuffed with bone marrow and boiled and fried, from Kathmandu, Nepal

Saure Kutteln — from south Germany, made with beef tripe and vinegar or wine



Sekba, pig offal in soy sauce stew

Sekba — a Chinese Indonesian pork offalsincluding tripes stewed in mild soy sauce-based soup.

Serobe — a Botswana delicacy, mixed with intestines and in some occasions with beef meat

Shkembe (shkembe chorba) (Шкембе чорба / Чкембе чорба in Bulgarian) — a kind of tripe soup, prepared in Iran, Bulgaria, Romania, North Macedonia, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Serbia and Turkey, schkæm is the Persian word for stomach, sirabi is the Iranian version of shkembe

Skembici — Serbia, one of the oldest known dishes since 13th century, tripe in vegetable stew with herbs, served with boiled potato



Soto babat, spicy tripe soup

Soto babat — Indonesian spicy tripe soup

Tablier de sapeur, a speciality of Lyon

Tkalia — Moroccan spiced, seasoned in a sauce with vegetables and served on cous-cous

Tripice- Croatia, stew made with Tripe, boiled with potato and bacon added for flavour.

Tripes à la mode de Caen — in Normandy, this is a traditional stew made with tripe. It has a very codified recipe, preserved by the brotherhood of "La tripière d'or"[9] that organises a competition every year to elect the world's best tripes à la mode de Caen maker.

Tripe and beans — in Jamaica, this is a thick, spicy stew made with tripe and broad beans.

Tripe and drisheen — in Cork, Ireland

Tripe and onions — in Northern England

Tripes in Nigerian tomato sauce- tripe are cooked till tender and finished in spicy tomato sauce[10]

Tripe taco — Mexican sheep or calf tripe dish with tortillas

Tripoux — Occitan sheep tripe dish traditional in Rouergue

Trippa di Moncalieri — in Moncalieri city/Piedmont/Italy (tripe sausage, that could be served in thin slices with few drops of olive oil, minced parsley, garlic and a pinch of black pepper, or used mainly for.

[tcm]

The Alluring Appeal of Ava Gardner by Theresa Brown

It’s here folks! One of TCM’s signature programming events and one of my favorites: Summer Under the Stars! For August, TCM features one movie star a day and programs a full 24 hours of their films. I can’t think of a better way to get a sweeping overview of a film star’s career. Let me tell you a bit about my pick.

Do you know how captivating and alluring and uniquely famous you have to be to be known by just your first name? Anyone can be a Harlow, a Barrymore, a Valentino...a Garbo! (Actually no…they can’t! ) But a first name, now that’s tough. You’d have to not be confused with anyone else sharing that same name. In the 1940’s, there was the premiere blonde, brunette and redhead of glamour girls. There was Lana, the Blonde – kittenish and cute as a Barbie doll; Rita, the Redhead – regal, aloof, drop-dead gorgeous; but for my money The Brunette of the 1940’s who beats out The Sweater Girl and The Love Goddess is AVA.

Ava Gardner was sensual, down-to-earth, edgy. She could kiss you as soon as kill you. She’d steal your man right before your very eyes by just walking into the room, and she could be heartbreakingly vulnerable. Not bad for a girl born on a tobacco farm in Grabtown, North Carolina, going barefoot much of the time. Unlike the other bombshells who were discovered in person at a soda fountain or dancing in a nightclub, circumstance has it that Ava was discovered from her photograph in the window of her brother’s-in-law photo studio. The rest is history (which you can read on TCM or in Lee Server’s biography Ava Gardner: "Love Is Nothing"). She became a star overnight...though it took Ava a good five years of ‘overnights’, lots of B pictures and two husbands (Mickey Rooney: 1942-1943 and Artie Shaw: 1945-1946) to have her first real major hit in 1946. Ava had a better and longer lasting career than Lana and Rita.

Of her films showing, the ones to particularly take note of are those coming into her own as an actress in the '50s, showing that she was not just a pretty face. I’d like to recommend a couple of her movies for you, starting with her first real big hit, THE KILLERS (’46).

It’s an iconic film noir that’s tough, complex and not at all dated. My friend says the first 12 minutes are Killer! And she’s right. Ava’s good as a femme fatale with a faux hint of damsel in distress. When she first appears in the movie, Burt Lancaster (in his first movie) sees her and is a goner. So are we. You can feel her in the room. Don’t let her hushed, whispery voice fool you. She’s no shrinking violet about to take a beatdown from her husband in front of his gang. Instead, Ava laces into him in a room FULL of men, with this threat:

“You touch me and you won’t live ‘til morning!”

I relish that moment.

In SHOWBOAT (‘51) [the Sinatra years ...], Ava plays riverboat performer and “tragic mulatto” Julie LaVerne. Those quotes are on purpose. Isn’t she really just a woman in love with a man she’ll never have, wrapped up in 19th century racial politics? We see her take the slings and arrows of trying to pass for white and by the end of her story, she’s bedraggled.

Ava’s also very good in BHOWANI JUNCTION (’56). Again playing a bi-racial woman, the film is set during the time the British are leaving India. Ava’s character doesn’t deny her dual heritage of Anglo-Indian. She is torn, though, between tradition and falling for the dashing British military soldier played by Stewart Granger. It looks like everyone else has the problem with her; she’s not fitting into any box nicely and neatly. She challenges their perceptions. She is harassed and nearly sexually assaulted because of her heritage. She doesn’t trade on her looks in this film and again, she’s a woman unlucky in love. You know what? I find these movies about interracial romance endlessly fascinating – in the many ways they keep couples FROM being together. 

Personally, I hate re-makes. So, of course it stands to reason that I love MOGAMBO (’53). (Go figure.) I think it’s cool to find Gable starring as ‘The King’ of the jungle in his second go-round with this story. He’s a man who has to choose between two women. Well, let’s say two types of women. In the original 1932 version, RED DUST, Gable is torn between the lady Astor (Mary Astor) and ‘30’s blonde bombshell Harlow. (See...that last name). By the time 1953 rolls around, John Ford directs this deepest, darkest, technicolor African safari film and Gable’s choices are between one of the 'It' girls of the ‘50's: future princess of Monaco Grace Kelly and the saucy, sassy Ava as Eloise ‘Honeybear’ Kelly. Ava’s a good-time girl with Gable...they got ‘history.’ No strings. She’s sexy, but that’s not all she shows. Ava has a scene with a baby elephant which shows off her comedic timing. And when Ava sees that Gable prefers the prim and proper blonde, we hurt for her. Ford gives us a lovely but sad moment with her on that veranda, when she drops the devil-may-care mask. I love the angry, fiery Ava...fur flying, but the heartbroken Ava tugs at you.

MOGAMBO marks Ava and Gable’s third teaming together, the others being THE HUCKSTERS (’47) and LONE STAR (’52), hence the easy breeeezy chemistry between them.

THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA (’54) is a big-budget Hollywood film where we cover the rise and fall of a small-town dancer/turned actress. As with Lana and Rita, men chased them, but I find more often than not with Ava, she does the choosing. She is the object of desire in THE BAREFOOT CONTESSA, but what these men fail to understand is you can’t control Ava; so whether you’re a millionaire playboy or a powerful movie executive as they are in this movie, she stays with you for as long as you’re not a possessive pain in the neck. She maintains her independence through each relationship. The story unfolds in flashback and we see how Ava’s Maria Vargas winds up where she does. Maria’s story reminds me a little of Ava’s real-life story; plucked from obscurity, thrown in the spotlight, not happy in relationships. It’s dawning on me that Ava’s characters do well when the man is her plaything. But let her fall in love...and it’s her undoing.

