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Chapter Text

When you move
I'm put to mind of all that I wanna be
When you move
I could never define all that you are to me

Movement- Hozier

Shuri believed in the Ancestral Plane in the way one was with an unrequited crush. It was an experience of growth; something learned and carved out in her soul, shoved between the belief in science above all else and the belief that her family loved her. 

By this, she meant that she held on to the tentative, almost fragile hope that it was real, that she may be so lucky to see her mother, father, and brother when this life was done; that she could believe in it if she didn’t look too hard, or think too much about it, despite having two experiences she knew that would solidify things for most people.

But that was the trouble of it. It hadn’t been for Shuri. She would not call herself devout to the old traditions, even after taking the Heart-Shaped Herb. Who was to say that her visit with N'Jadaka was not her own anger giving her the answer she wanted to hear? Or that seeing her mother in her fight, just for that brief second, was not an illusion conjured up by her dying mind? 

No, this belief felt far shakier. But, Bast, Shuri wanted to believe. It was like wanting someone you knew, somewhere, who didn’t want you back. But you would never ask, never push, because learning the truth of it- that those feelings may not exist- was a far worse fate than just letting yourself foolishly hope all the while. 

All of this was to say that she did not hold any sureness that dreams were real. They were your brain, at night, trying to make sense of what had happened. There was nothing prophetic about it. You were not visited by ghosts of years past. If you saw someone who had died, it was grief outpouring into your subconscious. 

This is at least what she told herself. She didn’t often recall her dreams, but she woke every morning with whisps of memories. Never anything firm enough to be sure, but she would often wake with a vague idea of her standing on one side of the Ancestral Plane and her family standing on the other. Never approaching. Just waiting, or watching.

Or perhaps disapproving.

She could not be sure how her family would have taken her choice to give up the throne, but Shuri knew she had no desire to take it. 

But the dead had no voice, at least, not in Shuri’s world. She told herself her dreams meant nothing because the thought that her brother, who she held in such high esteem and had loved so fervently, might be angry with her choice was something far too much to bear.

She knew she’d always been the odd one out in the family, but what happens when the black sheep is the only one left to carry a legacy?

Shuri, in all her deep soul-searching, still hadn’t figured that one out.

XXX

The meeting with M’Baku had gone something like this; Shuri, in her lab, cleaning out her wound. Namor’s staff had gone clean through her. So clean that it could not have been an accident. If he had wanted to, he could have killed her right then and there with it. 

But he hadn’t. Even though Shuri had tried to kill him.

She thought about that fight far more than she’d ever tell anyone. Not just analyzing the ways she’d made mistakes, the things she’d have to learn as the Black Panther, but she’d analyzed each sound he’d made, each shift of his feet in the sand, and each expert movement.

She told herself it was to become a better fight. 

(Shuri was an expert in lying to herself.) 

“That looks like a warrior’s wound,” M’Baku said, who had been in his fair amount of scuffles and combats before, “You should let that scar over. As a reminder.” 

“Perhaps,” Shuri had said, knowing she had all the tools at her disposal to vanish it from her skin, as though it never happened, “The mantle of King. Are you going to fight for it?” She asked, too overwhelmed to bother with small talk. She had plans to leave tomorrow for Haiti to finally let go of her mourning clothes. And then, after that?

She knew where she should be. On the throne, here. Like her mother, brother, and father before her. And countless other ancestors before that. 

A position Shuri had never imagined to be in, nor had ever wanted. 

She was the spare, right? The heir and the spare. But it was the modern world, and not Game of Thrones where characters died left and right (a new, modern obsession of hers), so why would she ever imagine for a moment she might actually have to come to face that?

“No,” M’Baku said, “I am much different and have more years on me compared to the man who fought your brother all those years ago. Besides, I fear you would most certainly win if I did,” He said with an echoing, low laugh. 

“Oh,” Shuri scowled, “That is not what I expected.” 

“You…want me to fight you?” M’Baku asked, confused. 

“No,” Shuri snapped, wincing as she rubbed antiseptic on the wound, clenching the table so hard the metal dented, “I want you to take the seat.” 

“And kill the Black Panther?” He asked, almost frightened, “Do you wish to make Wakanda hate me? Have I been such a bad mentor to you?” 

“I won’t be there to fight you. It will be a very easy win.” Shuri said, “And of course not. I think highly of you, thus, my question…or rather…my request.” 

M’Baku was quiet.

“You wish for me to be King? Why would you not take the throne? You are the last survivor of your line, and you are the Black Panther?” He said, confused, "The Black Panther is always..." He trailed off, pressing his lips into a scowl, almost angrily. Just as Shuri was frustrated this would not be as easy as she'd hoped, she was sure M'Baku was just as troubled. The moment he decided to grow up, Shuri was begging him to go back.

“Not everyone wants that much power. I did not even want this, but I don’t think I can walk away from what I am now. But I can step away from from the crown,” She let out something between a laugh and a sob, “I would be a terrible queen.” 

“I don’t think you would,” M’Baku said, “You care deeply about your people. You may not be the most traditional, but you have learned much. You have taken on so much, and I’ve seen you grow from it, not buckle under the weight.” 

“M’Baku, trust me,” Shuri said, “You would be a far better ruler. I feel safe leaving Wakanda to you. I will be here, of course, if you allow me my lab. And I will protect Wakanda. That will always be true.” 

“Are you sure you don’t plan on fighting me at the last moment for it? That this is not punishment for trying to take it from T’Challa?” M’Baku asked, suspicious. And in some ways, this thrilled Shuri. She knew she was a far different Black Panther than her brother. Perhaps a little rougher around the edges, less honorable. 

“Though the idea is tempting, no.” Shuri said, “This will be the easiest fight you’ve ever been in.” Shuri assures. 

M’Baku stares at her for a long time, as though sussing out if she is truthful or not. Finally, cautiously- with more carefulless than she’s ever known him to have- he grins. 

“I have always thought I would look handsome on the throne.” 

XXX

The transition from heir-apparent Shuri to 'Black Panther Shuri & King M’Baku' is not seamless, but no change in life ever is.

There are those that feel as though Shuri is turning her back on her rightful place. She does not have to imagine this is what people think. Plenty tell her to her face.

There are those that feel that a woman should not be the Black Panther either. And some don’t have specific issues with her being the Black Panther, but rather take issue with the ruler of Wakanda not having those powers while someone else does. 

But all of this does not matter.

Shuri has learned to harden her heart to such opinions. The only opinions that matter are her family’s. And the only ones left to speak to it are Nakia and Little T’Challa. Her nephew is far too young to have opinions and Nakia, better than anyone, understands the need to step away from something you love for your own sake. 

It is not as though Shuri has abandoned Wakanda completely. She spends all her time in her lab, bettering their society. She protects the borders from those that would seek to hurt. She trains with Okoye so she is the best version of the Black Panther that she can be. She gives her everything to Wakanda still. If she knows this, the chatter or disapproval of others is just static noise. 

M’Baku asks this question of her once, a few months later, out of nowhere, as they are walking to another wedding. Near-death experiences cause people to marry or have babies or both. So many new children. So many weddings.  

“You would give anything to assure Wakanda’s longevity?” He asks. 

Shuri narrows her eyes, confused, “Have I not already?” 

“But you would give more when asked?” He prompts. She knows there is something he’s fishing for, but with all of her great intelligence, she’s never been very good at reading social interactions, and this one leaves her feeling like she is navigating this conversation on a raft with no paddles.

“Yes,” She says warily, “I will give the whole of myself for Wakanda. Why?” She asks, frustrated to see no change to indicate how she should take this conversation. 

“Just a question,” M’Baku laughs it off, though Shuri thinks this is no laughing matter, “A confirmation.” 

Shuri knows it is more than that, but in all of her re-playing of this conversation, she cannot possibly figure out what he may be referring to.

XXX

When M’Baku visits her in her lab, she knows it must be serious. Though he now can agree that the advances in Wakanda are what help keep them apart from the rest of the world’s petty fights and keep them safe, he isn’t a fully changed man, no more than Shuri is a devout traditionalist now. They’ve found a common ground together, both changed; M’Baku lets her keep her lab and more or less leaves her alone, and Shuri wrangles with the idea that the Ancestral Plane is real.

M’Baku coming down here would be the equivalent of Shuri willingly wearing her traditional garb to a council meeting, where she holds a seat, or arriving at an honoring to the gods. Her presence would be equally as startling to those in attendance, as it is to everyone in the lab.

Without being asked, knowing that this must be something of gravity, everyone scatters. 

“What?” Shuri asks, “Are we in danger?” 

But M’Baku’s demeanor is hard to read. If there was a threat, like a Thanos-level threat, there would be more franticness in him. Or he wouldn’t have bothered coming down at all. He would have contacted her through one of the thousand ways to get her attention. She doubts he’s at all curious about the things she’s working on down here. His eyes stay focused on her instead of climbing over the various projects and walls of equations. 

“You chose not to heal the wound,” He says, nodding to her sternum, where the scar is peeking over the waistband of her leggings. 

“No,” Shuri agrees. This seems to please M’Baku, but Shuri doesn’t even know why she let it scar over. Perhaps a lapse of good judgment, but she knows at any time, she could fix the place Namor’s spear drove through her, but she is unwilling.

She has not dived into those reasons, unsure she is ready to find what truths may lurk in this action.

As she watches M’Baku, she realizes why she was not able to classify how he was feeling, because it is an emotion she has never seen in him. Apprehension. This makes her worried in turn. The day that M'Baku learned some restraint and concern must be a mighty important day overall. 

“Why are you here?” She demands, “You are nervous. I did not think the great M’Baku was worried of anything.” 

“There are many things to make one wary when you hold the fate of all your citizens, Shuri,” M’Baku says, which is a politician’s answer. She’s heard many of those in all her years, so she knows it well. She perhaps didn't expect M'Baku to be able to give one so easily. That's what she's always admired about him. He always said exactly what he meant. Or, he used to, before he was King. 

“Just out with it. This isn’t a friendly chat, nor do you care what goes on down here.” 

“I do care. If it were something that could threaten us, I would care. You scientists often stop to ask yourself if you ‘should’, only asking if you can,” He accuses, and before Shuri can volley something back, he shakes his head, the old M'Baku peeking out, the one always two seconds away from a fist fight pushed back down, “But you are right. That is not why I am here.” 

“Can we wrap this up, then? My polymer is nearly done, and I would hate to ruin weeks of experiments because you are too scared to say what you came here to say.” Shuri says. She is glad she still knows that baiting M’Baku works and shoves him out of this weird emotion he’s in. 

“Namor contacted me.” 

Shuri has to remember to breathe for a moment. Her first emotion is jealousy; why would Namor be contacting M’Baku, and not her? It’s absolutely stupid, but she’s spent nights on the shores where she first met him, sometimes almost hoping he’d appear. Why she wants to see him again feels as clouded in mystery to her as divination efforts, and almost as useless. 

Then, she remembers that he is Wakanda’s king and Namor is Takolan’s king, so of course, he’d go to M’Baku. 

Still, this information bothers her, like a thorn in her side, pulling some emotion from her that she doesn’t know what it is, and frustrates her. 

“Has he?” She manages to ask, raising an eyebrow, “It has been six months.” 

Six months of expecting Namor to come to her; to fight, to argue, to get back at her for taking his wings, just to find that he’s chosen someone else to communicate with. 

“We’ve been in conversation for a bit longer,” M’Baku says, face absolutely expressionless, “We have been trying to figure out our allegiance to each other.” 

“Have you now?” Shuri asks, and her tone is far more accusatory and sarcastic than she meant it to be. 

But M’Baku is already probably a far better king than she would be Queen because if anyone talked to her like that, she’d be furious. And she expected him to be. Instead, he laughs, as though he knows a secret that she doesn’t, as though something was just confirmed. 

“He wants a show of goodwill. We both saw the havoc that we each can lay upon each other.” 

“It makes sense to ally,” Shuri agrees. She’s more than miffed because this seems so redundant, so obvious. It’s what she had made Namor promise all those months ago. It’s not like this is some shining, brilliant idea from M’Baku. She wants some acknowledgment that she figured this out first, that she was the one who decided they would be stronger as guarded friends than vengeful enemies. 

“Namor wants a promise and a token of a future where we stand together, not alone.” 

Shuri almost preens. Obviously, M’Baku must be coming to her because she is so knowledgeable about Namor that she may have an idea of what to get him. And she wants to spill out her truth, but she worries if she starts she’ll never stop.

So, Shuri feigns disinterested with her best and most sacred tactic; humor.

“Ah, I see. Well, I say get him one of those fancy edible arrangements and be done with it. The really expensive kind, with fruits I wonder if he’s ever tasted,” She replies, grinning. M’Baku is silent, as though goading her, so Shuri makes a bigger spectacle of it, “Or! Or…I know. Get him a Starbucks gift card for $500 dollars. No one I know would be unhappy with that.” 

M’Baku’s brow twitches and Shuri knows that she has him exactly where she wants him. You see, this is twofold. First; annoy the heck out of M’Baku and get him to leave. Having him here in her sanctuary feels like he’s ruining it somehow. 

Second; prove that she has no claim to Namor compared to anyone else. Well, he might actually like the edible fruit arranged to look like shooting stars, but she knows far well that he would have no interest in Starbucks, that is if he even knows what it is. And though Shuri is dying and slightly angry that he didn’t reach out to her, at least she knows where she stands. As a nobody to him. A former princess thrown aside in favor of someone with the power here. She thought that he respected her role as the Black Panther, but alas, she was mistaken.

A foolish, far too hopeful, bright-eyed child. 

This should teach her. 

So fine! This will end her thoughts of him. M’Baku will probably gift him some very expensive brick vase from a thousand years ago, something traditional, and Namor will politely accept it like you do when given a token from a fraught allegiance with another nation. Ramonda used to laugh all the time about the things they were given from the USA, Canada, France, and England…you didn’t want to insult the diplomats, but in general, ‘tokens’ were useless.

Except…

Shuri’s fingers brushed over the sleeve that hid Namor’s bracelet.

She’d been compelled to re-thread it afterward, and put it back on. She figured it was safest on her, instead of laying in a jewelry box in her room. 

She had grown fond of it, not just for the gift it had given her. There was something else, some other emotion that tied her heart in knots whenever she thought about the gentleness with that Namor had tied it to her wrist. 

“While I’m sure those would be lovely,” M’Baku gritted out, as though the idea of an American coffee stand being worthy of anything physically painted him, “Namor had already named his request. And he was very specific about it.” 

“Oh?” 

The wiring that Shuri had been working on all this time, able to have a conversation and do complicated mechanics at the same time an absolute breeze, fell onto the table.

Somehow, this tone of M’Baku was asking her full attention, and something curled up her spine, like a warning. 

“Yes, in fact,” M’Baku stared Shuri down, smiling, but it almost felt too bright, forced, “He will accept no other show of mutual friendship of our two great nations.” 

“What does he want?” Shuri demanded, on the edge and anxious now.

“You.” 

XXX

As Okoye will retell it, though Shuri’s lab was fortified with heavy-duty soundproofing, because experiments were often noisy, the decibel at which she screamed at M’Baku could be heard two floors below, which prompted Okoye and the other Dora Milaje to respond at once.

And they found the most curious of scenarios; Shuri, at full power, screaming bloody murder at M’Baku. And though he towered over her and probably could have taken Shuri on, even as the Black Panther, and made a hell of a show of it, M’Baku shielded himself from her attacks and cowered at her fury.

When Shuri went to throw something at him, that’s when Okoye intercepted.

XXX

“Let me go!” Shuri wrenched her wrist from Okoye’s grasp, “And let me bash his head in with this coil of cables!” 

“He’s our King,” Okoye reminded.

“I don’t care!” Shuri snarled, her eyes flashing, as though the Black Panther would leap from her at any moment, “He deserves it!” 

“Perhaps someone could tell us what is going on?” Aneka asked, standing in front of Shuri, just in case she tried to give Okoye the slip and lunge for something that, if thrown, could do some real damage. Like the set of pointy tools just to her right.

“He wishes to marry me off! To Namor!” Shuri sputtered, “Like I’m a prized cow.” 

“You twist my words!” M’Baku thundered, now rising to full height, “You were requested because of how special you are. You are the Black Panther. You are our country’s savior. You are the smartest girl in the world. And he is a god that recognizes what we all see.” 

“Marriage?” Okoye choked out, “She’s a child!” 

M'Baku gives. a glance over to Okoye, almost frustrated, but Shuri can tell he's equally as relieved. Okoye has always fought for Shuri, even if she pretends she doesn't want to. It's the next closest thing Shuri has to family, apart from her real sister-in-law and nephew. The only family here, Shuri reminds herself.

“I know you are soft on her, but she is of marrying age. You know, girls far younger than her were often married to people who respected them far less.” M'Baku says, diplomatically, but Shuri knows one more errant comment from them and this whole conversation will just be an 'order from your King'. 

“Oh, so it’s okay for me? Because I have a few years on them and Namor…he…he…” Shuri was shaking so hard that she felt like she was about to burst, “If he wants me so badly, why did he not ask me?” 

“Because I am your King and a matter of this should be decided by me,” M’Baku said, “You are still a Princess, whether or not you gave up the throne or not, and have the possibility of being a Queen. I would not even consider an idea with anyone else.” 

“You ask too much,” Shuri scowled, emotions swirling deep in her stomach, impossible to parse out. Embarrassment, anger, naivety, jealousy…and just a tiny flash, so quick she almost couldn’t recognize it, but want. A desire. 

M’Baku sighed, his shoulders weighing heavily, “I am not asking,” He said quietly, but everyone heard it just fine, “I am telling.” 

Then, he flinched, as though he expected her to throw something as hard as she could.

Instead, Shuri just stared, gaped, horrified. 

“You…you cannot.” 

“I can. As your King. You elected to take away the power that would give you that choice. You didn’t want to make choices. I’m doing it for you.” M’Baku said, sounding like a stern older brother, something Shuri did not like at all.

“But…I’m the protector of Wakanda! I can’t just…leave.” 

“T’Challa spent time outside of Wakanda, and he was king as well, on top of it. Namor has promised to never keep you from your sacred duty here. But Bast, Shuri,” M’Baku sighed,” I hope we won’t need your skills for a good, long, while. And I mean that with as much compassion as anything.” 

“Some peace may be nice,” Aneka murmured quietly, “I might get a chance to actually re-do the kitchen like I’ve been promising Ayo. Granite countertops, new hardware...all of that.” 

A few other Dora members gave quiet agreements, throwing out domestic items that, of late, they’d been unable to do. Such simple, almost laughable things. But so important to them all, Shuri realized. 

A list that Shuri did not have. She had things she wanted to accomplish, of course, but none were so effortless or simple or domestic as wanting to paint their daughter's room or go on a weekend trip with the boy they'd been seeing for six years or read six books in a week.

“You gave us our peace, don’t you not want a hand in keeping it?” M’Baku asked softly. 

She found that her voice was stuck in her throat.

There was life after war, she reminded herself inwardly, for what she felt like the thousandth time. There was life after war and most people liked to live that life.

But Shuri wasn’t sure how. She felt like, for so long, she’d been thrust into battle; starting with her father’s death, and then Thanos, and then coming back from being gone to a world metaphorically on fire, and then her brother’s cancer and now Namor. At the very least, he’d given her what she so desperately needed; someone to fight. 

Because Shuri didn’t know how to do anything otherwise.

Of course, she wanted peace. She wanted peace for everyone. But as she watched the faces of the Dora, all warriors able to put down their weapons, and even M’Baku…she wondered…if peace was not possible for her, not ever. She was raised to be how she was because of these battles. She could not so easily shed her pelt and grow old in stability, even if she was given the choice.

“I…” The anger left Shuri in one rush. 

And at the same time, she did hope she would not have to bring the Black Panther out, and somewhere, she’d forgotten that if that other side of her was coming to play…things were bad, and it was a huge threat to her people. And that was bad, wasn’t it? So shouldn’t she do whatever that meant to reach that idea of peace, as unrealistic to her as it sounded?

And isn’t this what she wanted? For Namor to recognize her as a formidable player? That had to be it, right? Why else would he so vehemently insist that it needed to be she and it needed to be a wedding? 

“Think, Shuri,” M'Baku said, “What’s that American saying? Keep your friends close-,” 

“And your enemies closer,” Shuri echoed, “I suppose marriage is as close as one could get.” She winced, almost feeling foolish for her outburst. Of course, M’Baku was not playing matchmaker or treating her like a tradable chess piece. He was treating her like a valuable espionage asset, someone who was practically begged to come to their foe’s own house, snoop around, and call it a day. 

“Won’t he be doing the same?” Aneka asked.

“Of course,” M’Baku agreed, “I expect that. And I would almost be inclined to think that’s all this is…a political power move. Except,” He wiggled his finger. Shuri raised her eyebrows.

“Except?” 

“Except he would move the seas to get you for his wife. And I think that means something.” 

Shuri felt her face grow hot, as though M’Baku’s admittance that he had a ‘thing’ for her would somehow reveal that perhaps, she had one for him back. That she dreamed of his body, fresh out of the water, and the way his eyes seemed to raze her up and down. 

“We can use that,” Okoye murmured, but her voice was far away, "If this is to happen without any room for getting around it."

Shuri gulped hard, bringing herself back to reality and away from daydreams of Namor’s chest. 

At least, some traitors part of her whispered, that consummating a marriage would not be the most loathsome task in the world. 

“Hush!” 

Everyone paused to look at Shuri, who realized with extreme embarrassment that she’d said it out loud. 

“Uhm, sorry, no, Grigot is in my ear,” She lied, “And blabbering about some test result that doesn’t matter with all this considered.” 

Her fib seemed to satisfy everyone, mostly because she always had Grigot in her ear. Only Okoye narrowed her eyes in thought, almost asking why he didn’t come overhead on the speakers, as was more accustomed. Whatever she thought she had concluded, she kept to herself. 

“So…” M’Baku said, looking far wearier than Shuri recalled. Taking on the health of a nation really aged one.

Except for Namor, who probably looked as handsome as the day he officially took the throne.

“If this is to happen, I want to talk to Namor first,” Shuri demanded, jutting out her chin, “My…husband to be.” She said, trying the words out on her tongue. It felt odd. She never imagined she would be the marrying type. 

But perhaps, if it had to be someone...well, there were plenty of worse choices.

“That’s more than fair,” Aneka agreed, nodding to M’Baku, "Wouldn't you agree?" She prompted when he hesitated, though she didn't know why. She held back a snort at the idea that maybe M'Baku was worried she would stab him and be done with all this talk of marriage.  

“Fine. I will summon him, It may be a few days, though,” He said, hedging. Shuri smiled, amused, and feeling superior that she would know so distinctly that M’Baku was wrong and that she would be right about this.

“Namor has been waiting. I’m sure if I go out to the water tonight, he’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

Shuri waited on the banks of the water, in the very same location in which she’d first met Namor.

Wrapped around her was her mother’s shawl, a beautiful beaded beige piece that, according to Ramonda, was ‘priceless’.

She recalled being a child and stealing it once, coveting the shimmery embellishments. She’d tied it around her head and called it a veil and pretended to get married to a diplomat’s son at the age of seven.

The marriage obviously hadn’t been taken seriously, but more than that, Romanda had been furious that her daughter had stolen it.

It had been handed down from wife and queen to daughter of each ruler. It was sacred. It was history. And one day it would be Shuri’s.

Shuri had picked it out this night, wanting the strength of all the women before her for this meeting and anything that came after, but mostly wanting her mother’s arms wrapped around her. Her mother had worn this shawl at any time one could wear a light arm covering, mostly in the sanctity of her own room, like when she read or looked over paperwork. Shuri thought of it as an extension of her mother more than a piece on its own.

In fact, until she was standing, staring out into the water, she had completely forgotten the memory of acting out a tableau of marriage in this. 

It feels serendipitous.

Shuri wondered what her family would say if they were still alive.

Would they have agreed to this proposition? Would they have laughed Namor out of the water? Would they have brought her in on the plan earlier? Would this not even be occurring?

It was hard to think of ‘what ifs’. Once, thought to be a useless endeavor, until Tony created time travel.

Not that Shuri hadn’t been tempted after her mother’s death.

And she’d tried.

And failed.

Which had made her feel useless, and she decided to ditch the project altogether.

Time was not meant to move backward. Only forward. Just like the water in a stream.

If she were superstitious, she’d say that she had the strength and spirits of her family around her here, and for just a moment as she closed her eyes, she caught a whiff of her mother’s perfume.

It was a distinct, bespoke smell that no other had. Ramonda had created it specifically to her own tastes. No one would dear wear the late queen’s perfume.

Shuri leaned forward, as though ready to fall into it, accept her mother’s hug and wake up to find all of this had been a dream.

And for a second, Shuri’s mind almost tricked her. She almost believed that her mother might be here for such a moment, walking between the worlds to help her daughter in such a moment that would change her life forever.

Until she remembered that the more likely scenario was that her shawl still retained pockets of her perfume, having been worn in the days before her death.

And Shuri felt foolish for letting herself sink into the fantasy for a second that she was not alone, on the beach, under the brightness of a full moon.

Still, she tugged the fabric tighter over her arms and tried to stand in the visage of a goddess, ready for her betrothed to appear.

Namor seemed to step from the water like he was forming from sea foam.

Shuri let herself do a once over of him, to see how his wounds had healed since their last meeting.

She spotted that his foot was still wounded, not quite fully feathered from tearing off his ankle wings. It was growing back, but slowly, and looked like it probably, at the very least, itched often.

She grinned broadly at this, letting Namor see her own pride in her own fighting prowess. She’d always thought of herself as the person behind the hero, not the hero itself. Knowing that she won against an immortal in a hand-to-hand combat battle made her giddy often.

Then, she traveled upwards.

All the other wounds were scarring over. Like Shuri had elected, Namor had chosen not to heal them to the point of vanishing, though she wondered if he had the ability.

The places her claws pierced his skin crisscrossed his back, shoulders, and chest like spiderwebs clinging to wet flesh. 

“Have you finished?” 

His voice, though on repeat in her mind for the past six months, vibrated around in her mind as soon as he spoke, like her brain was trying to catch the scale of quakes that he was creating in her perfectly fortified mind.

“You seem to have recovered fine,” She finally said. 

She looked past Namor to where a pair of eyes watched her suspiciously from the water. Crossing her arms and tapping her foot, she nodded.

“Can you call off your watchdog?” She asked, “I swear on Bast I am not going to try to kill you…again.” 

Namor looked over his shoulder, then back at Shuri.

“Only if you call off yours. I am also not here for blood.” 

“I’m meant to believe that?” Shuri asked, snappily, wanting to argue. For some reason, she wanted a screaming match with Namor and she would prod him however need be, "You killed my mother, and then you attempted to kill me. Your record is far from spotless." 

She felt anger rise up inside of her, so violently she felt she would choke. And, she was hit with the thought...

What was she doing here? 

"You killed my mother, and you have the gall to ask for my hand in marriage?" She repeated, sobbing, wanting to kill him at that very moment, slice him upwards from his toes and see his innards spill out on the beach, die in the same country her mother had.

This anger fueled her. She never felt such raw emotion toward another human as she did toward Namor, and could he even count as human? Her emotions around him were overwhelming, like drowning at sea, being pushed down by wave after wave of feeling, each more intense than the last, and never any two of the same emotions. 

"That was a miscalculation," Namor admitted quietly, "I did not think she would protect the young scientist." 

"If you knew my mother..." Shuri held back salty, furious tears, "It wouldn't have surprised you so. She was kind and strong and everything you are not." 

"Killing her, or the scientist, spurred you forward," Namor said calmly, "And it was necessary. You were a ghost through time. Even I saw that." 

"So you killed the only person I had in my life to better me?" Shuri stumbled back, as though he'd physically wounded her, "You know what? Forget this and fuck you. Seriously." 

As she turned to leave, Namor grasped her wrist, holding tight. She turned back to see an intensity burning in his eyes. 

"Don't put words in my mouth, princess," He spat, his eyes impossibly dark and stormy. 

"How did I misspeak?" She demanded, "Tell me what part of my phrasing was incorrect?" 

"You needed a change, that's all I said. For better or worse is not for me to say. Only you. I am not the master of your destiny, only you are. So, how it changed you is up to you." 

Shuri yanked her hand away, "It was for worse." She hissed.

"Was it, or is this just stubbornness?" Namor asked, "You are the Black Panther. Your country has its protector again. You are awake and able to move through your grief. And you said it was for the better. Those were your words, not mine." 

At Shuri's stony silence, where she considered whether she should wipe her tears from her cheeks or stand tall with them running rivers down her face, Namor sighed, coming around to the original question. 

“No, I asked for you to be my wife. I think killing you would be counterproductive to that. I know you're smart enough to have concluded so.” 

He spoke so plainly, so simply, as though it was a fact. Something indisputable, so alarmingly casual.

The night was dark, the water was wet and Namor had asked for Shuri’s hand in marriage.

His candidness and truth made her mentally stumble, and she saw his flash a quick grin.

At once, she understood how this was to go. Perhaps how their entire marriage was to be.

They’d always be trying to get the higher ground on the other, fighting for dominance, to take the other off guard.

Shuri held back a grin.

Peace for her people was possible. Peace for her? Not at all.

And in some ways, thank Bast for Namor and this whole plot.

But of course, if she told him that, he’d win the war entirely. She could not possibly tell him that she was thrilled at the prospect of spending the rest of her time at odds with him in an almost friendly way, embroiled in a never-ending tumble, where with each rotation, one ended up on top of the other and won a small battle.

And it began today.

“Fine,” Shuri said, turning back. She spoke into her beads, “Okoye, you can go. I’ll be okay.” 

Ridiculous that she needed backup. She was the Black Panther, after all. But then again, Namor was also a literal god, and he’d brought someone. 

Namor watched as Okoye grumpily retreated, muttering something in Shuri’s ear that this was already a bad idea. Shuri took off her earrings and shoved them into her pocket. One might take it as an olive branch, but Shuri knew the way that Namor also knew it wasn’t.

It was a chess move.

Namor turned and made some motion to Namora. She stubbornly stayed until Namor took just one step, not a threat, but a severe sign. 

Slowly, she sunk back below the water.

“I do not think your kin likes me much,” Shuri said with a half-laugh. 

“Nor does your warrior,” Namor agreed, “Or likely anyone in Wakanda. Probably not even you.” 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Shuri asked, raising an eyebrow, “To discuss the terms of a marriage.” 

“It took long enough,” Namor said, giving Shuri a mental point against M’Baku. She had been right. He had been waiting for her.

“Well, I just found out this afternoon, so excuse my tardiness,” She said, rolling her eyes.

“I know. I was sure you would have stormed down to the beach the moment you were told.” 

Shuri pursed her lips, anger still rolling off her in waves, though she’d decided to push them towards Namor, not M’Baku. M’Baku promised her if the wedding went off, as her wedding gift, she would be allowed one punch to his face for this union. Seemed fair. Shuri had long ago decided that M’Baku deserved to be punched often. 

“If you knew I would react so poorly, why even suggest it?” She asked. 

“Perhaps I just enjoy you best when you’re full of anger,” Namor said, taking a step towards her, “Your eyes get this look in them. And your nose does this thing where it flares, just slightly. And your whole body…” He looked her up and down, making no motion to his glance, and the slow way it cataloged her, “Well.” He finished. 

“Well, congratulations then. That’s the only emotion you get from me.” Shuri said, almost feeling like she couldn’t be angry now. Not that Namor had countered by making it clear he enjoyed her when she was bursting at the seams, ready to bite someone’s jugular open. 

Damn him! 

But she did not want to give up her anger. She was not ready to wash it away in the stream. She could not predict what emotion would replace it. 

So…okay, Namor. 

You got that round.

“I imagine you have questions.” Namor prompted, “Or are we to stare lovingly-,” 

“Furiously-,” Shuri corrected, “Or murderously,” 

“Into each other’s eyes all night?” Namor finished. It was a sarcastic jab. She didn’t see any love there, not that she would be expressing that herself. 

“Yes, I do,” Shuri growled. She had the feeling that she was continuously losing ground here, “First off…” She paused, a thousand questions all pressing against her mind at once, but unable to pick one out, “First off... because you never answered…what gives you the right? The fucking audacity?” She hissed.

Namor smirked, “Which part of it, Princess?” 

“I’m not a Princess anymore, one-,” Shuri corrected, but Namor waved her dismissal away.

“You will always be a Princess. It is literally in your blood, just as being King was meant in mine.” He said, “But please, be more specific.” 

“All of it!” Shuri threw her around out, “Let’s start with the fact that you decided to go through M’Baku instead of me. I have thoughts and opinions and a voice.” 

“Clearly,” Namor said, amused, “I didn’t realize you cared so deeply.” 

“I care when I am left out of conversations that involve me.” She corrected.

“My apologies,” He said, and he sounded surprisingly genuine, “You just always seem to be the result of actions chosen around you, instead of in the driving seat. When you were in Takolan, you were rescued without a part of the conversation. You had to beg to go to find the young scientist and even then, many choices were made by others. Your mother babied you; you were her last child. It makes sense. However, it was to your detriment and mine as well. And now you give up your throne. Can you imagine if I had come to you and then we’d gone to your King?” 

Shuri tried to think for a second, about all the things he’d said. About how perhaps her mother would be alive if she had been able to reason with Nakia and not gone, or stayed to work things out from the start. Or how M’Baku might have actually converted away from vegetarianism if she came betrothed to the man who tried to kill her and everyone in her country.

“Do not look so sad, Shuri,” Namor said, “I have been doing this political dance far longer than you’ve been alive.” He said. 

“Okay,” Shuri growled, “But a warning perhaps would have been the kind thing to do.” 

Namor blinked at her. Then, quick as lightning, he grasped her arm and found the bracelet still tied to it.

“You still wear this.” 

It was not a question. It was a statement, something veiled over with almost an unexpected hum. 

“It seemed a shame to be hidden in a jewelry box,” Shuri said, yanking her arm back, though she couldn’t be sure in her own mind why she hadn’t just taken it off, and why she’d fixed it enough to be wearable again.

She knew she should not have worn it to see Namor, though. That much was clear.

It’s like she was willingly handing all these wins to him, by Bast! She made a mental note to study politics better because for as long as she’d lived as a Princess, she was surprisingly horrible at all of this.

“You said you wished for a forewarning,” Namor’s eyebrows crinkled, “I thought this would have been a clear enough motion.” 

Shuri’s fingers brushed over the twine, trying to swallow back the feeling rising in her throat. 

“I…” She looked down. 

“You assumed I gave you a family heirloom to keep for…for…” Namor struggled to explain his thoughts, and shook his head, “Is that how it’s done here? That you would give that shawl to someone you meet for the first time?” 

“No,” Shuri admitted, her throat going dry, “You’re not incorrect. So when you gave me this…” 

“It was an unspoken proposition or a future discussion,” Namor said, “Had you not been taken back.” 

“You…” Shuri struggled to piece together what this meant, “You were intending to ask me to marry you before?” 

“Yes,” Namor nodded, “Once again, the bracelet,” He said, gesturing, “You were the daughter of the other great nation with vibranium. It made sense.” 

“But why?” Shuri said, “That’s what I’m struggling with. Why then and why now, after I nearly killed you? Isn’t that a blow to your masculinity?” 

She hoped her question would come off as condescending, but instead, Namor just quirked an eyebrow, as though her questions amused him.

“Hardly. A true man knows when he’s met his match.” He said, meeting her gaze and refusing to look away, “You are a true Princess. You have empathy. You are intelligent. You better your people and I had the feeling you would better mine. Allowing me to live confirmed that. And your mantle as the Black Panther is an added bonus. A truly strong partner.” 

“But I almost killed you. I don’t think your people will just forget that so easily.” 

“If I tell them to accept you, as their King, they will. Besides…one could say our union was designed by the gods even greater than I, in the works for hundreds of years.” 

Shuri almost bowled over with emotion, forced out, “You almost sound like an old romantic.” 

“Not romance,” This clearly irked Namor, and Shuri felt a tiny sense of relief that she’d found a chink in his armor, “Science, which you hold so dear. I was created of the enriched herb, and now…so are you,” He pointed out, “As I said. My true equal.” 

“Equal, huh?” Shuri asked, dubious.

“I have no wish for a submissive, doting, fawning wife,” Namor replied, face screwing up at the idea, a mild shudder running through him, “I want us to be equals in this partnership. I want someone to challenge me. You have no idea how long I’ve waited for you.” 