Ava and Humphrey Bogart have great chemistry here and it’s one of my favorite Bogart roles. I wish they had done more films together. But I understand the chemistry was on-camera only. Bogie was Team Sinatra in Ava’s and Frank’s turbulent years together. She and Edmond O’Brien (Academy Award-winner for his nervous and sweaty press agent he portrays in this film) appear here together for the second time. She’ll work with him a third time in 1964’s SEVEN DAYS IN MAY.

If you can only see or DVR one film of Ava’s tonight, PANDORA AND THE FLYING DUTCHMAN (‘51) is a MUST-SEE.

“I’d die for you without the least hesitation.”

Ava is at her most ravishing in her entire career in this film. Her beauty is other worldly, the screen drips with her. And who better to try and match her beauty but master cinematographer Jack Cardiff. Ava plays Pandora, a selfish girl who weaponizes her beauty. Boy oh boy, what men do for her. She's like the mythological Siren whom men are compelled by. It’s not that she sends men to their doom; they willingly leap into it. And I’m telling you, Ava works it.

In talking about this movie with my friend Wendy, she explains to me Ava’s appeal and she really helps crystallize for me just what it is about Ava. She says it better than I could:

“She is a woman who lives like a man. Ava is just so much herself in this movie. There’s no pretense. Somehow with director Albert Lewin she is relaxed and confident. And in glorious color.”

In PANDORA AND THE FLYING DUTCHMAN, Ava is headstrong, bored, looking for kicks, does what she wants; not totally uncaring but a bit careless with people; sad she can’t do anything about men falling for her. She feels nothing...until she meets a man onboard a boat who, sight unseen, has been painting her portrait. The magical realism of the film takes off. You have to see Ava hopelessly in love. You have to see this movie.

TCM’s Summer Under the Stars programming is a good way to see an actor in one fell swoop. Perhaps it’ll make you want to explore her other films. See her in EAST SIDE, WEST SIDE (‘49), ON THE BEACH (‘59) or especially her tear it up in NIGHT OF THE IGUANA (’64). But for here and now...spending all day with Ava is not a bad thing.

[allwayshungry]

Matbucha

[likenothingnameable]

When Last Did You Take Your Tortoise for a Walk?

The art of walking in the 21st century, a lifelong learning

By: Justin Mah

“Balancing yourself with your arms set flawlessly straight like a marching foot soldier in the Canadian Forces, you were walking before any of your cousins,” my mom recalls with a touch of amusement. For reasons remaining muddled by my subconscious, I skipped the intermediate motor-development phase of crawling altogether and, at just eight months, reached out into the world in front of me and discovered an abiding love for walking—one that, many a worn-out and pockmarked soles later, has reverberated to the present.

In his walking reverie, The Walk, Robert Wasler writes, “A pleasant walk most often veritably teems with imageries, living poems, attractive objects, natural beauties, be they ever so small…. without walking, I would be dead.” Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap—the faint thump of my own steps, the sweet sound of my second heartbeat.

With little fuss, at the age of three, with scuffed Velcro sneakers and my fluorescent-blue security blanket in tow, I’d stroll around the 4.9 km circuit trail at Burnaby’s Central Park with my mom, a preternaturally brisk walker. I’ve imagined her often, in some parallel universe, eking out a living in the urban bustle of Singapore, home to the fastest pedestrians on the planet according to studies.

Today, with thirty-five years of walking now behind me, that we have felt inclined to study walking speeds at all, says to me every bit about our attempts to outpace those around us. Evading the immediacy of the present in search of fugitive alleviation from the reality of our own flesh-and-bones mortality, we readily employ our lower limbs exclusively for the purpose of getting from A to B.

Pushing against the trapping of an A-to-B mentality emptied of vitality is easier said than done in a culture that lionizes “efficiency” and “productivity.” The earth and its natural ecosystems has beared its most injurious consequences, but for how much longer will it be able to withstand our recklessness? In The Rings of Saturn, a novel borne out of a walking tour of the eastern coast of England, German writer and indefatigable walker W. G. Sebald offers an alternative that calls for the cultivation of a more present, naked form of attention. “It was as if I had been walking for hours before the tiled roofs of houses and the crest of a wooded hill gradually became defined,” he writes of his sojourn to the town of Dunwich. Here, between A and B, is an in-between full of sensorial possibility that Sebald experiences and brings to life with exquisite detail, roof tiles and all.

In my adulthood, I’ve cultivated my own practice of trying to be more purposeful in my walking—slowing down enough to see a familiar spot anew; relishing in the quiet offered by an early Sunday morning walk, wherein I fall into awareness of my in-breath and the pitter-patter of my own footsteps—tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap; weaving with the faint voices of the CBC wafting out into the balmy air through a window ajar, the rhythmic swooshing of branches of fir cast penumbral across the sidewalk, painterly. And—out-breath.

As a kid, well before I heard of Paris’ French flaneurs—the eminent saunterers, strollers, idlers—of the 19th century who would amble purposelessly through the city’s famous shopping arcades, my father ushered in what he coined a “city walkabout.” My little brother and I fell so in love with the concept that it would win out over such other favourite activities as scouring the ‘Action’ and ‘Comedy’ shelves at Blockbuster, combing through the collection trove at the neighbourhood comic shop, or visiting our much beloved arcade, Circuit Circus. Relegating these alluring options aside, we’d plead, as children so do best, for our dad to take us out on a walkabout, an adventure that, above all, held the possibility of the unexpected. We’d walk and walk in winding, circuitous fashion through Vancouver’s cityscape, stopping for a bite when our stomachs could no longer be ignored, strolling till our feet throbbed, pulsed. Afterward, our feet still buzzing, drunk on kinetic motion, we’d proudly tumble horizontal, toss our feet up to rest. And, if we were really truly lucky, we’d have either a root beer-flavoured Popsicle, or creamy vanilla Dixie Cup, in hand to savour.

It is little remembered, but in the days of the French flaneurs, for a brief moment in 1839, it was considered elegant to take a tortoise out for a walk. The gesture was not completely out of left field, though, merely an eccentric embellishment or a desperate call for attention. Rather, it was, in part, a tongue-in-cheek political display, a sort of poetic middle finger to a rampantly industrializing Paris. Bring the tortoise-walk back into the 21st century I say, and be free from the smart phone, even if just for a smidge! But not before searching “People trying to walk their cat” on YouTube, for a humourous, ‘who-walks-who’ preview of what’s to come of this human-tortoise pairing. Yet what a beautiful thing to surrender, to give up brief control, loosen our proclivity toward A-to-B trajectories. All thanks to a turtle holding reign, relish in your surroundings, all 360 degrees of it, and have the world transformed into a place of meditation! Let us follow by example sixty-five-year-old Japanese funeral parlour owner, Hisao Mitani, who goes out on daily walks with his African spurred tortoise through the streets of Tokyo. He became an Internet sensation in 2015 for doing so.

The popular notion of “walking as discovery” has been braided into our collective psyche, and while it speaks to our curiosity-driven nature and, at our worst, to histories of colonialism, over the years I’ve drifted to the view of “walking as recovery.” I discovered walking’s restorative potential as a Simon Fraser University undergrad when, amid the evening calm, I’d take a post-dinner walk to Burnaby Height’s oval track at Confederation Park. Approaching the russet-coloured track set in stark relief by the manicured grass filling its centre, I’d come upon an altogether heart-warming convening, a neighbourly microcosm of walkers looping the track, with the humbling outline of the North Shore Mountains to the north. From the vantage of a wooden bench, absorbing this mellifluous, arcing swirl of motion was enough to lull me into a state of clairvoyance. Sometimes, deciding to join the walking procession, time would seem to slacken, anxieties would unclasp, cascading from the self, outward, dissolving into the unending infinity of the circular track; overhead, a fluttering of crows, dotting the clear blue sky iridescent black, the sun making its beguiling decent over poplar trees, to the west.