“For a competitor?” 

“For someone that…” He let out something that Shuri would have called a grin, “Makes life interesting again.” And as though it was impossible to forget, Shuri was forcibly reminded that there weren’t just a few decades between them, but centuries. So much life he’d experienced long before her great-grandmother was even born. 

But shouldn’t that make her feel superior and strong? That out of all that time, she was the sole person that piqued his interest enough to offer a marriage? That her, a mortal, a second child of a long line of rulers, was the person an immortal god had waited for?

“Am I your first wife?” 

“If this happens, yes,” Namor dipped his head, “And I have no intention to take others.” 

“Good.” Shuri harrumphed, and at his curious expression, she felt her face go red, “I don’t like sharing.” She muttered. 

“Is that so?” Namor asked, taking a step towards her.

Shuri took a step back, shaking her head.

“There is an issue.” 

“Oh?” Namor raised his eyebrows.

“I am the Black Panther and my people need me. And my lab will not be moved to Takolan. What I am working on is Wakanda’s secrets. And I will not be your wife and not be allowed to work. Besides, Wakanda is my home. It’s rather medieval that the woman has to leave all her family.”

“You are free to answer the Black Panther call whenever it needs you,” He said, easily, “And, we can work out a…custody, between your two homes,” He said, a wry grin, “Ten months in Takolan, two months here.” 

“Eight months here, four months there.” Shuri countered.

Namor’s jaw twitched, “An even agreement. Six months here and six months here. With probably a little on your side, considering that you’d be called back here if someone was attacking your country.” At Shuri’s hesitation, he tilted his head, “We are meant to be married, not estranged. I think this is far more generous than I need be.” 

“Fine,” Shuri sighed, “Six months.” She muttered, “Will you build me a lab in Takolan?” 

“Naturally.” 

“A house?” 

“If you wish.” 

“A honeymoon?”

“Wherever you want.” 

“Children?” 

The question was out before she could stop herself.

Namor seemed entirely caught off guard, more so than anything else tonight. He stiffened, eyes darting to her quickly and then away, before swallowing back some comment.

“Is that…something you wish as well?” He asked, the most awkward she’d ever seen him. 

“I…” Shuri had imagined herself a mother one day. Not soon, though, “The phrasing came out too quickly. I meant to ask if you expect children from this union. So I can prepare for it.” Mentally, literally, physically…take your pick, she thought, on what she meant by that.

“It need not be soon,” Namor said, catching his ground, “But eventually…” He raised his eyes to her face, expression entirely unreadable, “Yes. My kingdom deserves an heir.” 

“I thought you were immortal?” Shuri narrowed her eyes. 

Namor moved again, always surprising her by how swift he was, and took her hand and placed it against his stomach, one of the places she’d gotten the closest to killing him. Not dissimilar to her own wound, though his were claw marks, deep gashes. 

“Immortal, not invincible,” He reminded, and they were so close that hardly a foot of open air stood between them, “As you know better than anyone.” 

“Right. So a son.” 

“Or daughter,” Namor said, but he hadn’t stepped away, nor dropped Shuri’s hand from his, “Either can take the throne. And if you have a second child, I will even let them be squired in Wakanda.” 

Shuri knew the process by which children came into being, and all at once, this was pushed to the forefront of her brain. And she ought to be embarrassed, but instead, she felt her own feet move an inch closer.

If she were braver, or better in tune with the need that was growing in the lower parts of her stomach, or if she were suaver, she may have asked him if they wanted to get practicing right away. 

But she was none of these things, so she stumbled back like he’d electrocuted her, panting hard even though she hadn’t moved more than two feet. 

“When,” She forced out, “When is this to happen?” 

“If we agree to these terms, no reason it can’t be soon,” Namor said, and if he was disappointed she’d pulled away, he didn’t show it. 

Shuri licked the inside of her teeth, thinking long and deep.

Finally, she thrust out her hand.

“Shake on it, then?” She asked. 

“If we’re going to be married, wouldn’t a kiss be far more apropos?” Namor asked. 

“I’m saving it for our ceremony,” Shuri replied, deadpanning, “Build the suspense.” 

Namor didn’t pause as he clasp her hand in his, and at that moment, the deal was set.

“I’m perishing from anticipation,” He said, and though his tone was equally as sardonic, she couldn’t help but wonder if there was some truth hidden deep below the surface.

They stayed, hands clasp for perhaps far longer than necessary before Namor made the first move to back away.

“I will make the arrangements with your king. I assume you would wish the ceremony to be here?” 

“Yes,” Shuri agreed, kicking herself for not adding that provision in as well, “And I want my friends there.” 

“Of course. It is a wedding after all,” Namor agreed. He reached out and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, “Until then.” 

“Until then…” Shuri repeated, almost enthralled, and she wondered if he could feel her heart rate quicken as his lips touched her skin.

She stayed on the beach until he vanished beneath the waves, trying to catch up with the reality of the situation.

“I’m going to get married.’ She said out loud, and she hoped somewhere, in some plane of existence, her family heard her.

Chapter Text

“Perhaps smile a bit more, or else everyone here is really going to think I forced you into this.” 

Shuri turned to see M’Baku at the threshold of her dressing room, where four people hurried around her, dressing her like a doll.

“I’m not upset. Just thinking.” Shuri said faintly, though in reality she was trying to calm her heart rate, fluttering as fast as a hummingbird with no signs of slowing down, and trying to ease her nervousness because she’d already sweat through two towels. 

“It was a joke, usista ,” M’Baku teased, and Shuri gave a weak smile to be called such a casual family name. He had, in many ways, chosen Shuri as his younger sister, and today it was clear that he was trying to fill the void for her that should have been filled by the rest of her family. 

“I’m fine,” Shuri assured, “I chose this. I named my terms.” Shuri said, staring at her nails, painted beautifully in a stunning red color.

“You know, if you say the word, I will call all this off,” M’Baku said, and when she turned, she realized he was serious.

“What happened to ‘I’m not asking, I’m telling’,” Shuri asked, waving away the people dressing her for a moment, one blessed moment to herself. 

“I was sure you’d agree, in time,” M’Baku said, “But if you have true doubts, true worries-,” 

“And we’d surely face the wrath of Talokan.” 

M’Baku gave a heady, familiar grin. One of self-assured overconfidence. 

“We fought those fish people once, we can surely do it again,” He said, banging his chest, “Don’t Panthers eat fish? It would be as easy as a house cat fishing a goldfish from a bowl.” 

Shuri smiled at his bravado. She knew it to be true. He did feel that they could go to war again and win.

But Shuri knew that Namor would never let that happen again. That this marriage was for their sake as much as his; it would lead to destruction if either of their clans went to war with the other. They’d annihilate the other until the vibranium was a free-for-all for the countries of the world because there was no one left to protect it.

Mutually assured destruction halted by one thing and one thing only; two thin golden bands on each of their fingers.

Shuri tried not to think about how fraught this all really was.

“I want to marry Namor,” Shuri added at M’Baku’s look of doubt.

He gave a half-laugh, “I would practice that between now and the alter. If you say it like you just did, everyone will be positive I am making you do this against your will.” 

Shuri ground her teeth in frustration.

The funny thing was…she did want to do this. The safe reason to tell people, like Okoye who had been confused at best and horrified at worst at her choice, was that Shuri liked being of use. She thought her intelligence and her lab would be that useful, but time and circumstance changed things. If she could keep them all safe by doing this, Shuri would.

The more secretive reason was that Shuri wanted to see where all this static with Namor would go. It was a poor recipe, she admitted; two equal cups of sexual tension, one smirking immortal, one brainiac second child of a nation, and throw it all together before you even had time to let things marinate. Putting the wagon before the horse. Jumping the gun.

A disaster waiting to happen.

But how else would Shuri figure this out, or ever get this chance again? 

Namor entice and intrigued her in ways no one else ever had. She knew this had to mean something, even if it was spelling her doom, but Shuri was far too precocious to let a good question go. 

“Ah, well,” M’Baku grunted, “Everyone is nearly here. I shall let you get back to…this,” he said, waving an uncertain hand at her half-finished appearance. 

“Thank you,” Shuri said, reaching to touch his shoulder as he left, “Sincerely.” 

“I’m not quite sure what you have to be thanking me for,” M’Baku said, “But, I will take the compliment anyway.” 

Shuri had M’Baku call back in the attendants and as they continued, Shuri dropped off into a half-waking, half-dreaming state, in which she did not feel the pinches, pricks, and paintings on her body. 

“Princess, you are done.” 

Shuri startled awake, as though she’d fallen asleep.

She frowned at her reflection, taken aback. One of the attendants noticed her expression.

“Is it not to your liking?” She asked, “We can-,” 

“No, no, I look…” Shuri struggled for the word, flipping through any that she knew to try to express herself, but fell short, “Like a bride.” She finally finished with.

The attendants shared glances and giggles, “Isn’t that the idea?”

What Shuri meant to say is that she looked like an adult. That she looked worthy of someone marrying a god. That she looked like the sort of person that was throwing such a big wedding as she was, like she’d finally stepped into that place that had always been held for her, but she never thought she’d take on.

Shuri, more than anything, did not look like herself.

Whenever she pictured herself in her mind’s eye, it was the Shuri from adolescence. Shuri with teeth a little crooked, limbs gangly, boyish and uncoordinated, body somewhere awkwardly between a child and a woman, and hair wild and untamed.

That’s how Shuri always saw herself. Not as graceful as her late mother, strong as her brother, or wise as her father. She was always the ugly duckling to the side, with emphasis on the first part.

But this Shuri seemed like an entirely different person in front of her. A woman. Someone who would look back on the Shuri she thought she was with pity, or perhaps embarrassment. 

It took a few beats for Shuri to realize the woman in the reflection was herself and she’d long shed the skin of the Shuri she was when Wakanda had first joined the modern world. It seemed like eons and years uncountable between that, but somehow she’d stayed the same.

Until today.

“I like it,” Shuri finally found a rough voice to reply, overcome with a sense of displacement. She wanted to be this Shuri. The one that looked like she’d make choices about marriage with certainty and no one would doubt her. The one that seemed ready to take on the holes in the sand her brother and parents had left behind. Someone who knew all about makeup and what to wear and when to wear it. Shuri certainly enjoyed fashion in an almost childish whimsical way, but makeup had always been a chessboard where she didn’t know the moves, but she was beginning to come to terms with it.

For the first time since agreeing to this marriage, Shuri felt like she actually ready.

XXX

The wedding, on the Wakanda side, had been thrown together in six months, which Shuri is told is a feat in itself. Not impossible, and certainly not when you’re a princess of one of the most influential and forward innovation nations, but it is a difficult task nonetheless.

It hadn’t seemed that way to Shuri. Apart from answering a few wayward questions, like what colors she wanted the flowers to be or what kind of cake she wanted to be served, it seemed like she did little to nothing at all.

She now, perhaps, was realizing that a great more work had gone into it than she’d first assumed. 

Her first and biggest request had been that this is a day shared by all of Wakanda. She was doing this for them, even if the average layman wouldn’t understand that, so all of her people should reap the benefits. All members were welcome to the food, dance, and drinks being served at her wedding and anyone in slightly important standing had a seat at the wedding.

That already brought their numbers quite high. 

After that, it had been Everett Ross- currently seeking asylum in Wakanda- that had pointed out that they should make it a spectacle.

“The world has no idea you’re the new Black Panther, or that there even is one. They do know you are a princess, M’Baku’s role aside. Think of Kate and William. People went crazy over them.” 

“People erroneously worship the British Monarch,” Okoye said with a disbelieving snort. 

“Look, Wakanda has the world’s interest. And a princess getting married is a big deal anywhere. They’ll want to see it. Consider it trading some goodwill for later.” 

“You really think the Americas will be a better ally if they see me say ‘I Do’?” Shuri asked.

“It sounds stupid-,” Ross began, and M’Baku snorted.

“When don’t you say something foolish?” 

“Sound stupid, granted,” Ross tried again, “But you there are some things that Americans in particular love…The Avengers and a love story.” He raised an eyebrow, “And everyone likes to imagine they could be a prince or princess too.” 

“This is not a love story,” Shuri replied snappishly.

“Of course,” Ross hardly seemed ruffled, “But who would ever even know?”

So Shuri had done a big deal of it, which she actually turned out to enjoy.

Once her invitation list was filled with her own people, dignitaries, and allies they’d be rebuking if they failed to invite, and had been sure to ask if Namor wanted anyone there (he declined), Shuri went crazy with the invites.

First; any Avenger she could track down. Her brother’s former connection with the super-powered group helped with real identities, but locating them proved far more challenging than expected.

Her biggest hope was that Bucky would show up since she’d spent so long helping him go from a killing robot to a grumpy half-articulated human. As she peered through the glass into the wedding hall and saw the gleam of his metallic arm, she couldn’t help but let out a grin.

Other than the Hulk, who was green and large, it was hard to see which other Avengers were currently present.

After the Avengers, Shuri sat down and thought of any celebrity that she admired and invited them to. Because the wedding hall was large, she had many seats to fill. Her guest list was full of more stars than the night sky itself.

The entire wedding hall was exploding in flowers. It looked like a florist accidentally dumped their entire contents into the back hallway, or at least this is what Shuri would have snidely joked with someone else if she’d been in attendance and this was someone else's day. 

All she could think, as she caught glimpses of the foliage from where she stood outside of the doors, was that it looked ethereal.

She also did not want to know how expensive it was to cover every inch in garlands and flora.

“Are you ready?” Nakia asked. She wished Little T’Challa could be here, but with all the pomp and circumstance, someone would surely notice a near-clone of the fallen Avenger. He was watching remotely, as many of her country’s patrons were, but she wished more than anything she could hug him and pretend, for a second, it was her brother.

“You know, he’d think you were beautiful,” Nakia said, always reading everyone so precisely. Of course, Shuri reminded herself, she was a spy and this was her job.

“I’d want him here to tell me I’m right,” She whispered, “And I am not about to make a huge mistake.” 

“You’re far too smart for that,” Nakia laughed, “And if it’s not what you think it is, you make it something else. That’s what marriage is, isn’t it?” 

“Are you choosing the time to tell me now that you and T’Challa were married as well?” Shuri asked, tone dry, “Because I think today can only take so many big moments.” 

“No, but we were close enough to it. And we talked about it. For Touissant.” Nakia said, a faraway half-smile on her lips, “I think we would have. Perhaps you should ask Okoye for some sage wedding tips?” 

Okoye snorted, “I do not think W’Kabi and I are the paragon of a good relationship.” 

“You haven’t killed each other yet, though,” Nakia added, somewhat unhelpfully, “And that has to count for something.”

Shuri tried to grin, but deep down, all she wished for was her mother. She would impart some sage advice; most of it embarrassing, but some would be genuinely helpful. And Shuri would gladly take her mother’s reminiscing about the early days of dating and marriage to Shuri’s father just to hear her voice one more time. 

“Oh, dear,” Nakia whispered, rubbing Shuri’s shoulders, “They are here. With you. In here,” She assured, placing a fist gently against Shuri’s chest. 

“You know I don’t believe that,” Shuri whispered, using the pads of her fingers to wipe along her waterlines, “But it is almost a nice thought.”

“Okay! Are we ready-,”  M’Baku clapped his hands as he walked in, but stopped short, “Why is she crying? Should I leave?” 

Aneka sniggered, “A man is the strongest force in the world until faced with a crying woman,” She teased.

“It just seems like a moment not meant for me,” M’Baku tried to back peddle, “I have been around many crying women.” 

“Yes, that absolutely makes that statement better,” Aneka continued.

“It’s fine. I’m alright, I’m fine,” Shuri said, waving her hand, collecting herself, “Brides are meant to cry on their wedding, are they not?” At the uncomfortable silence, she sighed, “Bast, people, you can laugh. It’s fine. Seriously.” 

“If you are sure-,” M’Baku began.

“I am. I am and I wish to get this show on the road,” Shuri said with a series of short claps, “And get to the wedding food that smells absolutely delicious.” 

Back to her joking attitude, the people around Shuri relaxed.

“I’ll let the orchestra know,” Nakia said, slinking into the hall as Shuri found her place at the back of the line, taking the arm that M’Baku offered to her.

In line before her, Okoye, Aneka, and Nakia lined up for the entrance, wearing matching Wakandan ceremonial dresses. 

Shuri did not hear the procession song. All she could focus on was the ground beneath her feet, sure she’d trip and tumble down the aisle if she did not watch her steps.

Riri was sitting with Ross, and her scientist friend, who she’d kept up a casual correspondence with since returning her to America, gave her an enthusiastic thumbs up, which gave her a boost of confidence she wasn’t expecting.

She caught the eye of a few of the Avengers; Barton, Banner, Lang, Strange, Wilson, Bucky- but their eyes were not on Shuri but on M’Baku. And they were grieving silently, as though wishing in the same way that Shuri was that it was T’Challa giving her away instead.

Namor was at the front, wearing something that was vaguely Wakandan. His ankles were covered and he was solitary.

It had been long back and forths about whether to use this moment to bring his nation to light, but he had firmly declined and argued at every turn. And since it would draw more questions to have a convoy of blue-skinned humans sitting near him, Namor was alone.

However, his presence just excited the crowd. Who was this person Shuri was marrying? Surely a princess was marrying someone of status, so who could he be? 

The questions were whispered, some loudly and some quietly, and he was a bigger interest than Shuri herself. 

“You look beautiful,” Namor said when she reached the end of the aisle, though she was sure it was for the optics. Eyes narrowed, she tried to decipher his real feelings. Perhaps it was close enough to the truth; she watched as his eyes traveled her up and down and his lips parted slightly, before he pressed them together, giving one nearly imperceptible nod.

The ceremony and the party afterward were a strange mixture of American, Wakandan, and some other customs that Shuri couldn’t even place. It was a mash of everything thrown at the wall, hoping something would feel natural.

The only moment Shuri recalled from the whole night with clarity, as though someone dumped ice down her back, was the moment she was welcomed to kiss her husband.

In between the wild, almost frantic thought that Shuri was now somebody’s wife she watched as Namor cupped her cheeks with such reverence and pulled her into a kiss.

And to everyone watching, she was sure they looked the picture of love.

But this wasn’t love. Shuri was not naive enough to think so.

She knew what it was; as Namor’s tongue slid between her lips and she had to pause her hands from grasping and tugging, she felt all the emotions between them swirling so loudly in her head it was like a churning waterfall.

Lust. Desire. Hatred. Respect. Frustration. 

It was impossible to tell whose emotion belong to who, or perhaps it was all together, swirling in the pit of her stomach, confusing her brain between wanting to tear his clothes off to kill him or to fuck him.

And even the thought of that, of that word with the aspirated ‘k’ at the end of it, with such dirty and unusual thoughts invading Shuri’s mind, shocked her. About how she wanted him to do things to her, things she’d only read about in cheesy bodice-ripper romance novels.

He tasted like seawater. It was a sharp, salty taste, one she recognized instantly. There were other notes beneath that, but all she could think of was that he tasted like the sea.

And she wanted to explore to see if the rest of his skin tasted that way too.

When they pulled apart, Namor’s eyes darkened with desire and mild surprise, there was a thunderous amount of clapping, so overwhelming it almost seemed like a thunderstorm.

They shook hands with hundreds of people, ate good African cuisine, and Shuri danced and hugged her friends.

There was more than one suggestive waggle or wink directed at her, and at the very least, Shuri was pleased no one thought her husband to be unbecoming. If anything, she was gathering that most people found Namor very attractive, and Shuri wasn’t sure what to do with such information.

She wasn’t jealous, but she wasn’t blaise about this either. She just filed it away under the ‘confusing’ box in her brain, which seemed to be bursting at the seams with thoughts of Namor.

When they spent the appropriate amount of time at the reception, they bid their farewell.

“What now?”

“Now,” Namor said as he led her down to the beach, “It’s time for my ceremony.” 

When Namor had broached the idea of doing two ceremonies; a Wakanda one and a Talokan one, Shuri’s first thought had been to blurt, “Just like Nick and Priyanka!” 

She didn’t, of course, because she doubted Namor had any idea who that was.

She was exhausted, though, and the thought of another wedding made her want to take a nap right on the sand.

“It will not be like that,” Namor said, a hint of humor, “Much shorter.” 

“Thank Bast,” Shuri muttered, “The process of getting married is quite the production. I suppose that’s why you only do it once?” She added, halfway joking. 

“If I have any say,” Namor said, seriously, and she felt her stomach drop and tingle.

She swallowed back her desire.

XXX

The people in Talokan dressed her in jade, letting it drip from every inch of her.

In the time between her first trip and the marriage, Shuri had researched. And she’d discovered that jade was a stone that was highly respected by Namor and his people. Which made her consider that Namor had been serious when he told Shuri that he’d wanted this from the start.

Her face was painted with crushed gemstones so that her skin gleamed. She felt like a goddess even more now, but still out of place and unsure.

As Namor promised, the second ceremony was much shorter. More intimate. Sure, the whole of his nation was there, watching underwater, but it felt much smaller.

And they seemed so happy. Shuri’s worries that she would never be accepted were washing away like sea foam on the top of a wave, and she felt welcome here.

Which was a blessing, considering she was bound to spend six months out of the year here.

A part of Shuri’s dress was tied to the shawl Namor wore. He didn’t wear much else other than shorts, a stark contrast from their Wakanan wedding. She supposed that you didn’t need to wear much under the ocean. 

Shuri snorted.

“What’s amusing?” 

“Tying the knot, you know,” She said, waving to their linens knotted at the ends. Namor blinked at her, uncomprehendingly, “It’s an idiom. An idiom is-,” 

“I know what that is, Princess,” Namor said, offering what seemed like an amused smile, though it was hard to tell if he was laughing with her or at her. 

“Oh, well. It just…right,” Shuri waved her hand away, embarrassed. 

Then they were done.

And they were husband and wife twice over.

They were brought back to the caves she recalled staying in the first time.

“Your palace will be built by the time you return for your first year,” Namor assured, “The people were very eager to create something beautiful for you.” 

“They shouldn’t have,” Shuri whispered, feeling guilty. She was the odd one out, she was the one unable to breathe underwater and live with them. It felt strange for them to be jumping at this project.

“They want to see their king married and their queen happy,” Namor assured, reaching for her hand. No rings; just the bracelet he’d given her, “You are part of us too, now.” 

Shuri hummed, unbelieving. She didn’t think she’d ever feel so, but it was almost sweet of Namor to say such things.

“I see a new drawing has been added,” Shuri said, ducking into the hut that had the pictographs on the wall. She grinned at the depiction of her panther. 

“It seemed right to add to it, finally, though I’ll have to add our marriage.” 

Shuri turned, taken aback, “You…you drew it?” She asked.

Namor gave a firm nod, but it seemed he hadn’t expected such a surprising response, “I always have. I have been long enough to chart our history, of course,” He added. 

“I…didn’t know you liked to,” Shuri said, moving forward to draw her fingers over the delicately painted rock. She didn’t mean to sound kind or awed, but perhaps some part of her was reaching out, realizing that a marriage of firm and sour scowls would be a disappointing marriage indeed. There had to be some common ground somewhere, and she could understand him better if he was an artist. What was she in her lab if not one too?

“I haven’t ever done other works,” Namor said, face knit into a frown, “It has not occurred to me.” 

“I’d be interested to see you try,” Shuri said, turning around with a smile slipping out, “I think you’d be very good.”

Namor’s lips twitched, “Perhaps, but come cihuatl ,” He says, and though she does not know this language, she can guess, “There is more for us to do tonight.” 

Anxiety and anticipation seized Shuri and gripped her as his words settle in.

“To… consummate,” She whispers.

Namor looks back, amused. “So formal,” He says, and she is embarrassed by her language, “Do you wish it to be like that?”

Shuri manages a firm shake of her head. She doesn’t. She wants it to be organic and, Bast, feel good. 

Namor brings her to a hot spring. He takes off his cloth, but leaves the shorts on, offering Shuri his hand. His palm is calloused and large in her smaller one, but it’s warm and his fingers rub carefully over her knuckles like he’s easing a jittery horse forward. 

“To relax,” He says. A Shuri stands, feet on the first step, she can’t help but feel like this is almost romantic. The cavern is lit by candles, and there’s a kraft of wine with two glasses, and a plate of fruit waiting, “Is it your first time?” 

Shuri locks her jaw, “Is it yours?” She snips back, refusing to answer, but probably doing so anyway. 

“No. In that case, we’ll go to your pace,” He says. 

“But-,” Shuri frowns. Somehow, she’d built herself up to believe that he’d insist upon it tonight, no matter what. 

“I am not that sort of person,” Namor says quietly, almost furiously, and she can tell she hit a nerve, “And the kingdoms would be pleased with a child, but our marriage is not solely for the creation of heirs. And even when we do, we have time to spare.” 

“Well, you do,” Shuri sighs, fingers shaking as she takes off her dress to leave herself in just her underwear, and she tries to convince herself it’s no different than a swimsuit, “Being immortal and all.” 

“We both do,” Namor assures, dragging her into the blessedly warm pool, “Wine?”

Shuri nods and lets him pour her a glass. She sips and a surprising taste hits her tongue. 

“What’s this?” She asks. 

“A blend I had made for the occasion. Hints of pepper, orange, and pomegranates.” 

“It’s good,” Shuri mumbles into her glass, frustrated by how wonderful this all has been.

Between the wine, the food, and the water, Shuri finds she is relaxed. And Namor is not urging her in any way, and though their conversation is a bit stilted, Shuri finds herself thinking that this might just work for the first time since the day began.

It’s like someone snapping two live wires against each other, creating a momentary spark, just enough courage for Shuri to reach out and kiss Namor again.

This, it seems, is the invitation he’d been waiting for. 

Immediately, or perhaps that’s how Shuri had set it out, to begin with, the kiss turns heavy. Namor’s hands are pushing up her bra, grasping at her breasts which Shuri has always found too small, but he doesn’t seem bothered. 

Shuri grasps his shoulders, and she realizes that this too is a fight. A very different sort of fight, but one in which they’re both trying to get the upper hand. A fight where the goal is to not draw the first blood but draw the first breathless moan from one another. A fight where things get equally warm and hot and sweaty. 

There is so much overlap that it almost seems natural to Shuri.

She is caught off guard when Namor’s fingers slip beneath her underwear, tugging it down her leg. 

“That’s hardly fair,” Shuri huffs, “That I’m naked and you’re not.” 

“It’s not about me tonight,” Namor says, and confused, Shuri is about to ask, until his head sinks below the water.

The first touch of his tongue to her clit has her body wracked with electricity. 

She’s never done this.

Boys, few and far between, have attempted to get her off with fumbling fingers and friction, and Shuri herself has attempted quite a few ways to do it best by herself, but this is an action that requires two and Shuri has not wanted anyone else to do.

Namor’s teeth catch, just teasingly, before he is licking again, the piece in his nose pressing up against her, and Bast-he has no right to be so good at this!

She looks down and catches sight of his dark hair between her thighs and wants to reach out and press him on, knit her fingers in his hair, but catches herself. 

Shuri is not this woman. The woman that lets herself get eaten out in a cave. The woman that moans loud enough for anyone to hear. The woman that gets married to a god. 

Like a vibration pushed through the water, Namor lifts his head above the waterline, fingers gripping her legs to push it apart, eyes dark again.

“Shuri, you are so inside of your own head,” He teases, “Just enjoy it. No one knows and if they did, they wouldn’t care.” 

Instantly, Shuri is ten again.

Those words fling her to her childhood.

She’d heard people say that to her many times, only ever with frustration, but this time in particular she is with her brother.

She knows that T’Challa is being kind to play with his kid sister; he’s fifteen years older than her, after all, and a twenty-five-year-old willingly spending time with a child shows his gentleness. But he is still her brother, and when they’re picking out cars to race, cars Shuri has made in her free time, he gets frustrated.

“Just pick one out, already!” He huffs. 

“Yes, but I need to pick right!” She squawks back, “Because the green one is the fastest, but it slows down if this race goes long and I don’t win first. And the red one takes a while to reach full speed, but if it goes short, I’m sure to lose. And the purple one-,” 

“Bast, Shuri! Stop burning your mind so violently and just pick one! It’s supposed to just be fun. Who cares if you lose?” T’Challa snaps back.

“I do!” Shuri says and presses her tongue to the back of her teeth to hold her tears in.

T’Challa doesn’t understand. 

Shuri is strange; an oddity. She’s a genius, but she’s ten and already taking college classes. She already has a lab. She already has a preliminary idea of Grigot.

She isn’t any great beauty. She’s not the most socially suave princess out there. She hardly has a handle on political subterfuge and she hates tradition. She’s not good at spying or acting like a Queen as her mother is.

All Shuri has is her intellect and she is terrified of what she would be without it.

So she must always win, must always be the best in the room, because what good is such intellect if it can not be used properly? 

She’s been called all the insults in the book about being too smart, but none of it hurt as much as her brother thinking her too caught up in her own thoughts.

“Shuri.” 

It’s not her brother’s voice, it’s Namor’s.

Her jaw is locked as she is stiff, staring down at him, offended.

“You don’t like letting go of your power, I understand,” Namor says, in one sentence reading her more effectively than anyone else ever had, “But you are allowed to feel good, or enjoy this.” 

“I-,” Shuri stutters. 

“Just empty your mind. And if you do not like it, I’m sure those thoughts will come right back in,” He says. 

Shuri wants to fight him, to argue, and stubbornly refuse, but she too wonders what it would be like. To be the woman she saw in that wedding dress, the woman she wants to be.

Wives enjoy sex with husbands, at least if they do it right, she reasons.

And what is the harm in trying?

Shuri settles back into the water, drains her mind of hesitations, and swears by the end of it she sees into eternity.

Chapter Text

Shuri catches herself staring at Namor often.

She tells herself it is inevitable; the novel idea of having a husband has still not lost the sparkle to it, the thrill of excitement that rushes up her spine at the idea of being someone’s and owning them in return.

Even if they are not the keepers of each other’s hearts, they are at the very least the keepers of each other's countries. 

And in so many ways, that is such a bigger and more momentous idea, is it not?

The other reason she finds herself staring is that Namor is…a consistent surprise.

Of course, he is.

Shuri was foolish to think that every little volley she sent his way, hoping to catch him up and trip him momentarily, he took with such stride, such ease, would even be noticed.

It would be frustrating if all of her almost ridiculous requests didn’t have such satisfying results.

For example; early in their negotiations of how their agreement would go and what the wedding would be, Shuri threw out a request she was sure was going to stop Namor in his tracks, give her a chance to laud her superiority here. Because she does think she has some edge over him when it comes to the worlds apart from their own two.

She said; “I want a real honeymoon.” 

Namor had paused, scrutinizing her. 

“Is that so?” He asked, but his tone was amused. Shuri expected an outright ‘no’, something to fight with, so she seethes and sighs. 

“If I am to be married just this once, I want all the spectacles. We’re having a big wedding and I’m wearing the poofy dress and will dance the Cha Cha slide at least once. So, in keeping with that, I wish for a honeymoon.” 

Namor considered it. She could see him turning the idea over in his head. Then, to her absolute frustration, he’d just stared her down. 

“Where do you desire?” 

This had caught Shuri off guard. It had been almost a throw-away, a joke she wanted to see how far she could push.

But she could not back down now.

No, she let this horse free, only right of her to ride it all the way to the finish line.

She had leaned over the table they sat, papers spread out in front of the both of them with scribbles and highlights, and had given a wry grin.

“Italy, Paris, Spain, and Greece.” She threw out, seeing if he’d agree to her request. 

“Not America?” He asked, “The country you hold so much confusing affection for?” The disdain in his voice was obvious. She knew he hated the Americans and she wasn’t entirely against his assertion. She didn’t wish death upon all Americans, but all they’d done to Namor was try to take from him and kill his people. 

“No, She said, shoving her thoughts out of the way, “America is where you go when you want a good party. These locations are where you go when you get married.” She leaned back in her chair, “Romance languages and all.” 

“If you wish it so badly,” Namor had said, “Then yes. A honeymoon.” 

Shuri had examined Namor for any sign of frustration, any chinks in his armor, but frustratingly, there were none.

“Well,” Shuri wasn’t going to let this be dropped so easily, a win to be handed to him with such ease, “If you need help finding outfits to blend in-,” She began, but Namor waved her away.

“I will handle just fine, Princess.” 

His dismissal frustrated her, but also made her squirm, a confusing mix of emotions swirling around her.

“Because if you want to stay more secretive, you’ll need to-,” She started again, and this time, Namor looked mildly annoyed.

“I don’t need your aid.” He’d said, almost snappishly, and Shuri had sensed pushing him too far would not be wise. 

Plus, the heat of the fight wasn’t as fun if one of them were actually mad.

So she’d let it go and almost forgotten about it, until today, when she sat with her luggage outside of Paris de Gaulle airport, searching for Namor.

She expected him to be dressed like a literal fish out of water; something woefully out of place and perhaps decades outdated, like someone had raided their grandfather’s closet. And Shuri, in a light and airy dress with her hair slicked and modern, would graciously accept his plea for help navigating this confusing human world that he’d ignored for so long, and she’d show him that age wasn’t everything.

However, he fit in so well that he managed to walk up next to her without her noticing.

“Waiting on someone, Princess?” He teased.

Shuri jumped around, a jape about his outfit falling dead on her lips as she looked him up and down.

It wasn’t the most modern of outfits, but it didn’t look fashionably outdated or even bad. 

The first thing she noted was that he looked expensive. Everything was tailed perfectly, which Shuri knew was half of the battle of convincing someone you had money (not that she needed to worry…the Royal Line had plenty of funds), but until now she’d never really asked herself the question of if Namor had any worldly assets or not. 

And this showed that he most likely did. 

The second retaliation about his outfit was that even if it wasn’t what all the models were sporting in the latest issue of Vogue, it looked good on him. More than good; exact. It was like he was born to wear the trousers and button-down shirt he had on like it would be blasphemy to imagine anyone else trying to wear the same look. Somehow, within five seconds on mortal land, Namor had claimed an entire aesthetic trend.

That bastard.

“You seem surprised, Shuri,” Namor said, an eyebrow raised, and she could see amusement dancing in his eyes.

She waited until they were in their limo, trying to think of how to play this off. But, she was so tired from the flight and a bit overwhelmed by losing this so poorly that she opted for the truth.

“I did not expect you to be able to navigate anywhere above ground with such… finesse.” She muttered.

But, even as she spoke it, she was kicking herself for being so foolish.

If her assumption had been true, Namor would have been talking like some odd Shakesperian shut-in, and so would all of his people. She would have been struggling to understand the way he talked.

But he hadn’t. He’d made jokes with her for god's sake. Sure, he was very precise about his language and sentiments given, but there was no reason to believe at all that he hadn’t grown with the world around him, as much as he may hate to admit such things.

Namor grinned openly at her admission.

“You think that I did not take the time to get to know my enemy?” Namor asked, leaning into her. She caught a whiff of cologne on him even; something still salty and tropical in nature, but clearly not a hasty drug-store buy. 

“That includes trips to luxury department stores?” She asked, snorting, trying to hide the fact that she had misread all of this. 

“Ah, well, one must blend in properly to do any good reconnaissance, hmm?” He pointed out, “And since I am not blue outside of the sea, I am the best choice. Plus, I would never ask my people to go places I would not also go.” He explained, so openly and effortlessly, that it shocked Shuri. It was without a trade.

Or, she thought, a trade for such knowledge had yet to be requested. 

“How often?” She asked, trying to recognize Namor not as some awkward wallflower at every party, but as a shapeshifter who blended in and no one noticed at all, a master of disguise and manipulation. 

“Once every few years. It is within my interest to know what’s going on up here, lest it affects me down beneath the waves. Usually a week or two. Often America, but sometimes China, Japan, Africa…” He gave a wry smile, letting his words sink in. 

Shuri swallowed thickly, “You were in Wakanda before…before we knew each other?” 

“Will it upset you to know?” He asked. 

Shuri closed her eyes, considering it. She inhaled hard but then shook her head.

“Twice,” He said, “And I swear it. The first long ago, when I realized that we were not the only place with such magic and power. And then, right after you joined the modern world. It seemed fair to know how my sister tribe was choosing to talk about the metal that kept me and my people alive, hmm?” 

“Did you see me?” Shuri asked, “And my brother?” 

One recurring regret is that T’Challa would never meet her husband. Even if they were wed under less than romantic circumstances, she’d always imagined him standing up for her wedding when she pictured the ceremony as a teenager. 