Younger still, during the 1990s, in East Vancouver where I grew up, I have memories spent after school at my Italian grandparents’ home, who would care for my siblings and I on many a weekdays while my parents were at work. After dinner, I’d join my Nono for a walk with my brother and, after the house slipped out of sight, he’d pull out and light a cigarette, and in that moment made us complicit in his little secret, with the cemented story back at the house being that he had dispensed of the habit long ago. Walking along with him—the world at our fingertips—we’d dance in circles around my grandfather like electrons around a nucleus, racing ahead, hopping over the sidewalk creases imagining them as perilous pits, sometimes trailing behind, mesmerized by some insect or betwixt by a scattering of shed, dried out Maple whirlybird seeds. We’d split them down their brittle centre, toss them to the sky and, transfixed, watch them pirouette back down to the sidewalk. My grandfather would be continuing along, all the while, at his steady, measured pace, lost in rumination, the kind not yet of our knowing. The trip would end at the corner store, to address our sugary cravings with, ironically, Pop-Eye candy cigarettes. Puffing away on our candied sticks, oblivious to the adult world that lay ahead of us, we’d make our way back to the house, often in time for Wheel of Fortune, Vanna White and her infectious glow of a smile.

Years later, my Nono’s secret would get the better of him when cancer took hold, and after his passing, with my Nona now alone in her house, I’d pay frequent visits, getting her, this time, out of the confines of her home for walks. Delighting in conversation with neighbours along the way, debating the merits of various grades of gardening manure, sharing tricks of the trade for growing flavourful tomatoes, as well as getting caught up on the latest neighbourhood gossip, I could sense her spirit lift and her racing mind being put at ease. Hippocrates grasped this over 2,000 years ago when he declared, “walking is man’s best medicine.” Modern studies today now suggest that walking for even twenty minutes a day can cut one’s risk of premature death by almost a third. During my many memorable walks with my Nona, we’d usually find ourselves at a nearby Chinese restaurant for dim sum, where we’d enjoy an array of steamy goodness from sticky rice, spicy fried squid, to crispy wasabi shrimp spring rolls. “Mmm, my favourite,” she’d exalt, a smile breaking across her face, as a container of steamed chicken feet was placed onto our table. Her diving hands would disperse the tantalizing steam rising out from the wooden container; warmed by her enthusiasm, I’d top up her half-empty glass of green tea.   

That we have even been endowed with an upright gait has much, of course, to do with a lengthy evolutionary battle between big brains and narrow pelvises. But it is also simply a wonderful gift and a constant teacher, if we let it. Pulled by the primacy of bipedalism, with valorous if haphazard spirit, most newborns attempt their first steps around nine to twelve months. It’s easy to forget, less remember, the novelty of walking for the first time. Though, I’d like to think we are always learning how to walk through this life in the play of the open air.

While I do not own a tortoise, I have occasionally imagined myself tethered to an invisible one, noble and seemingly with all the time in the world, when out on a leisure jaunt. Time after time, she has guided me to marvelous, wonderful places I never would have expected.  

[aloevverified]

ABIONA (interlude 1) - “THIS JUST FEELS RIGHT”

mcu character(s) T’Challa “Black Panther” Udaku, Nakia, Shuri, Ayo, T’Chaka pairing Black Panther x black!reader format series | part 1 – part 2 – part 3 – part 4 – part 5 – part 6 warning We’re going back in time and we got some fluff, some more fluff and basically only fluff and an entire backdrop to why T’Challa fell for you in the first place and how you came to be blessed with Abiona as a daughter (read: implied sex scenes) word count 8.9k

summary Both you and T’Challa are struggling with old feelings and memories resurfacing, making your co-parenting situation more confusing than ever. How much longer can you keep your relationship platonic when Abiona reminds you of your past together?

Her laughter filled his body with joy as she recounted another anecdote about her recent War Dog mission.

“You just can’t keep yourself out of trouble,” he said, mouth twitching of smiling too much as he sat inside the aircraft that flew over Wakanda’s Golden city.

When they were younger, Nakia always found a way to get them in trouble. She convinced him to sneak out of the place for nightly explores near the river tribe lands which usually ended with them being caught by a group of guards. At the palace, his father scolded him in a bright new vocabulary every time.

“What fun is it if I keep myself out of trouble?!”

Nakia raised an eyebrow, grinning from ear to ear. Her projected face glowed like a torch in the catacombs. She looked so happy and at peace.

“Where are you now?”

“On the road,” she stated before pinching her lips. “I’m being transferred to Nigeria.”

He leaned closer to her projection at his wrist. The news about terrorist groupings kidnapping and killing innocent people in the north of the country had reached his ears earlier this week. He had even discussed it with her.

“Where exactly?” His brows furrowed as she kept her gaze down, not wanting to form the answer he already knew. “It’s dangerous, Nakia.”

She looked up with a sigh.

“Every country in the world is dangerous,” she said with a wave of her hand as if his words were just another annoyance to her, “besides there’s nothing a War Dog can’t handle.”

Playful as she sounded, she only reminded him what he had lost when she made the choice to become a War Dog. How much he relished the thought of Nakia doing what she always wanted to do, his feelings for her never really ebbed away.

“When are you coming home?”

“I already told you,” she sighed. He had asked too many times before, but he still hoped every time. “People are in need of help, T’Challa, and my heart needs this.”

The desperation in her words insisting him to understand vibrated too loud, too clear. He understood her desire to help people. How much his heart sang her name, he’d never make her stay if it wasn’t her own choice, even when he wanted to beg every single time they spoke.

“I don’t know what you like about the outside world,” he started as Ayo steered the aircraft through the shield. The view changed from city to jungle. “I just boarded this ship, and I already want it to return home.”

“That will not be possible, your Highness,” Ayo snickered with a toothy smirk. “I got orders from my King.”

“Where is your father dragging you to this time?”

Nakia didn’t hide the giggle in her question.

“Uganda,” he groaned. Both women were taken too much pleasure in his discontentment. “He has a hard time settling some UN.”

His father usually managed to brush off any UN questions brought to their country, but since his latest diplomatic visit to Kenya, he called on the regular to complain about the UN’s persistence to have Wakanda display more commitment within their projects in East-Africa.

“Our King is growing old,” Nakia said with a teasing smile. “He needs his son’s support.”

“He needs me to do his bidding,” he scoffed softly. “That’s it.”

Ayo snorted as she turned her head to him.

“We’ll be arriving in fifteen minutes so make sure to remove that scowl before we land.”

He lifted a hand in front of his mouth as he eyed her with squinted eyes.

“You’re having a good day, Ayo?”, he finally said smug. “You got Aneka to like you again.”

“I even got a goodbye kiss,” she whispered with a wink before pointing her chin to Nakia’s projection. “What about you?”

His face dropped in a beat. Why did he confide in her and Okoye again?

“Oh, T’Challa, don’t be annoyed,” Nakia laughed as she held a hand in front of her mouth. “We all know you do your parents’ bidding too well.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

He couldn’t really disagree with her.

***

He and Ayo descended the Royal Talon Fighter which appeared to be a basic private jet to anyone who looked at it. It soon would lift into the air and make its way back to Wakanda. His father already walked his direction with open arms. Nailah, his personal guard, followed in his tow.

“My King,” Ayo said as she crossed her arms in front of her body.

His father responded with a warm smile.

“You look anew since the last time I saw you.”

“I started my day well.”

His father raised his eyebrows in question.

“Baba,” he said with a nod, hiding his hands behind his back.

His father’s hand cupped his cheek.

“I can see it on your face already.”

He pushed his lips into a smile as he angled his face away from his father’s hand. How much he tried to keep his face unreadable, every single person could tell what his mind thought.

“And still you bring me here,” he muttered under his breath, all the while cursing the traiter that was his own face as he followed Nailah and Ayo to the black Audi parked at the side of the landing track.

He opened the car door in the back for his father to get in. As he walked around the vehicle and took his seat, Nakia’s words floated in his mind like a loud, unstoppable echo.

“Let’s hear it,” he said quickly while Nailah started the engine.

“Uganda is trying to start an agricultural project led by the UN and want to use the river that has its source in our territory.”

He graced his index finger and thumb over his stubble beard to meet at his chin as he looked outside the window. The traffic ahead was packed with white taxi vans and moved forward at a slow pace.

“Not the commuter jam,” Nailah sighed in disdain as she glanced at the digital clock. The trip to their residence inner Kampala would take longer than expected.

“Why make this more difficult than needed?” He turned to face his father. “The river flows through their country. Why not use it without our involvement?”

“They want to connect this project to our farms near the borders,” he explained, “so our crops can benefit from it too.”

“Something we rather not have,” Ayo said firm.

“That’s not our King’s biggest worry,” Nailah whispered to her.

He inched his brows at Nailah’s words. What could be a bigger worry than exposing their country in that way? His father let out a big sigh, rubbing his hand over the side of his face.

“There’s this one officer who doesn’t take no for an answer,” his father started with a tired face. “By Bast, when I tell you she drives me insane!”

“Is it the one with the ‘we need to be one front’ argument,” he inquired with a huff, remembering his father desperate calls where he released his mind from frustration. “The UN does know how to bring clear arguments to the table.”

His father flicked his hand in the air while gazing out the window. Motorbike taxis flashed by in a hurry. At least, they were reaching their destination at a normal speed.

“She means to say African countries need to stand together.”

He understood the meaning of the woman’s words, but it wasn’t easy to rally behind them when Wakanda wasn’t just any African country. He tried to make that clear to Nakia whenever she argued that Wakanda’s seclusion policies needed to change. His father and former Kings had made a choice to hide to protect themselves and he believed it to be the right choice as well.

“The woman doesn’t know the particulars of our country anyway,” he said.

“I agreed on an outreach project in Nigeria because of her.”

The car slammed to a halt. He spread his arm over his father’s chest to keep him from hitting his face against the front seat where Nailah made an obscene gesture to the car driver in front of her.

“You have?”, Ayo exclaimed, twisting in her seat to look at his father with wide eyes.

“Believe me,” Nailah said in anger, “I’m as surprised as you.”

His father clicked his tongue at her statement, though he didn’t reprimand her for her blaming words like he usually did. Who was this UN officer? What had she told his father to change his stance on social aid within the African continent?

“If Wakanda is involved in Nigeria,” he started with furrowed brows, “we could offer Uganda some help too.”

His father shook his head brisk in answer.

“We are a third-world country to the world, Son, do not forget. If we keep offering aid, countries will keep asking for it.”

What was going on in his father’s mind? Why go in on an offer if he knew what consequences the agreement held?

“What do you need me for if you already made up your mind?”, he snapped in a low tone.

“I’m not sure if I made up my mind.” His father pressed his lips, a subtle frown showing in his brow. “I heard some rumors about the woman recently.”

***

The commuter jam had been even worse this morning. Nailah and Ayo dropped him and his father in front of the Food & Agricultural Organization office half an hour later than expected. The building was compact, raised in orange-colored bricks. At the right side of the entrance, the bushy leaves of small trees shed their shadows on the security grilled windows.

He let his father step inside first. At the entrance hall, he found you awaiting their arrival. You wore a colorful printed two-piece suit, of which the bright yellow accents accentuated your brown skin with a glow. Your lips inched in a smile the moment you set eyes on his father.

“King T’Chaka,” you said in French, arms open in greeting. “Your Majesty, Your Grace.”

Your voice had teased over the words with a subtle laughter.

“No need for flattery, child,” his father answered in the same language with a shake of his head, but he smiled all the same.

You took his father’s hands and beamed as you spoke.

“It’s good to see you again.” Another chuckle left your lips before tilting your head with a raised brow. “I was afraid I had scared you away after our last meeting.”

“It takes more to scare me away,” his father laughed, “even when you do chase me like an ostrich at times.”

He shifted his gaze from his father to you and back to his father. Was his father playing an act, because he surely changed his sentiment since yesterday. Or he simply hid his frustration well?

“I see you brought company too,” you said in a clear voice, offering him a hand. “I’m [Y/N] [Y/L/N], senior UN officer, mainly in charge of the East African Community but I oversee most inter-African projects within the UN.”

“Uhm…” He shook your hand, searching for words because your eyes had a depth so deep he felt like he was balancing on the edge not to fall. “My name... I’m… I’m T’Challa. Udaku.”

You lifted your brows up with a grin as you glanced at his father for a brief.

“I hope you meant to say Prince T’Challa Udaku of Wakanda.”

“Yes?”

“Never forget to mention your title when greeting someone here,” you stated. Your brows furrowed near the bridge of your nose with a lively expression. “It gives you standing where you have none yet.”

His forehead wrinkled as he looked at you in surprise.

“I would have thought his Majesty would have taught his son by now,” you said to his father in a chuckle. “Follow me, please, gentlemen.”

You turned on your heels, making your way to the back of the building as he and his father followed. He leaned closer to his father while keeping his eyes on your back.

“You could have warned me she’s relentless in her words, Baba,” he whispered in his native tongue.

“I’m also relentless in the number of languages I speak,” you answered instead of his father without a look his direction.

His cheeks flushed with warmth, especially when his father’s open mouth formed laughter at your words. You stopped in front of the elevators, pushing the button to call one down. A cheeky smile played on your lips when you looked over your shoulder, and he quickly closed his gaping mouth.

“Let us be warned, my Son,” his father said when they stepped inside the elevator. “There might be nothing this woman can’t do.”

You closed your eyes for a moment, a smile adorning your face.

“I’m yet to persuade you for a commitment within the EAC, King T’Chaka, “you answered when you opened your eyes to catch him staring at you.

He quickly shifted his eyes away before scraping his voice.

“What commitment are we talking about exactly?”

The elevator doors opened with a soft ring.

“A sustainable micro-irrigation project at the border with your country,” you explained, switching back to French. The tone of your voice had changed into seriousness but soon trailed back to that playfulness. “I’ll be sure to fill you in with all the details necessary to get your father’s signature once we take our seats.”

His father scoffed at her words but sounded amused more than anything else when he spoke.

“What will your strategy be this time, [Y/N]?”

“I never have a strategy, Your Majesty, only an objective,” you stated in a bright voice, “to have Wakanda agree with me today.”

***

You paced the front of the room in a slow pace, lacing your words with such easiness and confidence as you went through your presentation. The project sounded promising, but he wasn’t sure if his father should invest money and manpower in these micro-irrigation constructions if only to make a tactical move for the country’s security. There was still a risk exposing Wakanda’s secrets along the way. And yet, he found himself making mental notes to improve the engineering of the dams as you looked at him with a smile on your lips.

When you finished, you handed his father another loose-leaf folder before asking the Ugandan representative to follow you outside.

“I’ll hear what you decide, Your Majesty,” you said while making your way to the door, “but for time’s sake, you can just skip to the last page and sign straightaway. You’ll find me in my office.”

You closed the door with a grand smile which painted your face with softer lines, and he chuckled beyond his control. He turned his head to his father who kept his face in a solemn stare at the files in front of him.

“I can see why you she frustrates you,” he said with a smile. “She has an unswerving approach in her work.”

“Yes,” his father responded meaningful, “relentless as you said, but I’m yet to see firm actions.”