“Yes,” Namor said simply but offered no more on it. Probably better; that meant that he would have seen her as that boyish sixteen-year-old, straddling adulthood and childhood both, and it was better that Shuri be left behind, “Since it seemed you still had no knowledge of us and less desire to give out Vibranium to any political leader who asked, it seemed like I didn’t need to return.” 

Shuri did not want to think what might have happened if Wakanda had chosen to be more generous with their gifts to the rest of the world. Most likely, death would have come to them early. 

She knew Namor possessed the possibility of killing thousands, or even millions, to keep his people safe. 

“So you are…” Shuri finally sighed, pressing her cheek to the cool glass of the car, “Comfortable in the modern world. Which is why you agreed so easily to my honeymoon.” 

She’d been looking forward to all the hilarious moments of cultural misunderstanding, almost like a movie montage, where she’d be the wise teacher. Like showing him how to use a fork or explaining what a cell phone was or having him taste a Hot Taki for the first time. 

“I wouldn’t say comfortable,” Namor mumbled, as though forgetting that they were keeping their guard up around each other, or perhaps not even caring, “Having the ability, yes. Wanting to…no.” 

Shuri regarded him for a long second. More than a long second. Long enough for Namor to glance up, fingers flexing.

“What?”

“I don’t believe you,” She said with a shake of her head. 

“Oh?” Namor leaned against his palm, fingers running through his hair, “Why would I lie?” 

“I don’t know, to game me? Either way, there are two big problems with this. Wing and ears.” 

“Ah,” Namor nodded, “Wings are easy enough. Wear long pants,” He said, motioning to his slacks, which did indeed cover his ankles. 

“And the ears? What, you wore a hat everywhere you went?” 

“No,” Namor shook his head, “I think we can agree that there’s magic in this world, unable to be explained.” 

Shuri huffed, “No, I don’t agree with it.” 

“It’s there, whether you do or not. And I’m not using it, but people… people see what they want to see. Do you think the world was ready to believe a man with pointed ears existed, or that if he did, there wasn’t a totally reasonable explanation for it, some disease I contracted as a child, or some awful history they’d be rude to ask? No, people didn’t want to imagine that there was more than the Avengers out there already…their own inability to grow was all that was needed.” 

Shuri tapped her foot in frustration on the car floor.

“Then why?” She muttered, “Why agree? It’s clearly not some heartfelt concession to your dear wife.” Her words were loaded with venom.

“You say that as though you assume I’ll enjoy this,” He said, voice tight, “While I begrudgingly agree that some modern touches are…not terrible,” He said, struggling to find a kind way to describe it, “You know I much prefer my domain.” 

“Ah-ha!” Shuri was desperate to win even one tiny battle, “So it is a compromise.” 

“I suppose. If you must,” He said, graciously granting her this win, which didn’t feel as satisfying as she had hoped, “But I think it was needed. As much as we know why we wed, we’ve both seemed to have forgotten something vital.” 

Shuri frowned, looking him up and down, “The…garter throw? A guest book with some cheesy motto or a pun on one of our names? A brand deal?” 

“No…we are married now,” Namor said, almost delicately. 

“I don’t…well, yes, we are.” 

“We’re husband and wife. And we hardly know each other. And we cannot spend every moment in competition with each other. When that novelty fades away, what would we be left with? It seemed…logical to choose this time to get to know you.” 

Shuri bit her tongue to reply back with a snarky, “Oh, just watch me.” Her ability to hold a grudge or draw something out was legendary. She didn’t, and as his words settled over her, her stomach twisted in a strange, almost fluttering way. 

“I will stay in my palace and you will remain underwater. Hardly seems necessary,” Shuri said, pulling herself away, placing as much space between Namor and herself as possible. 

Namor seemed momentarily disappointed, and she wasn’t sure if he meant for her to see that or if it was an error, a slip of the mask.

“I think we could have been friends at one point.” He whispered.

“Until you killed my mother,” Shuri said through gritted teeth, “So excuse me for not wishing to get to know you better.” 

“Fine,” Namor said, also drawing away, eyes out the window, “It is of no consequence. Every moment we spend, intentional or not, I draw my own conclusions. I just thought perhaps you would be kind enough to give them to me freely.” 

“Where was kindness at the death of my people?” Shuri demanded, furious. The car drew to a stop outside of their hotel and Shuri shoved the car door open, stalking inside. 

Namor followed, silent and solemn.

Still, infuriatingly, his scent wrapped around her and made her want to turn around and apologize or kiss him senselessly. 

“No, you hate his guts,” Shuri whispered to herself, perhaps in a vain attempt to convince herself wholly of this. She did hate some part of him, but an equal or bigger part was annoying attracted to him. 

As they checked in, the front desk worker handed them two key cards, “Your rooms to the suite. Two bedrooms.” 

If she found it odd that although they were married and had written in the notes that they were on their honeymoon but they were choosing to sleep separately, nothing was said. Shuri had researched and picked hotels, however, that catered to celebrities and were known for their discretion, so perhaps this was one of the more normal things this employee saw.

It didn’t matter. Shuri was glad Namor had booked them separate places to sleep, as she was not willing to slip into one singular bed with him.

As they got into the elevator, Namor snorted.

“What’s so funny?” Shuri asked. 

Namor stepped forward, his chest pressed against her back, his breath hot on her neck. 

“Perhaps by the end of this honeymoon we’ll only require one bed,” He murmured. Shuri bit her lip and counted to three slowly before answering, trying to slow her racing heart.

“You’d like that.” 

Namor brushed against her, a bit more intentionally, and when she turned her head, she saw an insufferable smirk on his face.

“Sleep in a bed with my wife? You say it like you are unfamiliar with the concept.” Namor said, teasing. 

“I was considering sleeping with you on our honeymoon, as tradition,” Shuri said, sure that this would be the thing to bother him. It seemed that despite being a god, he was equally just as much a man, “But now I’m pretty sure you don’t deserve it.” 

A slight frown. She had him.

“I think you’ll find yourself equally frustrated, darling ,” Namor replied, grounding his teeth. Shuri shrugged.

“My powers of stubbornness are legendary. Ask-,” She said, breaking off. She was about to say, ‘ask my brother’ or ‘ask my mother’, but dead men didn’t talk. She inhaled uneasily, “Ask Okoye.” 

“Are you sure?” Namor said, “Because you know you’ve just declared war. You’ve challenged me,” Namor said, pressing her against the door of their suite, closing it with the force of their bodies, his nose tracing up her neck and causing her breath to hitch, “And by the end, you will be begging me to take you.” 

“So haughty,” Shuri managed to whisper, her breath only slightly warbling, “I’d like to see you try your best.” 

“Oh princess,” His eyes were dark and stormy, “I have every intention to.”

Chapter Text

“-And I didn’t have sex with him even one!” 

From across the room, where Shuri was packing her things, Riri threw a soda can at her. The pixelated piece of tin ping-ponged through the room, and though Shuri knew it was a projection and wouldn’t hurt her, she still flinched.

“What was that for?” She demanded, turning around, and scowling at her American friend.

“Girl! You say that like it’s something you deserve a prize for,” Riri sighed.

“It is! I managed to avoid his advances, though he did try, just as I said I would! I won!” 

Riri made a face, “No, uhm, you haven’t. That’s a lose-lose if I’ve ever heard one. Oh, god, Shuri,” She rolled her eyes, and suddenly, Shuri felt like the younger one between them, despite the fact that Shuri was the one married. 

“Explain,” She demanded, raising an eyebrow. 

“Your stubbornness will be the death of you,” Riri shrugged, going back to tinkering with something off the projector, tilting her head. 

“But-,” Shuri started to protest, but was cut off when Riri looked up, sighing deeply.

“Oh, Shuri. You’re married to him. And if I had a husband like that, I’d be climbing him like a tree every chance I got.” 

“He kidnapped you,” Shuri reminded, angry that Riri was not celebrating what Shuri had thought was a win. 

“So did you, but I don’t hold that against you, girl,” Riri said with a wink.

“We were trying to save you! It’s very different.” 

“Sure,” Riri hummed, unconvinced, “Look, look. Either way. I’m not saying you have to have feelings for him, but I have a theory that he’s fantastic in bed, so it just feels sad, you know? It’s like ordering a $1,000 wagyu steak and just looking at it. Not even licking it, or sniffing it or-,” As Shuri looked away, embarrassed, Riri gasped, “Oh! You have ‘licked it’, huh?” She asked.

“I said we didn’t have sex. I never said we hadn’t done…other things.” Shuri admitted, knowing Riri would be impossible if she tried to deny it, already regretting telling her that. Because, at once, Riri squealed in a way that should be inhuman possible, and whopped. 

“I knew it! I knew you couldn’t resist that! Oh, god, please tell me he’s good? Otherwise, I’ll be salty about it all day.” 

Shuri scowled, biting the inside of her cheek, “He’s very good.” She muttered.

“I knew it! I fucking knew it! So you see, girl, you think you’re doing something noble or some bullshit, but in reality, you’re just hurting yourself.” 

“I don’t know about that.” 

“You gotta live with him now. Might as well enjoy the perks. Or, that’s what I’d do,” Riri said, shrugging, “Seems…depressing to not partake in the pleasure you could be getting. My two cents.” 

“You’ve said much more than two cents,” Shuri muttered bitterly, closing her suitcase and pressing down on it to close it. 

“There will be other ways to one-up his smug face,” Riri said, confident, “But this whole holding out on sex thing? I don’t think that’s one of ‘em.” 

“Thank you, Riri,” Shuri said, rolling her eyes. 

“Look, you called me to gloat. Don’t girl talk with me if you don’t want my brutally honest opinions,” Riri said, “Now, can we please talk about my latest project? I know you were having a grand old time not enjoying your damn self all over Europe- stupidly-, so perhaps you got a chance to look at my schematics?” 

“Sure I did. Had to keep myself entertained in some way,” Shuri said, kicking her suitcase out the door and checking the time, “I’m supposed to leave in about an hour, but I think we have some time.” 

Shuri pulled up the schematics, glad that they were veering away from talking of Namor, and glad she still was Shuri the scientist, even after marriage. Some parts of her, she told herself, never had to change. 

She wouldn’t let it.

XXX

Shuri arrived on the beaches, her bags next to her, alone.

She watched the rippling water for a few moments and wondered how long Namor was going to make her wait. Though her stomach was curled and coiled in anticipation and a tinge of anxiety, she promised herself she was not going to let it show.

He rose from the waves, the sun glistening off his skin as the droplets of seawater ran down his body back into the ocean. 

“Husband,” She greeted, keeping her voice tight and controlled.

“My darling Queen,” Namor replied, coming to kiss her knuckles, “Too long.” 

Shuri resisted a smile, “It was hardly three days.” 

A quick turn-around to grab what she thought she might need for her six months under the water, and then over to Mexico. She’d come with Okoye but had waved her way, sure that Namor wouldn’t greet her until she was alone.

She’d been right. 

“See you in six months,” Okoye said, “If you ever need to come home, though-,” 

Shuri pulled the beads off her ears swiftly, shoving them in her pocket. She was not a ten-year-old being dropped off for a slumber party for the first time and she resented the tone Okoye was using. She knew that her friend was only looking out for her, but she wished that it came across less like she was a child. 

“Shall we?” Namor asked, offering an arm. Shuri raised her eyebrows, glancing back at her luggage. “Someone will come for that,” Namor assured, “We would not let the sea take it,” he chuckled.

So, they went.

“Are you ready to see your palace?” Namor asked.

“I…suppose,” Shuri muttered, though realized she sounded frigid and ungrateful. In reality, she was uncomfortable with the idea of a palace all for her. Yes, she lived in a large house in Wakanda, but that was for all ruling families. This was just for herself, and any guests she chose to have if he would allow her that. 

It felt like too much. Too much for a girl that was married to a god but felt like she was always three steps behind, never quite matching up. 

The palace was built from marble, gleaming and shiny white. It was decadent and ornate and altogether too fancy for her. Not for her tastes, but she felt young and underdressed in comparison. 

Namor prided himself in showing her every inch of it, almost far too excited with the progress and creation of it; her primary chambers and on-suite with a tub big enough to fit a football team, the gardens on the top floor, the huge kitchen, the ballroom…she did wonder if he looked up what a castle was supposed to look like and took his drawing plans from a historical home, as she doubted she’d have much need of ballrooms in her future.

“Will you be here too?” Shuri asked as they crisscrossed through the halls, now walking upwards. They’d just finished the tour of her lab, which Shuri had done a quick once-over to assure was up to standards. She yearned to really dig her fingers into every inch of the lab but didn’t want to do it with the prying and curious eyes of Namor. 

Namor paused on the steps, tiltings his head, “If you wish me to. Do you?” 

Shuri hesitated, fingers clenching on the handrail, clear apprehension written on her face.

“It is nothing to decide now. It can always be decided later,” Namor assured, “And whenever you need me, I will hear your call.” 

“With those ears of yours?” Shuri asked, snorting.

Namor frowned, shaking his head slightly. Not in anger, just…confusion.

“No. It is you. I can just hear you. And I cannot riddle it out. Your voice is in my head, whether I want it to be or not.” 

“My voice?” Shuri asked, tensing, terrified he had heard every moment of her spoken word out loud, and cursed herself.

“It is like a radio on a station too far-away most times. But when you call, I hear it, clearly.” He said. Shuri examined him, praying that it was the truth, but found herself unable to figure it out. She didn’t know his tells yet to see if he was lying or not. 

They reached the top of the stairs and Shuri burst out onto the rooftop where a pool and lounge set was waiting for her, overlooking her garden and the vast seas. It was tucked away, in a place no one would find this palace unless they meant to, and if she recalled correctly, Talokan was hardly a mile away. 

“I’m allowed to sunbathe?” She asked, almost dumbfounded.

“If you prefer to.” Namor frowned, “Does this displease you?” 

“No! I just…” Shuri winced, “I thought I’d be stuck in the palace, only able to open windows.” 

“You’re not a prisoner here,” Namor said, and if she didn’t know better, she’d say he sounded disappointed to have to say it. 

“Six months here, six months there,” Shuri sighed because right now, it felt like it. 

“All previous agreements can be arranged differently…” Namor said, stepping close, “For the right trade-offs.”

Shuri shivered at the way his voice burned. She swallowed, finding her own.

“Ignore me. I agreed to six months per year. We’ll see how I fare first.” She said, nodding to herself more than telling Namor. 

“I want you to enjoy your life here. Whatever you desire, we will give you. Your people are eager to please their queen.” 

Shuri felt like the wind had been knocked out of her a bit, “My people…” She echoed, “Your people.” She corrected.

“Ours. Perhaps not now, or next year, but eventually I would not begrudge you as a part of the council to make choices with me. I think you will come to love them, the way that I do, and I know they will feel the same for you.” 

“Why? Because their king decrees it?” Shuri snorted, turning back towards the stairs.

“Because they can see the depth of my passion. And I am, it should be noted, a very good judge of character.” He added, almost humorously, grinning at his own words. 

“Is that so?” Shuri raised an eyebrow, “You looked at a crazy mad scientist girl who just lost her entire family, besieged with grief and handed powers much above their own, and decided this was to be your wife? I dunno, Namor. I find your judgment questionable.” 

Namor caught her wrist, pausing her, “I saw a woman who did not know the power she had. I saw a kindness, a gentleness, that my people needed. I am their father, but I needed a mother for them. I needed someone who cared, deeply. I needed someone intelligent enough to make decisions that will lead us forward. I may be immortal, but as you nearly proved,” He said, and Shuri’s eyes flickered to his chest and all the other scars he wore proudly, “I am not invincible. And I have been very lucky for what feels like too long.” 

“Hopefully not…soon,” Shuri whispered, panic gripping her. She hadn’t wanted to lead Wakanda! She was not ready to lead a country she didn’t know anything about. 

Namor stepped back, chuckling, “My definition of soon and yours would surely be at odds. Time goes differently when you are immortal, of course. Soon to me may feel like a blink of 100 years, whereas to you…no, Shuri, I don’t intend to die within a week.” 

It was, in some way, a comfort to hear that. 

“Are you hungry?” Namor asked, changing the subject, “As you may imagine, we have some of the best seafood anywhere. And there is quite a feast waiting for you.” 

XXX

The first meal with Namor was not what she expected.

She had a vision of ‘Beauty and the Beast’; her on one end of a long, almost comically lengthy table pouting, and Namor at the other. It was hard not to feel some sort of connection to this Disney classic right now. She doubted Namor had ever seen it. He might know who Mickey Mouse was, but she’d be shocked if she learned he’d ever seen a movie even once.

Perhaps she should introduce him. The errant thought bulldozed whatever she’d been considering as she started to make a list of which movies were absolute musts to see if someone was just starting out. 

Back to the point of it, they were intimately close, sitting at a table made for perhaps about four, but their chairs were close to one another, food stacked high above her. 

Namora appeared at the doors carrying a box, and Shuri was immediately on edge. She didn’t think it would be something terrible, a-la Seven, but she had more than enough reasons to be wary.

“Namor, what’s that?” She asked pointedly. 

Namor seemed to ignore her, at least momentarily.

“Do you know the myths of Tlalocan?” He asked.
“Well, I mean, people have certainly seen your ears. Luckily, it hasn’t reached the eager and curious minds of the Americas, but-,” 

“No, not Talokan. Tlalocan? What our city was based on?” 

Shuri winced, “I tried to research. But I figure it might be best to hear it from you. Many conflicting entries.” She admitted, feeling like she was a student failing a test she didn’t know she needed to study for. But of course, she should have known. How inappropriate of her to not spend any time learning about her new home? 

“It is considered to be a paradise. Just as Wakanda’s ideas of death are far less morose than the Americans, ours is similar. Death was not some dreary place of anguish and pain…well,” Namor chuckled, “Not always. But the first ring, Tlalocan, was heaven. Still the land of the dead, but the best place to be. Still under the ground.” 

“I can see why. Talokan is stunningly beautiful,” Shuri said, and that wasn’t even a white lie. She was still awed by it and hoped one day to return down there. 

“The levels of heaven were designated for those who died violent deaths, which was most people, as you can imagine in those times. Tlalocan was specifically for water-related deaths.” 

“Ah, well, yes, that would make sense. Drowning?” 

“Or bad storms, lightning, and tsunamis,” Namor said, and she saw a hint of pride on his face for her to draw conclusions as quickly as she did. 