“You’re still considering agreeing, Baba.” He shook his head as he took the folder from his father and turned the pages. “The project is heartfelt, quite ambitious too, but I’m not convinced we should take it upon us. It might give away too much.”

His father covered his mouth with a hand as he stared at the blueprint for the dams.

“We’ll be able to keep our technologies under the radar, T’Challa.” His father stood from his seat while removing the glasses on his nose. With his index finger, he pointed at the white screen still projecting the presentation. “I only wonder how she thinks to execute this proposal. She is known to nestle herself in too much confidence which makes me think she’s overbearing her words.”

The project eyed too ambitious and the UN put its chance of success mostly in another country’s hands. With his father revealing the rumors he had heard about you, he understood why he was ready to accept this project.

“You want to sign to see it fail.”

His father faced him again and grasped his eyes.

“I’d rather not, you know that,” he said in a low voice, “but if it would fail, the better for Wakanda. No one will ask for our help after that.”

Those words rang too much truth, even when he could already hear Nakia’s objections. As future leader of Wakanda, he was bound to make decisions not every Wakandan could agree with.

“It’s a good tactic.”

He turned the bundle of papers to reveal the last page. His father grasped the pen on the table between his fingers and hovered it above the line where his signature would go before he lowered it again.

“You do it, Son,” he said, offering him the pen.

He took it, staring at his father, not sure what he should do.

“You want me to sign it in your name?”

His father shook his head with a faint smile.

“I want you to sign it in your name.” His father lifted his chin in the air, placing his glasses back on his nose. “It’s time you navigate the ways of a diplomat with some real practice.”

He raised his brows. This would be his first solo project representing Wakanda. His veins pulsed with excitement, even when the goal was to end it in failure. He had been desperate to get his brain into gear ever since he accepted that his feelings for Nakia still roamed freely in his body. Besides, his ideas for the improved dams fluttered inside his head like flags in a strong wind.

***

He entered the building with a graceful tread, eyes searching the room before they settled on you. T’Challa Udaku was a handsome man. He wore a well-tailored navy-blue suit, wrapping around his muscled shoulder too perfect, and there was a twinkle in his eyes that shone brighter the moment his lips puckered in a smile. He even held a plastic binder of his own.

You never expected Wakanda to sign up for this project. You even inflated certain elements during your presentation yesterday for that exact reason, but whatever criticism the Prince of Wakanda hid in his notes, you were well-prepared for it today.

Your body glowed with confidence as you gripped the binders in your hands a little tighter, closing the remaining distance between you and the Prince.

***

Your face radiated certainty as you approached him. The fitted cobalt dress draped from your neck over your knees was an interesting change from the lively yellow patterned suit you had worn last time. He admired the contrast of the color with your glowing skin.

“A blue suit,” you smiled. “Neutral choice for our first day working together.”

He lifted his arms at you in a gesture.

“I guess we’re matching that sentiment.”

“I’ll be honest,” you said as you gestured him to follow you upstairs, “I’m surprised Wakanda signed.”

“You were very convincing,” he said in a white lie. His words were half-truths anyway. You had captured his curiosity, because how did you clutch yourself in the mind of his father, the King of Wakanda, a man well-known for his headstrong rule?

“That doesn’t surprise me,” you laughed, standing tall before raising a single eyebrow, “but who exactly did I convince?”

He chuckled, covering his mouth with a half-closed fist. That confidence of yours dripped like a leaky tap, and it seemed you never left an opportunity to show it.

“Whose signature decorates the agreement?”, he stated simple, not meeting your eyes as you still stared at his face.

“I’ll take it as a compliment, Your Highness,” you said after a moment. “Will it be just you?”

He put his arms behind his back before angling your direction with inched brows.

“Less people get more done than too many.”

You parted your lips, corners slightly turning up when you opened the door of a meeting room at your right. He let you walk inside first.

“Uganda has given my department full charge of this project,” you said, closing the door behind him, “which means you’ll have to deal with me a lot.”

You finished the sentence with a playful wink as you put the binders on the table and aligned several bundles of papers in a perfect row.

“Uganda puts a lot of trust in your department.”

You looked up with a serious face.

“I might work for the UN, Your Highness,” you said with a strong brow, “but my alliance always lies with the countries I represent, and they know it.”

He nodded in response, taken aback by that admission as he watched you in wonder.

***

His mind got sucked into the engineering blueprints of the irrigation system during your meetings. He made quick notes in the margins, striking out certain elements in the drawings only to replace them with an idea he thought to improve the system. You would stalk behind him, seemingly reading a report but he sensed your eyes roaming his figure.

Whenever your meetings weren’t solely him and you, he observed how you changed into your diplomatic persona without effort. Such contrast compared to your moments alone. Your eyes glistered whenever your superiors left the room with praising compliments. You dropped the diplomacy in a beat, hopping ecstatic on your feet as your lovely smile brightened his day. Every now and then, you’d make a teasing comment, having him laugh even when he didn’t want to. You covered your bold opinions and stubborn suggestions with innocence, and it frustrated him and amazed him all the same.

At the end of another working week, the sight of you accompanied him to his hotel as he imagined your being all evening over the weekend.

***

Your attachment with the project grew without a stop. Every detail T’Challa made to the blueprints took you by surprise. Your Physics knowledge was limited, even when you studied it for two years and worked with the project engineer three months prior. T’Challa made it all sound so simple when he answered your questions. His passion didn’t go lost in his earth-colored eyes. His hands swerving through the air as he spoke to make you see his vision.

Every day with him was a welcome one. You started the day with snarky comments just to get a reaction from him, but he always stayed well-mannered. He would either laugh politely or counter with a wistful wisdom that made you roll your eyes. You loved testing his boundaries, but it seemed he always redrew them, making it hard for you to figure out his character beyond the polite, playful Prince.

Your eyes always found something to admire during these past weeks. His puckered lips. His large eyes fanned with long lashes. His deep laughter when you joked. The wrinkles in his forehead when he stared at you in thought. That charming tooth gap showing when he spoke.

Did you ignite flames in his heart? Because yours already started to consume a fire in his name.

***

You paced the room as T’Challa waited for you to finish your phone call.

“The only thing I asked was to make sure the idiot was briefed correctly,” you said annoyed, pressing a hand against your temple, “We can’t afford these mishaps any longer. Tell him to get his damn act together or I will.”

You ended the call and put your phone down with a sigh, shaking away the anger, before taking your seat across T’Challa again. He looked at you with an inquiring brow.

“Sorry for the wait,” you started.  One of your co-workers at the UN headquarters in Vienna had revealed wrongful information on the project during a news broadcasting interview. “Small miscommunication back at the Head Office."

T’Challa looked at you too entertained. He clasped his hands together, leaning closer as he looked at you with raised brows.

“You speak German very well,” he said while his mouth folded in an amused smile.

Your mouth dropped open and your cheeks flushed with warmth. He had understood ever word you said during that call.

“What other languages do you speak, [Y/N]?”

His French didn’t hide his native accent and you tried not to drown in the sound of your name rolling over his lips. Your blood rushed with excitement as he held your eyes. You sat back in your seat, crossing your legs as you answered his gaze. 

“Try and guess,” you said in Wakandan, and your body pulsed victoriously when he chuckled in a soft breath.

“I assume this is a given?”

He had spoken in English. The words colored in his bright Wakandan accent; a sound you decided you thoroughly enjoyed hearing whatever language he would speak.

“It’s basically the go-to language on this earth,” you answered in the same language, “What did you expect?”

“The accent never quite leaves, right?”, he laughed in perfect Swahili.

You snorted loud because you always forgot your own words were wrapped in a French accent.

“The beauty of being a polyglot,” you said in Yoruba, certain he wouldn’t understand a word of it.