“Well, seems apt. So you’re telling me what? You’re the god of the underworld?” 

“Literally, yes. Figuratively…” He looked at her, chin raised, almost cheeky, “We are very much alive here, Shuri.” 

“I didn’t think you were actually the deity of death,” Shuri rolled her eyes, “But I’m glad that’s confirmed.” 

Namor leaned back in his chair, motioning to Namora. 

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t see death. As the god of these waters, I hear and see all. And that includes hearing people drown or floods destroying towns and lives. And as you know, I have summoned a few on purpose,” He said, almost with an icy finality, something that had Shuri take pause.

“What’s in the box, dear husband?” She asked again, firmer, her question dripping with derision. 

“A wedding gift,” Namor said, smiling. At her reluctance, he laughed, “It’s not severed body parts.” 

She unfurled the ribbon and a little black dart sprung out at once. She hardly had time to think before her hand reached out, grasping a small kitten from making a mess of their table. 

“Oh!” She gasped, taken in by its tiny face. 

“It nearly drowned on my shores. Thrown in the water by someone heartless. I will always save creatures that do not deserve death. I wondered if perhaps your time here would be less lonely with a companion?” He asked.

“I…” Shuri stared at it, rubbing her fingers over its baby soft fuzzy face, “It’s…very thoughtful.” 

She’d never had a pet. Her mom was very allergic to cats, which was ironic, all things considered. And a dog seemed like a hassle to have. Well, she once had a goldfish, but it grew too big and they had to release it. Shuri liked to think Mr. Godly was still enjoying life in the canals of Wakanda.

The point being, against her better self, she was drawn in immediately to it, taken and in love at once.

“You’re happy?” Namor prompted. 

“Very,” Shuri said, grabbing a piece of fish and offering it to the kitten, “I…this is really, really…” She struggled to find her words, wanting to know that this would increase her happiness here tenfold. 

“What will be its name? Bast?” Namor asked.

Shuri looked at the kitten, tempted. And perhaps she would have named it after her god had Namor not brought it up.

No, even still, she didn’t feel like a Bast.

“I think…” Shuri scrunched her nose, thinking hard as she watched the kitten eat from her hands, “She feels like an Intlanzi, or Zizi for short.” 

Namor laughed, “Ah, little fish. Fitting.” 

Shuri paused, tilting her head, “You know Xhosa?” At Namor’s face, she groaned, “How well?” 

“I’m…passable at it.” 

Shuri shook her head, “That’s what one says when there’ basically fluent. Great Bast! Wait…” She paused, “How many languages do you know?” 

“Perfectly or able to get by?” Namor asked, grinning. 

“I don’t want to know the answer anymore,” She pouted, huffing. 

Namor leaned in, teasingly, “Rounding out to 73 this year,” He said. 

Shuri swore, “What are you, the Rosetta stone?” 

“There are only three languages on the Rosetta stone,” Namor said, pleased with himself, like a know-it-all, “A perk of immortality,” He whispered, which Shuri thought was a low blow for him to be remaining her about how long he’d live and would live and all the things he could accomplish. Time must seem so odd to him, she considered, to have lived so many lifetimes over and over.

He pulled back, “Let me walk you to your quarters.” A pause, “What are you going to do today?” 

“Don’t you have a kingdom to rule?” Shuri huffed, “And I can find my way back,” She added, standing, holding Zizi against her chest. 

“I want to walk you.” He said, simply. 

“Oh, like a boy going steady with a girl, huh?” Shuri teased. 

“I think we’re far past that, aren’t we?” Namor asked, eyebrows raised. Shuri licked her lips, feeling her stomach tighten at his smile. She thought of Riri and her ‘advice’, though Shuri would call it unwelcome and unhelpful badgering. Still, she hated that it was starting to make sense to her.

She was at war with herself all the way to her bedroom, and up until the last moment, she was sure which side was going to win. But as soon as Shuri opened the double doors to her quarters, and set Zizi down to explore, she caught sight of the large king-size bed through the area. 

“Husband?” She whispered, unable to call Namor by even his nickname, worry, and desire knotting in her stomach, “Perhaps…” She eased herself into her request, “Perhaps this bed and my new house deserve to be…christened.” Even as she spoke, it sounded so horribly cheesy, and she was sure after their honeymoon Namor was going to make a big deal of it, but he just paused.

“Are you certain?” He asked.

“Yeah,” Shuri said, voice unbroken and confident, “I am.” And when Namor didn’t move at all, she pulled him inside the bedroom and undid the top of her dress, letting it fall open, “Please, Namor, take me.” 

Namor snapped his head up, unable to take his eyes off hers, and she could see the burning in his irises, so warm it made her start to sweat, so immovable a feeling it would have startled her, had she not been so desperate for his touch. 

“Do you want me to fuck you?” He asked, taking two large steps to cause her to backtrack until she was against a wall, his fingers flexing before they settled on her neck. Not with enough strength to hurt, but enough to cause her breath to quicken, “Or do you want to make love?” 

Shuri tilted her head. They weren’t in love and that wasn’t them.

“I think you know which,” She whispered, closing her eyes, “And don’t have any wrong ideas of what this is.” 

“I don’t,” Namor said, pressure pressing just a tad bit more, “But neither do you.” 

He pressed his lips to hers and though the track to join their mouth was slow, nothing about it after was. It wasn’t like molasses, a slow-burning heat, it was like TNT at once. 

His hands kept her in place, his lips hard and needy, his body warm and smelled like sea salt and algae. 

Shuri whimpered, crossing her arms over her exposed breasts.

Namor’s hand grasped her wrists, pulling them above her head, his grip iron-tight. 

“Why are you insecure?” Namor asked, genuinely confused, “Why do you try to hide your body?” 

“I…” Shuri struggled to reply, stuttering out some answer that she was no great beauty, so why wouldn’t she be uncomfortable in her body? 

And Namor’s physique wasn’t helping either; sculpted, firm, and literally looked like someone carved it to perfection. It was hard not to feel lesser compared to that. 

“You are a goddess,” Namor said, his lips trailing down her neck and to her collarbone, nipping enough to leave bruises as he traveled to her breast. Shuri squirmed, trying to free her hands to cover, but Namor would not allow her, “And you have nothing to be unsure of.” 

“Oh?” She asked, slightly irritated, “Says you?” 

“Yes,” He said, looking up, pressing his hardness against her thigh, “I can assure you, Shuri. Your body has awakened something in me that no one else has in over a hundred years. If anything, you should feel haughty. Even arrogant. Your body has moved seas and started wars.” 

She wanted to protest, but Namor made a frustratingly good argument, and any words died on her lips as he licked her nipple, using the hand from her neck to unlace the rest of her dress as she writhed underneath him. 

She barely felt her dress pooled on the ground, but she did feel Namor grasp her and pull her toward the bed.

“Last chance for something slow, or sweet,” He asked. 

Shuri, who had been pushed over the edge of the bed, looked over her shoulder.

“I don’t think you could switch if you tried,” She said. 

“If that’s what you wanted. I could. With great difficulty.” He admitted after a second, “I’d rather not,” He said, a hand ghosting over the bulge in his shorts, “I’d much rather continue this.” 

“I’m not stopping you,” Shuri said. 

Namor kicked her legs apart, hands grasping at her thighs and digging his fingers in, and thrust forward. Shuri had a feeling that he was quite large, but having this feeling inside of her was an entirely different story.

Not a bad one, mind you. It hurt, but the pain was intermingled with pleasure, enough that Shuri was bucking up against him, wanting to feel him deeper or harder. Her fingers reached out, grasping the bedsheets and fisting the fabric, moaning as Namor lifted her feet off the ground, not pausing to ask if she was uncomfortable as he maneuvered her limbs to hit something deeply satisfying in her every time.

“Oh, god-,” Shuri whispered. Riri was right and she absolutely hated her friend for that. 

But Riri also deserved that $500 Starbucks gift card.

“Yes, darling?” Namor replied, grinning ear to ear, forehead pressed into the space between her shoulders, “You are divine, Shuri. Your body was made to be mine.” He groaned, “And I was made to fit perfectly into you.” 

So quickly she almost lost her breath, Namor flipped her over, pulling her up to the headboard. 

“Not doing it for you?” She managed to ask, but her body whined at the lack of contact. 

“On the contrary. I would have ended much too soon. And I want to see your face when we both come,” Namor said, reaching down to place a bruising kiss on her lips as he grasped her thighs, pulling Shuri against him as he entered her again.

Shuri moaned, a vulgar sound she wasn’t sure was hers until she reasoned that no one else besides Namor would be making such noises, and he was making different noises, as her fingers clutched the metal bedframe for support. 

As soon as Namor’s hand snaked between their joined bodies, wet with perspiration to rub at her clit, Shuri stiffened, arching her back and feeling the waves of pleasure ride her relentlessly. Namor didn’t withdraw his hand, but continued through her orgasms, pushing her over the edge a second time in a matter of seconds after. It was so intense she almost couldn’t breathe, her entire body feel like a live wire, ready to snap at the next touch. 

But seeing her limbs so helpless and her body spasm and twitch must have ignited something in Namor, because he pushed her legs as far back as they could go and his fingers found her stomach, and she knew she would have bruises the next morning. 

He finished with a stuttered, choking sound.

Shuri was not worried that he didn’t pull out. She had made herself a strong cocktail of birth control hormones and if something survived, then clearly it was meant to be because her formula was foolproof. 

They lay panting and exhausted for a few moments. 

“Do gods get winded?” Shuri asked, grinning. 

“Apparently after having sex with you, they do,” Namor said, and it seemed like he was about to reach for Shuri but paused. He sat up, rubbing his neck and groaning. 

“Look,” Shuri coughed, “Uhm if you…you’re free too…if you feel so inclined…” She stuttered, “You’re welcome to come back for that. This is your palace too. There’s no reason I should need to call you. It’s not a booty call. We’re married.” 

Namor looked over, mildly surprised.

“Open door policy?” He asked.

“Sure. Of sorts. Scratch each other’s itches.” She paused, “There clearly is much to be scratched.” 

“Sure. Yes.” Namor nodded, “And you are free to venture out of the Palace. To where I am.” 

“Maybe,” Shuri said uncertainty, “Let’s just leave it where it is right now.” 

“Of course,” Namor said, standing and pulling on his pants, “We have the rest of our married lives for that.” He said, chuckling.

“Yeah,” Shuri said, “Till death do us part and shit.” 

There was an awkward moment where neither moved. Then, Shuri muttered something and Namor made a reason to leave and Shuri was left. She almost could feel it when he left the palace, and for the first time, she was alone to her own devices. 

“179 days to go,” She muttered as she found Zizi lounging in the sun of a window.

She could do this. Six months would feel like a breeze. 

There were certainly worst fates to have fallen into.

Chapter Text

One year later, standing on the beaches of Namor’s domain, Shuri felt a strangeness rising in her that was overwhelming compared to the emotions last year and equally as mysterious.

She chalked it up to the equivalency of travel.

You always think the first day is going to be the worst after jet setting half-way around the world. And then you’re lulled into a false sense of security when you feel right as rain.

What you don’t realize is that the true jetlag and exhaustion sets in two days after you arrive, and all your foolish arrogance about beating the travel bug and all make you regret your thoughts.

That’s how this must be, Shuri reasoned.

The first year of her marriage had been almost too easy. She’d told herself that this is how it was meant to be. The days had passed with little to no issue. 

Their first anniversary and into their second year, or the proverbial second day, was bound to be worse.

She fidgeted her toes in the sand.

Why had she ever thought that that first year would be indicative of anything? She’d almost used it like a vacation; she’d lounged in the sun, read as much as she could, and most of her time just setting up her lab to her exact specifications, which in itself was a five-month sprint. She hadn’t left the palace more than once or twice and certainly hadn’t attempted to visit Namor underwater.

Namor came and visited her like he was her booty call or stripper on demand.

They had a lot of sex.

Riri was right; why punish herself the entire time? 

It was always the same energy…rough, needing, and desperate. They didn’t share niceties under blankets, or heads on pillows with noses nearly brushing. They didn’t cuddle or spoon or rub each other’s hair afterward, laughing as they recounted their day.

It didn’t mean that they weren’t talking at all…Namor made a point to eat with her at least once a day, whether it be for breakfast, lunch, or dinner. At times, Shuri wondered if he wished her to join him, but he never pushed her, never bothered.

Those first few weeks at the table, the one so intimate and close, had been stilted and stuttering. Neither seemed to really know how to talk to each other, not properly, not even as sort of friends or acquaintances. 

Time made it easier.

Some very small part of Shuri was terrified, as her end of six months grew near, that they’d lose this progress if she left. That when she came back, they’d be strangers to each other once again.

Namor must have seen it on her face, because with five days before she was set to return to Wakanda, he spoke softly.

“You are free to stay here longer than the settled agreement,” He rasped, “You are always free to stay as long as you wish.” 

Something about Namor saying it jolted her out of this fantasy.

She didn’t know why, but her brain rebelled against it as soon as he spoke it.

“I have no intention of abandoning Wakanda just yet,” She spat, almost angrily. Perhaps upset at herself for allowing a moment to even consider it.

Namor nodded, and it seemed he had been expecting it, so his response was just a long, tired sigh.

“The option is always there.” 

Shuri had told herself it wouldn’t change, but she had been silly to think that.

The very fact that she was nervous on the beach now proved it.

It’s not as though she hadn’t seen Namor at all in the six months since she’d returned back home. Just as she had been called away three times for Black Panther purposes (though, one had been a post-wedding party organized by Bucky, so that one didn’t strictly count), there were times that she was fluid in the ‘six months’ term.

Namor was integrated into her life, and therefore into the lives of Wakanda. It was impossible to separate him. And, as allied nations, it would be strange to think he wouldn’t appear at monthly meetings or be called upon on occasion to straighten out political things that M’Baku mostly took care of. Shuri was always there, never disinvited.

The first time that he’d arrived in Wakanda after she’d returned, it had been unbearably awkward. The entire council could almost feel the tension and unsureness from both of them, not quite willing to sit next to each other, but unsure where else they should sit.

M’Baku solved that by the next time, wanting nothing to distract from actual important matters, with name placards for everyone in assigned seating. He lied and said it was for the benefit of everyone, but Shuri knew that it was because of her. 

And some part of her hated knowing this truth.

But no one could say M’Baku wasn’t rooting for this marriage as hard as anyone else. He’d sat them next to each other and that was pretty much the end of that. No juvenile ‘should we sit next to each other’ that felt fairly reminiscent of puppy-dog crushes in a school cafeteria. 

They mostly ended up in Shuri’s room or Namor’s suite afterward, tearing clothes off each other and biting each other’s palms to keep from moaning loud enough for other people to hear it.

That was, at the very least, something more than the ocean palace had going for it; apart from a few scattered staff, no one was really around to hear them, so they could be as loud as they wished. Though, Shuri would be lying if she didn’t say that having to keep quiet, knowing Namor was doing the most to make her cry out, turned her on in ways beyond her. 

Afterward, same as in the Ocean Palace, Namor would go back to his room.

No one in Wakanda questioned it. They all knew Shuri had done this as a political match. She was their princess, the last heir (as far as they knew) to the original bloodline. If Shuri wanted to sleep in a room separate from her husband, none of her people would make a fuss about it. 

As Shuri huffed, wondering what could possibly keep Namor so long, as though he could sense her frustration, he rose from the water.

“What kept you?” She asked, wading into the water, and letting the warm salt spray up against her knees. 

“I was waiting to see how long you’d wait there.” 

Shuri took her water-repellant bag and swung it at him, hating that he’d made her look foolish.

“You don’t have to wait for me to fetch you, Shuri,” Namor scolded, “These waters are just as much yours as mine.” 

“It’s not the equivalent of me waiting outside someone’s house and ringing the doorbell,” Shuri snapped, though it absolutely had been, “How am I to get there?” 

Namor snorted, “We both know from Nakia’s ‘rescue’ that you have the means to get down there, you just don’t want to.” He offered an arm, “Perhaps I should feel pleased that you wait so dutifully for me.” 

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Shuri muttered, rolling her eyes. 

The trip down filled her with a burst of joy that was unexpected and a bit unwelcome. She told herself it was just exciting to see Zizi. She’d tried to take her cat back with her to Wakanda, sure that Okoye and Aneka would dote on the little black slinky thing, but she’d put up such a caterwaul when Shuri tried to put her in a cat carrier that it was decided Zizi was tied to Talokan. Namor had called her a spirit animal, an essence. She was bound here, for better or worse.

It at least gave Shuri something to look forward to.

“Where’s my baby?” She crooned, and Zizi came bursting from around the corner into Shuri’s arms, purring and pressing its little face up into her cheeks. 

“She’s been well cared for,” Namor assured, and Shuri was about to ask if it was by the staff, but from the way Zizi jumped down to ring around Namor’s legs, it was apparent that Namor had taken this task upon himself. Something about Namor taking such careful care of a small, fragile animal had her conjuring images of Namor as a cat-dad, something that filled her with laughter that she couldn’t keep to herself. 

“What?” Namor asked, picking Zizi up and petting him. 

Shuri, badly, tried to explain the images that she was sure were absolutely hilarious to her but sounded much less funny on the way out of her mouth.

Namor shrugged, “We both missed you. We bonded over that.” He said, as simple as day. The ocean was blue, the sand was beige and Namor missed her.

Had she missed him?

Some part of her told her that, yes, of course, she had.

Another part of her wasn’t so sure. 

“I’m back now,” Shuri said, speaking to Zizi, but couldn’t keep her eyes from flickering up to Namor’s face, trying to catch his response to this. 

“For six months,” He said, a sort of strange smile on his face, “Perhaps you will grow bolder this year.” 

“Perhaps,” Shuri said, though that had been her hope. Maybe try to visit Namor in Talokan once or twice and invite Riri or Bucky or Okoye and Aneka here for a weekend visit. If it was allowed.

“Of course it is,” Namor said, “You’re not-,” He started, frustrating tinging his tone, but he cut himself off, swallowing back what might have been words of anger, “If you wish to have friends visit, I would never begrudge you that.” And then, what seemed like forced humor, or an attempt to realign himself from his frustration, “There are plenty of rooms.” 

Which was true. Shuri could have all four of them, plus their thirty closest friends, and she would maybe have reached the capacity of this palace. Namor had done it right. No expense had been spared, and that meant making sure this place could hold the entirety of an American Football team.