Wrinkles formed in his forehead as he put a finger in front of his lips.

“You know how to flatter yourself.”

You widened your eyes, and his lips curled in a pleased smile. He spoke Yoruba as well? Uncrossing your legs, you shoved closer to the table, putting your hands under your chin.

“It’s a quality you’re bound to form when striding the political scene,” you said in Arabic.

“Not everyone is easily charmed by it,” he answered without showing any trouble in using the language.

“Are you?”

His face beamed, and you bit your lip to keep a silly giggle from escaping. You tilted your head slightly, hoping you were about to win this little duel, because what language would he throw your way at this point? You had used all your cards.

He opened his mouth and a series of rhythmic words left his tongue, their meaning completely undecipherable. You dropped your hands on the table, and he smiled brightly, a playful look in his eyes.

“You found my weakness,” you admitted. “What language?”

“Korean.”

You nodded your head and kissed your teeth in a smile while curiosity buzzed inside your mind.

“You’re not telling me what you said, right?”

“Where’s the fun in that?”, he grinned.

Your heart pressed against your ribs. The flames grew every time he smiled.

***

You should have seen her,” he said to his sister, who rolled her eyes in the projection at his wrist. “She was standing like a Jabari mountain. She’s determined. She knows what she—"

“You have been gushing about this woman for too long, Brother,” Shuri exclaimed with a roll of her eyes. “Isn’t this something you could discuss with Ayo?”

“I’ve heard everything already, Princess,” Ayo said from the couch behind him as he paced their residence with you occupying his thoughts.

You had given your presentation in front of a Ugandan board and some of your UN supervisors today. The project had been drafted into detail and their first reactions sounded hopeful. It was still a week worth of waiting for an actual greenlight to continue it, but seeing you excited made him excited, even though he was aware he shouldn’t be hoping for a positive report.

“Nakia?”, she tried desperate. “Even W’Kabi is a better option. Brother, I have stuff to do.”

“What stuff?”, he mocked with a cocked brow. “Hasn’t the Design Group kicked you out yet with your know-it-all attitude?”

His sister’s face stretched unimpressed.

“Very funny.” She tilted her head with a smirk, and he prepared himself for whatever retort she’d come up with this time. “If you’d like to know, I’ve been baptized as their number one inventor, and that only after one week. Tell that to Baba!”

Her face beamed, radiating like a bright sun hanging high in a cloudless sky. His shoulders slumped. Was there nothing this girl couldn’t do?

“Bast, Sister, I needed four months to convince them with the Quinjet.”

“Royal genetics usually skip the firstborn,” she laughed. “They don’t really need their brain while running a country.”

“You got a big bragging mouth when I’m not there to—"

“Brother, you’re using my newest Kimoyo Beads technology,” she countered quickly. “I’m allowed to have a big bragging mouth.”

“Goodbye.”

“Try not to drown in this woman. My brain cells will not sur—"

He cut Shuri’s call short when his father and Nailah stepped inside the room. His sister’s words echoed against the walls.

“What was your sister teasing you about this time?”, his father said cheerful.

“Nothing, Baba,” he smiled, not sure why he was relieved his father hadn’t heard the ending of that conversation. “We were only messing with each other.”

His father took off the jacket of his suit

“How’s the project coming along?”

“We presented it in front of the board today,” he said, remembering how you threaded your words elegantly in a detailed summary of the project. “[Y/N] did most of the work really.”

“Is it true?”, his father said as he sat. “Has she been arrogant?”

Your first day working together, he figured out you had been boastful about your plans, but with every subsequent day you knew how to bring a smart solution to the table.

“Not really,” he decided, and his father looked at him in surprise. “When I told her Wakanda wouldn’t invest half of the budget Uganda asked for, she made an entirely new estimate based on our Nigerian commitment. We can actually do both projects with a slightly raised budget you agreed on with her.”

He took a step in his fathers’ direction who seemed to sink away in his thoughts.

“I’m starting to believe in this project, Baba,” he added.

His father slowly looked up, pressing his lips together and shook his head as an answer.

“And it’s not just the budget,” he started eager. “I could still reinvent the hydraulic system so the periodic irrigation—"

“You’re losing focus, Son.”

Guilt crawled up his legs, entered his body and pushed itself in every corner of his mind.

“I’m not,” he insisted, his thoughts conflicting the feelings he hid inside his heart.

His father rose from his seat and grabbed his shoulders.

“This is a good lesson for you, T’Challa. You should never forget where your priorities lie.”

He dropped his gaze to the floor. These past weeks, the project had become the prospect of his day. Was there something wrong with his passion taking over?

“With Wakanda, Baba,” he said strong, “like they always have.”

***

He inched closer, making sure his chest didn’t press against your back as he looked over your shoulder. You had the board’s report in your hand. The sound of your deep breaths calmed his mind as he fell into your scent.

Jasmine flowers and coconut?

“We did it.”

He woke from his thoughts when you twisted around, clutching the report in one hand with a beaming face.

“We get to continue it, T’Challa!”

You flung your arms around his neck and he stood stunned for a brief. Your scent fogged his mind like a sweet dream. He wrapped his arms around your waist, hands following the curve of your back as he pulled you closer, breathing your presence.

“If you wish,” you whispered. The sound of your voice near his ear made him float dizzy through space. “I can give you the name of the soap I use.”

He quickly let you go and you pinched your lips with a giggle. Whatever was happening between you two, he couldn’t ignore the pull within his body.

“I haven’t had breakfast,” you said, fingers playing with the hem of your shirt at your wrist. “Do you mind going into town?”

‘Not at all.”

***

“How do you like Uganda?”

T’Challa walked beside you as you passed through the buzzling Owino market where folded fabrics, herbs in a rainbow of colors and traditional medicines were stalled. One of the vendors lifted a shiny leather handbag in the air for you.

“Pretty bag for the lady?”, he said with a smile and you shook your head politely.

You walked through the city every morning and every evening, not ever experiencing the vividness of Ugandan life during the day in all its brightness. You still wanted to hang out at a kafunda before you returned home.

“It’s different,” T’Challa said thoughtful, “but I like to stay in my country more than anywhere else.”

“You haven’t been very lucky to be born a Prince.”

He had told you he was the eldest, so as the Wakandan Heir, his life was set to go a certain direction since his birth. The thought of such a life creeped your skin with chills.

“I think myself very lucky,” he said as his gaze shifted over the people around you before resting on you. “You must be travelling a lot as well for your work.”

“I wanted it,” you smiled, “and it’s so nice to meet the locals.”

His eyebrows rose slowly as he stared at you with a dorky expression in his eyes. You looked away, cooling down the warmth on your cheeks with a deep inhale. You enjoyed visiting Africa. You let yourself get lost in the feeling of being unapologetically yourself.

“Where are you originally from?”

Your smile drooped into a line. You never liked hearing that question, even if T’Challa asked in good spirit. Living in France, it was the first question people asked you when you met as if it mattered to your person. In their eyes, you were a foreigner. The color of your skin and the texture of your hair reminded people all too well, yet, they forgot you were as much a foreigner to the African continent.

“My father is—"

“[Y/N]!”

You turned your head to the familiar voice, a smile creeping on your face without a thought.

“Mukisa,” you exclaimed.

The old man held a woven bag in his hand full of groceries. He was dressed in a red shirt, brown linen shorts secured with a belt at his waist and worn sandals on his feet.

“Where were you this morning?” he said in Ugandan English. “Your absence ruined my day.”

You laughed as his greyed brows lightheartedly blamed you in a twitch.

“I was coming by just now to make your day better, Uncle.”

He clapped his hand gently against your back as he turned his attention to T’Challa.

“You found yourself a man now?”, Mukisa said in banter. “I told you I have three sons waiting to propose.”