Shuri wondered if Namor liked sports. If he was introduced to it, would he become just like any other guy? 

The idea of Namor being born in different circumstances, one in the present day, where he was not a god and not so heavily tied with such a great responsibility, was a recent and numerous ponder of hers. About what he may be like if they met somewhere else, in some other place in time.

“Seashell for your thoughts?” Namor asked. 

“Is that your money system?” Shuri said, his question drawing away her meandering mind. 

“We don’t use money,” Namor shook his head, “We’re small enough that whatever is needed is shared amongst the people. I suppose bartering systems would be more apt.” 

“Huh,” Shuri said, and filed that away in ‘information about Talokan that she absolutely should know as their queen (and was a bit embarrassed she didn’t yet)’. 

“We’ve always been small in numbers. Powerful; but small.” Namor continued, “And I’m sure modern nations would scoff at our numbers, but it allows me to know everyone intimately. And I like it better that way.” He tilted his head, deep in thought, “Though, times are changing.” 

“Is it by choice? Or a necessity?” Shuri asked, “The birth rates.” At Namor’s face, she got the feeling she overstepped, “Sorry, not my place-,” 

“Gods, Shuri. It’s your place. You’re my wife; their queen. I want you to ask questions. I want you to care. I want you to feel like they matter to you,” Namor said, his nose flaring slightly, “When will you remember that?

“Perhaps the next time,” She muttered, feeling stupid. 

Namor ruffled out his shoulders, sighing, “It’s a mixture of things. I suppose I paint is as positive, to keep morale. But the seas have become more worrisome for food in more recent years. The modern world is ever encroaching on us. Seas and reefs are vanishing. And we do not have the…” He licked his lips, “Infrastructure. Not as Wakanda does.” He gave a hopeful smile, “I hope in time you may wish to…help me with this. Talokan deserves to grow like any other nation, and I cannot help but feel I’m stifling it sometimes.” 

“I want to help,” Shuri said, empathetically, “I would have just killed you if I didn’t care for your people.” 

“Yes, but,” Namor was trying to find words, Shuri could tell, “I want you to love them. Perhaps it’s unfair to be asking that of you so soon, but they are all my children. Not just random cousins, or long-lost relatives, but I feel like they are all mine. ” 

“I understand that.” 

“Do you?” Namor questioned, then shook his head, “Look, a good show of faith would be joining me tonight for a wedding. The bride is very enthralled with you and I think it would mean a lot for you to attend.” 

“Is it…under the water?” Shuri asked.

“Where else would it be?” 

“Am I to use that clunky and awkward suit again?” She asked, sighing at the prospect. 

“Unless you’ve made a better way.” 

“No.” Shuri dropped her bags, having reached her suite, “I will go. How soon?” She asked, peering at the sky out the window. 

“A few hours. Rest up. Get ready. I will return when it is time.” He lingered for a moment, and Shuri wondered if he was waiting to be invited to stay. If Shuri was a normal girl and this was her boyfriend, she’d ask him to sit on her bed while she held out dresses and eyeshadow colors and they’d gossip and laugh and such.

But her marriage was not like that.

She felt a hint of relief when he left.

Shuri could not be too upset that the accommodations for her to go down were not quite as elegant as she’d wished; she was the first person to ever be granted such permissions, so of course this wasn’t a huge priority. Even now, she was an artificer, surely they figured if she wanted something more streamlined, she could do it herself.

She put that on her list for this year…she had a feeling Namor would be nudging her to see his kingdom more and more and she wanted to not feel like a transformer when she did so.

The bride stuttered and gasped at her appearance and though she did not speak an overlapping language as Shuri (another for the list; learn Namor’s dialect and language) smiles and hugs spoke well enough.

One thing Shuri was very put out about was that the food looked incredibly tasty and she could not taste a single bite. She could not even get drunk on their mead, which was very enticing to her. All she could do was stand awkwardly in the corner, waving at people and feeling more out of place than ever before.

“Your Highness.” 

There was a voice that wasn’t Namor’s, and it was tinged with half-amusement, half-tightly coiled disdain. 

Shuri turned to see one of the warriors that had helped in Namor’s raids.

“Attuma, isn’t it?” She asked. It seemed that between him and Namora, they were Namor’s right-hand people and the only others who spoke English. 

“Yes.” 

His answer was clipped.

“You don’t have to genuflect or use such titles,” Shuri rolled her eyes, “You’re not hiding your dislike very well.” 

Nothing new. She knew that Namor’s decision to marry her, by warriors, was not a popular one. The layman seemed to enjoy her, but those that fought against her had opposed it. Namor had told her this much.

“Namor would yell at me for disrespecting his wife. I’d rather do as he asks,” Attuma says, “But I don’t have to do it happily.” 

What a shame the only other people who spoke English were people that hated her guts. Just her luck.

She’d better learn Talokanan quickly if she wanted to have meaningful talks with anyone here. 

“I won’t tell, I promise,” Shuri said, snorting. 

“You are not…upset?” Attuma seemed surprised.

“Do you wish for a fight?” Shuri turned, her voice cold, “Because I am much different than the girl on the bridge. I could tear your throat out.” 

She wished she could say she was pleased to see a flash of fear in his eyes, but she wasn’t. This wasn’t who she wanted to be. And she didn’t want to kill people. She did not want to win people with fear. 

“No, I’m not upset,” Shuri responded, sighing, and Attuma seemed to relax as she turned away, “I’m the one he married, despite it all, right?” She pointed out, “I’m sure many have tried over the years, but he still chose me.” 

And even if they were not married for love, Shuri felt a curl of something warm in her chest knowing this.

From Attuma’s stony silence, she knew this to be true. 

“And I must reason you have a good reason for disliking me. Neither you nor Namora seems like unintelligent people.” She continued. 

“We are protective of Namor,” Attuma said quietly after a long moment, “It seems silly. He is a god, of course. And we don’t mean physically protect him, though we are his bodyguards. Not that I think you’d hurt him…” He frowned, “More than you have.” 

Shuri caught the way the scars down Namor's back shone in the light cutting through the waves, a reminder of how they’d both torn each other up. 

“No, I do not plan to.” Shuri agreed, “And I take it you mean… emotionally?” She asked, though mildly confused. 

“A god, one who lives so long, can sometimes be blindsided. It is hard for him to see the picture in terms of us, the bigger picture. Which may be difficult to understand. He just views time differently. And sometimes we must remind him.” 

“Ah,” Shuri laughed, genuinely, “You assumed I was the equivalent of a teenager rebelling and saying to his father ‘but dad! I love her!’.” At Attuma’s blank face, and a reminder that perhaps these people would enjoy partaking in movies or pop culture if given the chase, she reworded, “You assumed it was a flight of fancy for him. And you did not want to have him choose a marriage based on…what in his time is a mere summer, in terms of his lifetime.” 

“Yes,” Attuma said. 

Shuri examined Namor, sighing deeply, “I suppose I had not considered that. That our time together will be so fleeting for him that it will only seem like days to him, when for me it is years,” She said, “I hadn’t…” She swallowed. 

What would she do when she grew old and Namor stayed the same…forever? 

“Namor also is a man with deep emotion. I know, it is hard to see that at first. But we are his children.” Attuma continued.

“I heard him say as much.” 

“No, you misunderstand. He loves us so deeply. He cares like a father. He worries for all of us and cries at births and weddings and funerals…” Attuma said. 

“And you’re worried what that love will look like with me? Not paternal, but romantic.” Shuri guessed. But that wasn’t right. She saw it in Attuma’s expression. Understanding hit her like lighting, “You are concerned about what it will be like when he has an actual blood child.” 

“We must sound like toddlers throwing tantrums,” Attuma said, not hiding his feelings. 

“No,” Shuri sighed, “I hadn’t thought of that. I’m sure he has boundless love to give,” She tried to soothe, “And it won’t change.” 

“All things change. The sea, most of anything, knows that best,” Attuma replied tightly, and then gave a bow, “Have a good rest of the wedding, Queen Shuri.” 

It was the first time she’d actually heard someone call her that, and she was taken aback by it, just for a second.

Namor found her like this, stunned and rolling over all that Attuma had said. 

“Ready to leave?” He asked.

“Are you?” Shuri shrugged. 

“The party will be wrapping up soon. Our presence is no longer required.” 

Shuri thought about what Attuma had said. She wondered if, without her there, Namor would stay all night, laughing with his people, eating, and dancing. She wondered what she was taking away from him.

“No, it’s…if you wish to stay longer-,” 

“Shuri,” Namor cut her off, “Let’s go.” 

Back in her room, Shuri was a ball of tightly strung emotions, impossible to untangle. All she knew is that as she locked her door, she needed Namor. She wanted to feel him again, and pushed him against the door, kissing him hard, grasping his hands and pushing them underneath her dress, up to her hips. 

“Namor,” She whimpered, “Please.” 

“Of course,” He whispered back, “Whatever my queen demands.” 

This bothered Shuri, though she couldn’t figure out why.

“No…not because I demand, because you also wish,” She said, drawing back. Namor brought her hand to his tented pants.

“That is not an issue,” He assured.

“How would you…what would you wish…we do?” She asked, needing him to need her as badly as she burned for him. 

“I do not think you’d enjoy it,” Namor said.

Shuri raised her chin, “Try me, husband,” She goaded. 

Namor examined her for a few moments before grasping her chin and kissing her deeply. She was thrilled in the way that he grabbed at her clothes, tugging down her dress with urgency, but also care enough not to rip it, though he was not as kind to her tights. 

On the bed, with her wrists crossed in his palm, pressed against the headboard, one leg over his shoulder was how their night went. 

Twice.

In the aftermath, as Shuri traced the scars she’d made down his back, a rumbling laugh rose in her throat, “I clearly could take that,” She teased, wanting Namor to see how silly she was for thinking of her to be some wilting flower, some fragile girl.

He tensed beneath her touch, “Of course,” He mumbled, but Shuri knew something wasn’t right.

She turned him around. 

“What?” 

Namor hesitated for a long moment before speaking quietly, “If I had it my way, I stand by my previous statement. It would have been soft, long, and quiet,” He said, flingers drawing down her arm. 

“But…” Shuri said, confusion clouding her, making it difficult to speak, “But rough is…you and I…it’s always rough. You always need it to be hard.” 

“For you, my wife,” He said, “It is what you prefer. And I do too, at times. But…” He gave a quiet laugh, “See, it is not what you needed. That way. I know you far too well.” 

Shuri stared at him, unable to reply back. 

“It is okay,” Namor assured, “I enjoy our time either way.” 

“I don’t…I would…you could do it that way,” Shuri whispered, but even as she thought about it, the idea of Namor being gentle and almost loving with her made her tense up.

“No, I could not,” Namor said, “It has to be this way. I long ago realized that. You must hate me, so it must be…how Americans say it so ineloquently, hatefucking.” 

“I don’t hate you,” Shuri tried to say. 

“You are at war. And if it has to be with me. I accept that.” Namor said, reaching for his shorts, "Rather than with my people, who have done nothing wrong, or worse, with yourself."

Shuri felt a burst of indignation, “Okay, so perhaps I do! But who could blame me?” She snarled, “You killed my mother! Butchered my people! I should hate you!” 

“No,” Namor replied, so even in his tone, so confident, “That is not it.” 

“Oh, please, tell me why I hate you then,” Shuri sneered, “Because you seem to know so very well.” 

“I have not figured it out,” Namor admitted, “I have been riddling it since the day we married, with no answers. But it seems you have none either.” He turned, going to kiss her, but at the last second, his fingers crept up her throat, and though she should push him off, she felt her lower stomach twist and her legs pressed together, despite it all. 

“So this is how we must fuck,” Namor said, as though this proved his point, “And make no mistakes, it’s always enjoyable. But perhaps once you figure it out, we can try something different.” 

“Leave.” Shuri snapped, “Now.” 

Namor got up, as though fully expecting this. He pet Zizi at the door and left.

Shuri was furious, but even more so when she had to get herself twice more that night, and hated herself for being unable to picture anything but Namor’s face to finish herself off.

Chapter Text

Shuri was stubborn.

She’d been told this many times in her life. This knowledge was nothing new.

She thinks that she may have inherited it from her father. Though he had been a benevolent and well-respected leader, when he was sure of something, there was nothing in the world that could have moved his opinion. It brought the most spats at home with his wife or children, and when Shuri and T’Challa were young, they would groan if their father would make any broad sweeping statements. It meant that even if he was confronted with the truth or shown the error of his ways, it would be unlikely he would back down or apologize.

This is what led to Shuri taking five different language lessons at the age of five. He thought the second daughter of a ruler needed to be worldly and would need to be able to communicate with many groups of people. Even when T’Challa complained that she was studying all the time, even when Ramanda said that was far too much to expect a five-year-old to take on (T’Challa had only been learning two languages concurrently at her age), and even as Shuri dreamed of a day she would make a universal language adapter and the act of having to mentally know languages would be obsolete, he never budged.

Shuri had made a language translator, but hey..she now knew English, French, Chinese, German, and Spanish.

This event was now playing out in her current situation in ways she would have never guessed. In two different ways.

One; she knew how to pick up different languages with ease, especially one that her world translator had no guiding point for, and threw out almost absurdly wrong translations when she asked her maids to help her learn their native tongue.

So she must learn it herself.

That second year she arrived, she made two goals for herself to do; learn their native language and create a better suit for going underwater. 

The second way her father’s stubbornness was reaching her now, even past the grave, was that Shuri inherited his sometimes pigheaded attitude, and she didn’t know or have the ability how to say that she had been wrong.

Not that she wanted to.

She was convinced that while Namor had been right (she did hate him, but that shouldn’t be a shock), she also was not wrong. And she believed wholeheartedly that these two could coexist.

He made some good points, but to make her feel small and stupid like he had, to insinuate that there was some psychological trauma past the fact that he killed her mother, was infuriating to her. Or that she wouldn’t enjoy slow, soft sex. 

Shuri was very multi-faceted and multi-talented! Okay, so she’d never had slow sex in her life, but she’d heard all her friends talk about the tenderness of the act, and well, she was positive it wouldn’t be that terrible.

And, well, hadn’t Namor ever thought that maybe fast and dirty was simply more fun? That she would enjoy it, but she liked this more? It was like eating your second favorite ice cream even though your most favorite in the world was sitting right there, on the shelf, in plain view. Why would you ever settle for less than amazing? 

These were the questions she asked herself, late into the night, wanting to be anywhere but the palace he’d built for her.

You see, she’d gone into this thinking she’d hold out for a few weeks, and then he’d be begging to go back to how it was.

But he didn’t.

She was faced with the unexpected (but, in hindsight) not totally surprising outcome that maybe Namor was equally as stubborn and perhaps just as petty as she was.

So their second year of marriage was marked by awkward breakfasts and no conjugal visits.

A Shuri returned home to Wakanda after that year, thinking it was very long indeed and had worn on her to be around someone that made her blood burn in her veins and her throat dry and her whole body ache for him, but far too stubborn to ever admit she was wrong, she was contemplating on how the best way would be to ease into it when she went back the next time.

She had time to think about it; she’d completed one of her tasks. Unfortunately, not the water suit. 

But she had learned Talokanian enough so that she wasn’t feeling like the only one not getting the joke anymore. She was sure Namor knew…how could he not? She didn’t have the courage to try speaking to him directly yet in his native tongue, but surely the maids told Namor the goings on at the palace? 

Either way, her plans were thwarted early into her six months at home. If someone were to ask her, she would firmly say that if M’Baku had kept his mouth shut, perhaps she wouldn’t feel so horny and sexually frustrated.

But it wasn’t M’Baku’s fault, it was her own.

Not that Shuri would ever admit that though.

Sometimes, she wondered if her father was having a good old chuckle up in the Ancestral Plane, if she were to prescribe to the idea that he did exist, shaking his head at the daughter and monster of a girl he created when she felt she was wronged.

She didn’t even really remember the comment that she’d made at a monthly update meeting. It had seemed so inconsequential. Namor hadn’t been there. A part of Talokan’s main city had broken off, and that was a huge issue. Shuri would have offered to help had she had a working suit and if she felt like it wouldn’t give Namor the wrong idea to offer her aid. Plus, he was capable, and part of Shuri was still sourly licking her wounds. 

So Shuri was alone, representing Talkoan all by herself.

It hadn’t been part of the officially documented meeting hours. It was while they were waiting for the Italian ambassador to arrive (always late) and everyone was just chatting casually with each other. Someone, Shuri thinks it may have been the Canadian Ambassador, asked what it was like being married to her mysterious husband of hers, and Aneka jumped in with a smirk and made some insinuation about how good the sex was and how she didn’t know how Shuri could bear to leave for six months every year.

Ross tried to settle the questions and was the only one that came to her aid. Then again, it was probably like hearing about your daughter’s sexual activities, and Shuri could see why he’d rather not. 

But it was literally like 50 against one and Shuri couldn’t just pretend like she hadn’t heard.

As stated, she doesn’t even really remember how she responded, except for making it clear that there was no sex happening, so if they could shut up, that would be great.

Which was meant to put a kibosh on the whole affair.

It did not. 

“Well, why not?” M’Baku asked, catching wind of it. 

“What do you mean, ‘why not’?” Shuri demanded, “Surely, there must be hundreds of other topics far more interesting than my sex life. Like what about the new Game of Thrones season, people, eh?” She offered up, hopefully.

“You mean your lack thereof, apparently,” Aneka snickered.

“Well, now I really must know! Is he…cruel to you?” M’Baku asked, suddenly concerned.

“As though that would be an issue,” Shuri scoffed under her breath, “He’d only make that mistake once.” Still, this did little to ease M’Baku, or Ross or Okoye for that matter, who looked like they were going to march right down to Talokan and lecture her husband, “It’s not that!” She threw up her hands, “It’s just an argument we’re having.” 

“An argument in which you have not had sex for a year?” The Russian ambassador’s eyes were wide, “I think I’d go crazy. I couldn’t do that.” 

“I’m sure he’ll come around-,” Nakia began, always coming to the first meeting back after Shuri arrived home, to catch up with her and spend some important sister-in-law bonding time. 

“It’s not him, it’s me, so stop asking,” Shuri said, “Why do you even care so much?” 

Literally, anything was far more interesting than who she was boning. 