You snorted loud and shook your head.

“Please, no,” you laughed at the man. T’Challa’s smile grew as he stared a you. “T’Challa, this is Mukisa—”

“Street vendor a couple of streets down and I introduced this lovely lady to the best Ugandan snack ever,” Mukisa said proud.

“What snack?”

Mukisa stopped in his track, widening his eyes at T’Challa in shock.

“You never tried a Rolex?”, he said, sucking his teeth. “If you don’t eat one, you haven’t been in Uganda. Come and I’ll make a special one just for you.”

Mukisa waved his arm in the air for you to follow him. You locked arms with T’Challa’s arm and leaned closer

“That’s exactly what he said to me the first time,” you whispered, “and I’ve been visiting him ever since.”

T’Challa puckered his mouth amused as he stared at your hands around his arm and you pondered on a wonderful what-if that could never be.

***

He took another bite of his Rolex, his third one this week. You sat high up a hill, watching the Ugandan capital under you being covered into evening with a soft sunset. The orange glow on your bare legs tickled his thoughts.

“This one colleague doesn’t think a minute before speaking,” you said in a fit of giggles. His mind couldn’t capture the perfection of your laughing tune as his eyes traced the lines of your smiling lips. “He gets himself in all sorts of trouble, so we had to keep him at the headquarters in Vienna, especially after he insulted the President of Kenya right under his nose.”

“What did he say?”

“You don’t want to know,” you said with a waving finger, “and I’m not telling you.”

“Never happened to you?”, he said with a cocked eyebrow before he ate the last bit of his wrap.

“I am very careful in what I do or say at work,” you declared proudful as you leaned back in the grass. “I’ll admit I can be very direct in my words without really wanting to but—“.

“Just say you hide your stubbornness well.”

He peered at you from the corner of his eyes, enjoying how your face folded from played shock to challenging jest when you pushed your shoulder back.

“Calling me out, T’Challa?”

“I only name what I observe,” he stated simple. “It’s a scientist’s way.”

You crossed your legs.

“Do share your other observations with me, Mr. Scientist,” you said with squinting eyes, grasping his gaze like a hook. “I dare you.”

“Where do I start?” He lifted a finger in front of his lips, feigning deep thoughts. “Your aggressiveness? Your arrogance? Your—"

You covered your mouth as you let out the ugliest snort he ever heard, and he bellowed a laughter that hurt deep inside his stomach. He just loved your carelessness when around him, never hiding behind a pretend persona.

“You have some nerves, but I still want to hear what you have to say,” you said as your hand reached his face, your thumb wiping something away from the corner of his mouth.

“I-I don’t…”

He cursed his stammer while your touch on his skin send him spiraling. Why did he lose focus whenever you claimed his eyes with your gaze?

“I can share some of my thoughts about you,” you whispered.

The huskiness of your voice brought his restless mind at play with his imagination. Your gaze slipped lower from his eyes to his lips, and when you leaned closer, his body froze, not sure how to respond as your lips covered his with hesitation.

Your lips pressed gently, no eagerness in their warm caress, making it all the sweeter when he sunk into the embrace with an insatiable desire. He closed his eyes, debating whether he should or not before pulling you into his lap anyway. His hands traced your waist, following the curvature of your body when you arched your back with a moan, unlocking your lips.

“T’Challa,” you whispered. “We’re in public.”

Hearing his name in that hoarse sound made his body pulse with a burning want for more.

“Give me a moment,” he grunted in a whisper, pressing his nose against your neck, letting your perfume taint his mind.

An alarm rang inside his mind to make an end to whatever he started, but he was already sinking too deep in a sea of hope.

***

He walked you home, his touch on your body still burned, and you weren’t ready to part from the feeling. He wanted you as much as you wanted him at this point, even if it might be just a lustful attraction to him.

At the entrance of your building, you kissed him on his cheek and his head turned for his lips to brush yours. You sensed his smirk in that soft caress. You took him by the hand, guiding him inside your flat, not listening to your mind chastising your heart for this foolishness.

What was wrong with falling into the depth of him, even when a future could never be written in the stars? You wrapped your arms around him, pressing your bodies together to kiss the skin near his ear. The heavy beating of his hear sounded like a plea for more.

“I don’t mean to take advantage of you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered, pushing him against the wall of your bedroom.

His lips travelled down your neck in feathery kisses while his hands worked away a layer of your clothes.

“Tell me if I should stop.”

You clasped his lips in a deep kiss, your body rippling with pleasure as he answered you with rhythmic passion.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped against his lips.

His fingers trailed over your bare back before he grabbed you by the waist and pulled you even closer.

“I don’t mean to—”

“T’Challa.” You cupped his face with both hands, your eyes roaming his gorgeous face with ticking impatience. “Can you shut up and just make love to me?”

He laughed before he spun you on your back in one swift turn. You closed your eyes with an airy giggle, ready to have him again in all his glory.

***

Your hands teased, your lips enthralled him. Your hips mesmerized, your scent drowned him. Each memory of your touch he took with him after he kissed you goodbye. Too many messages were left unanswered on his phone but all he could think of was you. He was walking a slippery path but what about it? His heart wanted to love another, admire another and be answered with the same yearning.

He opened the door to his residence as silent as he could, not wanting to wake his father.

“Where have you been?”

He turned around to find Ayo glaring at him. He should have send her a text, if only to have her calmed down by the time he got here.

“We still had to finish something,” he said in a lie, passing her as he replayed the image of you and him, pressed, melting as one.

“Why stay throughout the evening if you can do your work first thing in the morning?”, she murmured low.

He would see you again tomorrow. His stomach dropped in a tangled flutter of anticipation and confusion. He covered his face with a hand. How would he walk around the blurred lines he was creating?

“Another deadline is approaching,” he started, his mind and heart at odds with each other. “We got that greenlight, remember?”

Ayo slowly shook her head as she looked at him in a scowl.

“You were at her place.” She paused for a beat. “ Prince, you’re playing with fire here.”

He sunk away in his feelings, numbed and betrayed.

“Why are you tracking me?”

“It might not be my place to say,” she said, standing tall with an apology shining in her eyes, “but you should remember your father’s words when with her.”

He looked at her from under his brows, wondering if he could trust her to keep this a secret. She had always been one of his close friends ever since she became his personal guard.

“I know where my loyalty lies, Ayo,” he articulated. “I hope you do too.”

***

Meetings were spare since the greenlight. Small details needed to be checked and filled in with each party individually which you ran with him after. He would meet you in your flat for a couple of hours which were filled with work discussions, personal conversations and innocent make-out sessions. He desperately tried to keep them from happening, but Ayo’s or his father’s words could rest his body to show you how he felt.

On his days off, you met up to roam about in Uganda city life without expectations or responsibilities. He was living a dream, free to love whoever he wanted.

No worries, no titles.

Just you. Just him.

***

You sighed as you threw the binder on the low coffee table of your sitting room. Your hand covered your temple, a gesture you made all too often. He could list every single reason you would rest your hand there.

“They’re only asking for ten Wakandan outreach workers to stay two weeks longer than agreed upon.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Wakanda is not willing to overdue their help,” he stated in a simple voice.

You kissed your teeth and he shouldn’t think it funny, but he adored the sight of your irascible self.

“Honestly, what’s in a year?”

One year ago, he begged for Nakia to stay. One year ago, he cried to heal his broken heart. One year ago, he could never have imagined he would fall for somebody else, and yet here he sat, wishing for an easier way of life, one without a title that held obligations above the head of every woman he loved.

“A lot can change over the course of a year.”

You stalked towards him. His eyes followed the sway of your hips. His skin burned with the need for your touch.

“You annoy me,” you huffed as you sat in his lap. “Stop being so annoying.”

He raised his arms in the air with a gasped chuckle.

“You should learn to ask instead of making demands.”

You cupped his face in laughter and kissed him along the line of his cheekbones. He closed his eyes, hands resting on your back as he let his body swelter while your lips warmed every inch of his face. When your fingers dug under his shirt, setting him ablaze, he grabbed you by the arms.

“[Y/N], not now.”

“It’s a lost fight, T’Challa,” you smiled, biting your bottom lip before your voice lowered seductive. “I usually get my way anyway.”

He clasped your lips. Your kisses were streaks of joy and bliss, making him forget that he shouldn’t pray to Bast to gift him a chance to keep this one good thing with him forever.

***

You planted a kiss on T’Challa’s nose before rolling on your back with a heaving chest. With closed eyes, you let the delight, still waving within your body, slowly eb away. You opened your eyes when you felt his fingers graze your belly. His brows rose to wrinkle his forehead, and his smile soothed you.

“This shouldn’t happen every time we meet,” he whispered, pulling you closer. Legs tangled, feet touching.

“Don’t think about it too much,” you smiled, pressing your nose in the crook of his neck.

“We both have our responsibilities in this partnership,” he spoke near your ear, “and they do not align.”

He said out loud what your mind has been telling you all along. He was a Prince, and you were a woman who would never desire life at court. There was no future together, no dream life made up by just you and him and yet...

“This just feels right,” you said as you grasped his eyes because he must feel the same way, right?

“It does,” he said in a chuckle and that confession wrapped you in an embrace more intimate than your bodies pressed in heat.

You turned to lay on your belly, your chin supporting on the back of your hands as you stared at this wonder of a man. His eyes twinkled in response.

Was there no way to wake up with him by your side every day?

“Tell me what’s on your mind,” he whispered as he trailed two fingers over your jaw.

“I don’t like surprises, but it’s quite the surprise I fell for a Prince without standing.”

He bellowed his echoing laughter, filling your heart with too many wishes that will never be. His hands shot to your sides and you bend in laughter.

“Stop it,” you exclaimed before smashing your head against his chin and he groaned in pain.

You inched closer to him, taking his jaw between your fingers to press kisses against his chin as he chuckled with pinched eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered in between a kiss. “I told you tickles are at your own risk.”

***

The next days, there was no single fiber in his body that spoke the urge to stop loving you. Ayo kept reminded him how he only fueled his feelings by seeing you outside the UN meetings, but you told him this felt right. His heart found another rhythm worth beating and maybe he could find a way to have it stay with him for the rest of his life.

As he walked inside his residence after a carefree walk through the neighborhood, he found his father returned from his meeting with the Ugandan representatives. Nailah stood behind him with an intense expression while Ayo was seated in a chair at the dining table. She didn’t look up, but her body sat tensed.

“[Y/N] was full of praise for you,” his father said strong, making him swallow hard. “She seems to know you too well, T’Challa.”

“We… We’ve been working together these past months,” he tried innocent. His palms were sweating like a waterfall. “It’s not hard to get to know someone well after that.”

“She’s inviting you in her bed which might explain it too.”

He shifted his gaze to Ayo who still avoided his eyes. Could he blame her for telling?

“You’re inattentive when falling for someone.” His father’s brows furrowed in a deadly stare. “I’ve witnessed it first hand in Wakanda, and I witness it here as well.”

He looked away.

His bones filled with despair. His heart messed up his new-found rhythm with weighty regret.

“I will remind you once again that you have a duty to look after,” his father continued. “Don’t lose it out of sight because you think you’re falling in love with an outsider. Think of the consequences, Son. Bast, think of our country!”

“I am thinking—”

“Are you?!”

He took a step closer to his father.

“I’m aware she’s not a Wakandan,” he said in a clear voice.

The words tried to slip inside of him, to nestle the truth between his feelings so to temper them. What a lost cause, really, because why did it matter what you were?

“Don’t you think I see it when you pray for it to be different?”

He cursed the treachery that was his damned face.

“I’ve asked a reconsideration of the project,” his father spoke.

He heard the message of broken trust between the words, but more so the start of an ending. Every single fiber of his body urged to undo it. Undo it. Undo it.

When would he learn to accept that love never worked in his favor?

***

Your eyes sought out T’Challa all by themselves when you entered the meeting room. He didn’t glance your way as he took his seat at the table. You hadn’t seen each other for days, and he couldn’t meet your eyes for just a second? You pushed away the hostile feeling inside your bones and formed a smile on your face for King T’Chaka who approached you.

“Coming to see the hard work your son has put in this project, Your Majesty?”

The King nodded with an earnest face, but he was clearly not amused by your little jest. Your veins filled with dreaded caution. There was a reason why Wakanda gathered this meeting on such short notice.

“It’s his first project,” the King said too stern for his usual self. “I’m allowed to be proud.”

“There’s a lot to be proud about.” You looked at T’Challa. He didn’t seem at ease. His hand rested near his mouth as he made small talk with the person next to him. “You raised a good man with him.”

“That good man is to be King one day too.”

You silently sighed, because there was never just him. Only titles and duties and impossibilities.

“He has an entire country depending on him, and no distraction should come his way as he takes upon that duty.”

“He knows very well what is expected of him,” you said in a lowered tone. King T’Chaka had figured it out. “You don’t have to remind me—"

“I’m reminding you who my son is,” he snapped before he leaned closer, holding your eyes without mercy. “There’s no hope in keeping a fire ablaze when the rain is pouring.”

“Your Majesty, I never—"

“This ends today.”

The King left you to stand all alone. You clenched your jaw. With just three words he had weighted your heart. Why did it hurt to think being parted from T’Challa when you already decided the ending even before your story really had begun?

***

The meeting room emptied. You were gathering your stuff when T’Challa’s hand covered your wrist and with a stare he insisted you to stay. You turned to look at King T’Chaka. His inched brows hooded his gaze which shifted between the both of you before he left through the door.

“I didn’t expect Wakanda’s official withdrawal to be the outcome today,” you said, jerking your hand from under his fingers.

You paced the room, arms wrapping around your body. Your feelings ached because he didn’t tell you, didn’t warn you. A stupid thought because he had no obligation to explain himself or Wakanda to you, but it still hurt.

“We worked so hard for this,” you said in a cracked voice.

He stepped closer, putting his hands around your arms.

“I’m sorry, [Y/N].”

He pulled you in for a hug, hands rubbing over your back while you breathed his scent into memory.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he whispered, streaking his thumbs over your cheeks when he released you for that tender hug.

You let yourself drown one last time in his eyes.

“It’s not like we expected it to last, right?”

masterlist | part 1 – part 2 – part 3 – part 4 – part 5 – part 6

personal remark Sooooo, this is the pre-Abiona relationship of T’Challa and Reader/You/Alix (how me and C**** call her lol). I had some back and forth with some anons after the last chapters (loved it btw) which revealed to me I needed to give some background to their previous relationship. I hope you can uncover the reason why T’Challa bends over backwards for Alix (credits to the anon who I’m quoting loool). You can read it within the lines but make from it what you want really. Anyway, next chapter we’ll be picking up the story from part 5, throwing another obstacle in the mix for their love story. Thank you all for your patience with my updates, the likes, the reblogs, the comments. I appreciate you and your support from the bottom of my heart <3<3<3

This chapter is dedicated to @mosaicpieces and their amazing story suggestions. MP, you basically created this in my mind. Never forget!

@tongueofareadywriter I knowwwww no Abiona (yet lol) but now I established it was never a roll in the hay, right??? Also, thank you for your constant support. I love how you adore this story.

@teechallas-blog A proper shout-out to you too, because I would like to apologize for the state I left your wig in after chapter 5... You still love me, right?

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