But, even as she said it, and saw M’Baku’s flinch, she knew it wasn’t true.

Sadly, as the last surviving member of a very prestigious Wakandan Tribe, her sexual activities were - at the very least- M’Baku’s concern. If she ever were to have children, the order of telling people that happy news would be Namor and then M’Baku right after. She was given so many luxuries, but the freedom of her own sexual life was not entirely one of them. 

“What do you mean ‘it’s you’?” Okoye asked with narrowed, confused eyes. 

Shuri glanced at the clock, and then the door, really hoping that the late ambassador would make his grand appearance, frazzled and apologetic, so she could get out of this.

But no such luck was granted to her.

She did the best she could to explain, without the nitty-gritty details, expecting most to be on her side. She was also going to finish it up by saying she might be ready to lower her wall soon, and then sarcastically add that she would send a carrier pigeon to all of them personally when it happened since they seemed so keen to know.

But the expressions that were looking back at her were that of pity. Or amusement.

They found her childish, and stubborn, and they were looking at her with mild laughter, as though they were thinking, ‘Oh, these young silly brides. What a foolish move. One day, she’ll look back and think she was so stupid for this.’ 

This irked Shuri. She was the daughter of a great leader. She was the wife of the second most powerful, and secret, nation in the world. She was the great Black Panther.

She was not someone who needed to be judged for her choices. 

Somehow, in her mind, to hold out longer made sense to her at that moment. That if she could come back next year, after two years, unruffled and shrugging like not jumping Namor’s bones was almost a bore, maybe they’d take her seriously and maybe they’d realize this inaction was a carefully calculated precision move and not a rash, impulsive act akin to a toddler throwing a tantrum. 

Even Nakia was sighing like Shuri didn’t get something, and even though she spoke all the languages of everyone in this room with near fluency, Shuri felt like she was stranded without her translator more than ever.

XXX

Year three was marked by long hours in her lab, trying different proteins and fabrics, and technologies to make a suit that wouldn’t be absolutely obliterated by the water pressure but still be functional and logical.

There were many failed test runs, each more frustrating to her than the last.

She liked having the answers. She didn’t like being faced with an equation that was unsolvable. 

The nights were the worst.

Drenched in sweat and desperate for release that never came quite the way she needed it to, it left her even quicker to lash out or break something in her anger, and those that stayed with her in the lab surely noticed how on edge she seemed.

Even Zizi felt some strange feelings rolling from her, for her little pet stayed far away from Shuri of late, as though terrified to even enter into her orbit where, if she did, she may be snapped at.

It made for a lonely existence.

One day at breakfast, as she was getting up to try to fail again, Namor grasped her wrist. Not tightly, just enough to pause her.

“Shuri…let me help you,” He asked.

“With what?” She asked, raising an eye, “I did not know you had your engineering degree,” She scoffed, “Or that you’re hiding a Nobel Peace Prize in biology somewhere.” 

“No, not with that,” Namor said, his fingers ghosting a circle on the back of her hand, “Let me have you.” 

Shuri snapped her hand away as though he’d burned it.

“I don’t need your pity. And besides,” She huffed, “I thought you wanted sweet. I’m not in the mood for that,” She said, starting to stalk away, but Namor slid in front of her, eyes raised.

“You are a nightmare to be around,” He said bluntly. She clenched her jaw, furious, “No one else is brave enough to say anything, but I’m not afraid of you.” 

“Perhaps you should be,” Shuri said, and though she felt dwarfed by his size, she knew she’d win against him in a fight.

It had already happened. 

“Shuri, my stubborn wife,” He groaned, “No strings. Just ease…back…” He said, pushing her backward with each step until she was backed up against the table they’d just had their meal on. 

Her breath hitched. She wanted it so much. To be so close to the object of her desires, so near to taking what she wanted, was pure torture. 

“We can pretend this never happened,” He assured, “Save your pride,” He murmured, his fingers between her legs, already wet and warm and responding to his fingers with such electricity that she didn’t know if her legs could hold her, “And let this happen.” 

“Oh, damn it,” She cussed, but it was in the Talokan equivalent. Namor’s eyebrows raised slightly, which she took to be an act since she doubted that this was a surprise that she knew it.

It’s what they always joked about; the most important words to know in a different language were ‘where is the bathroom’ and every swear word. True to the jest, she’d learned their swears first.

Namor yanked the tablecloth off, sending their plates crashing to the ground, their cream puddling at their feet and sugar cubes skidding against the marble floors as he pushed Shuri up onto the seat and spread her legs like a late-night dessert offering. 

“Shuri, Shuri, Shuri…” He clicked his tongue, “Whatever will I do with you?” He asked, taking his hand away. She whimpered at the sudden removal, hips raising to try to chase him back. 

They were both so desperate that he didn’t even bother removing her underwear or taking his pants off, he just pushed them aside, his fingers scissoring inside her to prepare Shuri, though she hardly needed coaxing stimulation, before he grasped the outside of her thighs to give himself leverage as he pushed all the way inside of her.

Shuri groaned, fingers behind her head, grasping the edge of the table, shoving her hands so tightly against the lip that she was sure the indent would be emblazoned on her palms all day after.

It was so sinfully good. It was the way she needed it, the way Namor said he wouldn’t give her, but here he was, taking the first tentative step towards an olive branch. 

As her back arched, and her forehead dipped backward as far as it could go, Namor licked his finger and began rubbing demanding, hurried circles underneath her most sensitive hood. 

Shuri gasped, her breath being pulled like a fisherman hooking a line, losing the air from her chest all at once. 

Namor’s actions were jerky and erratic, and as Shuri rode the ebbing waves of pleasure, she felt Namor pull her body towards his, his hands digging into her waist, to hold her steady as he finished too.

Shuri only lay for a second; the table was dreadfully uncomfortable as she came back to it, and she knew that someone must have heard the crash. She didn’t want anyone coming to find them like this, thrown over the breakfast table like they were teenagers that couldn’t control themselves.

“Hopefully you’ll be a more pleasant person,” Namor said dryly as he cleaned himself up, and began picking up broken pieces of ceramic from the ground.

“It must have been eating at you too,” Shuri shot back, “Because that didn’t take you long either. Just as much as I ached, so must have you.” 

Namor paused, looking up at her, head tilted, “I always want you, make no mistake there. But it’s been…a year and a half?” He asked, as though he didn’t know exactly how long it had been like Shuri did, counting each day in her mind, “I think you are laboring under the delusion that I spend my nights crying on my pillow, Shuri.” He said shortly. 

“I didn’t say that,” She crossed her arms, adjusting her dress strap, “But I do want you to admit you missed this.” She said, waving an arm.

“Would it make you feel better to hear it?” He asked. Shuri blinked, about to argue that she didn’t need to be consoled, she just needed to be right, but Namor sighed, “I suppose it must be hard for you to think of, but a year and a half to me is…” He thought hard, “Like the equivalent of a single weekend. Immortality means that time passes differently for me.” 

Shuri felt stupid for not considering this. Her perception of a year and his perception of a year were absolutely at odds. 

She should have remembered; she recalled Thor talking about how to humans, it seemed that he had the worst ten or so years of his life. To Thor, it was like he’d experienced one really weird summer, in comparison to how much life he’d already lived and likely would continue to in the future.

“You’ll understand one day,” Namor consoled. 

She supposed he was right. To withhold sex for a year as an early twenty-year-old felt like a grand portion of her life, or at least, a large fraction of the time she’d wanted to have sex. When she was 50, a year and a handful of loose change would hardly feel like any time at all.

“Well, then, thank you for taking time out of your busy weekend to attend to your hysterical wife,” Shuri said, grabbing her beads from the ground and stalking out.

The most infuriating thing about all of this…she could have sworn she heard Namor chuckle as she stalked out of the dining room.

XXX

She made it nearly to the end of that year before her resolve broke.

She’d realize something. 

Sure, for Namor, it was no time at all wasted.

But Shuri wasn’t like Namor. And to deny herself the thing that she was not only allowed to have but enthusiastically encouraged, felt silly and frustrating.

It wasn’t that their breakfast romp had made her a happier person the rest of the day (well, it had), but it also seemed to rewire something in her brain and suddenly she found a solution to a problem she’d been testing out for weeks.

Though she could pretend it was by her own intelligence, Shuri knew that coming into the project satiated with a clear mind and a fresh perspective was vital.

So, Shuri prepared, on the second to last night, to do something she’d never done before…wave the white flag of surrender.

She chooses a literal white dress for this occasion, pure as the freshly driven snow. It was symbolic and metaphorical and made her feel soft and gentle and the sort of person that would have quiet, emotional sex with her husband.

When she found Namor, he seemed to know. 

“Tonight, after dinner?” He asked, “We can have a feast.”

Shuri didn’t have her words, her tongue twisting itself and her stomach flip-flopping with anxiety, worse than her first time at their wedding night, so she managed a nod.

She was treated like a Princess at dinner. Expensive wine, perfectly cooked food, chocolate dessert…and at that moment, she realized that all of this was almost a form of foreplay. The domesticity of it all, the caring put into the meal.

Namor took the first moves. Better, since all Shuri knew was the rushed sex she was so familiar with. But she didn’t have to say that. Namor could read her so easily. 

He started by slowly disrobing her, kissing every inch of her skin, leaving no inch of flesh untouched by his lips. 

She thought the slow pace would drive her crazy, but instead, she felt like she was being worshipped. She felt like he was giving reverence to each inch of her like he was doing some ritual with every piece of skin he uncovered. 

All the while, his fingers were touching her arms, her back, her scalp, and they were just… touching her. Human contact, leaving no part of her not having at least a moment where his warm hands ghosted across her. 

She did the same for him, exploring Namor for the true first time like she was a cartographer discovering new lands, and trying to commit each scar, each freckle, and each shadow to an everlasting memory. 

Once they were both naked, Namor rolled her underneath him, kissing her deeply. His movements between her legs were almost lazy like they had all the time in the world. He wasn’t teasing her, but he was working slowly, giving the same all-over treatment to the last uncharted body region. 

She could feel him harden against her thigh, but every time she tried to help him, he shooed her hand away, reminding her that he was taking the pace, and he wasn’t done with her yet. 

By the time Shuri was panting, two orgasms down and pulled from her like he was pulling at a loose thread, slowly by slowly, she was wet enough that despite the fact he was very hard, he had no resistance at all. 

He’d moved them so that he was behind her, his forehead burrowing into the space down her neck, his warm chest against her back as he moved achingly slowly, always drawing himself out and back in at a slow, molasses pace. 

Shuri was sure she wouldn’t get off at all, but something about the precision and careful execution of each thrust, how he made sure to not only push his hips forward, but up, and from the angle of him behind her, she felt a surprise orgasm build. It wasn’t like the flashes of lightning she usually experienced, but this one was like a volcanic eruption over thousands of years.

It built slowly, the warmth raising with each thrust, as she moved her hips to meet Namor’s. 

“Say my name, my darling,” Namor whispered against her ear, “Please.” His breath was short, pleading. 

“Which name?” She asked, “You have so many.”

It wasn’t meant to be snarky. It was genuine. He wore many faces in his life, and Shuri was hedging her bets that he didn’t want just a breathy ‘Namor’. 

“No, not Namor,” He agreed, amused, as though reading her mind, “You are not my enemy, though sometimes I think you believe you are, and sometimes even I think you perhaps may be. But despite it, we’re not meant to be at odds.” 

“Shall I call you K’ul’-,” She began, but Namor stopped her.

“No. That is the name of a God. I have thousands that call me that in worship. I do not need another follower.” He said, turning Shuri around so he was looking right at her.

“Then what should I call you?” She whispered, “If not a name of war, and if not a name of power? What am I to you?” 

“I seek a goddess. An equal,” He murmured into a kiss, sweet as fruit wine, “A partner. A strong mind and gentle loving heart, to become the mother of my dynasty. Someone who knows the parts that even my cousin does not know fully.” 

There was a pause, and Shuri just watched him, knowing that she was dismantling a wall that he’d had up for eons.

“Ch'ah Toh Almehen is a name that I do not think anyone besides me remembers anymore. It is a face that I have not needed since my mother died.” He said quietly. 

“Is that the name she gave you?” She asked quietly, fingernails brushing against his cheek. 

“It is. But when she died, it’s like I buried that name with her. I was given the name Namor that day, and I was so angry and violent and wanted to taste the blood of those who wronged me that no one called me that again. I became the god that my people prayed to. I became something bigger than just a child born to a mother who loved him more than her own life. And then…everyone who knew me as Ch’ah died, and no one ever asked again.” 

“I’ve been married to you three years, and only now do I know your name…” She paused, “Does that mean our marriage is void?” 

“I think that names for me and for you are not as strictly bound by the government that declares we must use it. Besides, you are mine, and that doesn’t need a piece of stamped paper to prove that.” 

He moved inside of her still, “Please. Use my name. I think I’ve almost forgotten the boy that used it once.” 

Shuri kissed him, and murmured, “Ch’ah.” It was quiet, almost inaudible, almost just the essence of it. It sent a shiver down both of their spines, something almost otherworldly to bring back to life a name that had laid dormant for so many years. 

She felt strange to know something so intimate about him, something that not even Attuma or Namora knew truly. She hoarded it, promising herself she would keep this secret safe. 

In the aftermath, with Namor massaging her, he paused, “Have you figured out why you must hate me?” 

And while that question, perhaps before this night, would have sent Shuri into anger again, and made her throw him out, she felt like they’d both passed a line together, traversing into an experiment where they maybe would not be strangers in this union, but something more, Perhaps not lovers.

Partners, that’s how Namor had described it.

So she decided to be truthful.

“I don’t know.” 

“Do you still hate me?” Namor asked, quick as a hare. 

Shuri took a long time to answer this one.

“I don’t think I want to, but some part of me still does. And I don’t know how to let it go yet. I can’t unclench this feeling, I cannot let it travel downstream. I’m…sorry.” She paused, almost unable to say an apology, but forced herself to speak it.

“We are making progress,” Namor said, almost unbothered, but this was one time she knew that he was very good at hiding disappointment, “And I thank you for being honest. And I hope that this effort will not slide back when you leave.” 

“It won’t,” Shuri said, and she felt a lightness to her. Like she may be able to face the council and not give a damn about their silly opinions or misguided thoughts of her. Because she had someone in her corner now, for better or for worse. And that meant, equally, she should be in his.

“It won’t. I don’t want it to.” 

That was also the truth.

To Shuri, playing with realities felt far scarier than playing with lies. She didn’t know what came next after pouring her and his soul out.

“We have an eternity to figure it out,” Namor said, half asleep, in a response to a question she didn’t know she asked out loud.

Chapter Text

For the most part, the next two years passed in a state of perpetual mutual toleration. There was no lost love between the pair yet, but it wasn’t exactly hate either. It was something in between, living, breathing, and moving.

Shuri didn’t know how to classify it, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to. Whatever it was, it worked for them. 

They’d have meals, at least one every day, together, and they’d sometimes joke and laugh like they were old lovers. On other days it was perfunctory and the tension could be felt, so thick that it was choking her. The days passed and changed moods without warning, and sometimes her hatred for Namor was so strong it would stifle the air in her lungs and force angry tears to rise to the surface. And sometimes he would snap at her, his face as like a stone sheet, no hint of any affection behind the darkness in his eyes.

No matter what, though, the sex was always good.

Shuri had learned her lesson. No more vain attempts to withhold that. It was for her own sanity more than his, since she was mortal and a year did not feel like a weekend, but more like a decade. 

But, she also had grown a backbone. She always stood up and dug her feet in when she was faced with something she didn’t agree with, but until now, she hadn’t known how to really hold her own in situations where it seemed everyone still saw her as a child, as T’Challa’s baby sister.

The first year, in the Wakanda Council, she just kept a tight lid on any questions. She noticed no one ever asked Namor about it, but then again, he was a bit intimidating. He wasn’t the warm, smiling person in these councils that he was sometimes with her, and she doubted that anyone had managed to get a word in with Namor that wasn’t strictly business. So they regarded him with awe in both senses of the term; the awe and amazement in which children watched Avengers, and the gothic sense of awe that made certain people true leaders.

Shuri envied him. Some part of her wanted to be him. Wanted to garner that much attention, that much respect. She didn’t want to be seen as a girl being forced into a marriage in which, she knew, everyone talked about her with mild pity. She wanted to be seen as a Queen, as someone deserving that inspired fear with a single look. 

It seemed as soon as she was not the Black Panther, people relaxed and responded to her as the child they’d known before.

So she tried a different tactic the second year.

Before Namor was in the room, when one of the ambassadors was ‘just making small talk’ again and grossly overstepping her bounds, Shuri described to the entire table in a calm and collected explicit detail about last night, in which their sex had been some of the dirtiest they’d shared in quite a few months.

This commanded a hushed, horrified silence in the room, with Okoye glaring hard at her like she was a teacher about to lecture Shuri, Nakia almost smiling, Ross looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, and M’Baku fuming (though at who, it was hard to tell.) 

The person who had asked the question broke the silence, squawking about how inappropriate that answer had been, and that she should have more ‘dignity’ and ‘respect for one’s self’. 

“My mistake. You asked a very personal question, so I assumed you wanted a very personal answer,” Shuri said, “And you are surely one to talk of dignity when I bet your husband doesn’t know you’ve been screwing one of the palace footmen for the last two years.” She said. There was much infidelity floating around, and lots of sin in the palace. That was how it is, an adult truth realized that shattered the fairytale sort of illusion. Usually, these indiscretions were kept quiet, but Shuri did not feel like bending to someone who should know better than to throw rocks at glass houses and such as the saying went. 

“That’s a bold accusation,” The woman sputtered, furious. 

“It’s only a ‘bold accusation’ if it is not true. Since it is, it goes simply by another word. The truth.” Shuri said, never breaking, “You demanded the truth from me and offered nothing in return. How rude of you. So I returned the favor instead.” 

No one ever inquired boorishly about her love life or how being married to Namor was ever again.

By the time Namor entered, half the room couldn’t look at Shuri at all, and the other half was red as tomatoes when they caught his eye, before also staring intently at the table.

Afterward, Shuri told Namor what had transpired, expecting him to be upset. He was a personal, private person. She doubted even Namora knew the exact workings of his mind or what they were to each other, and airing their dirty laundry like that probably should have been something she gave paused before acting upon.

Instead, Namor pulled Shuri onto his lap, grinning.

“My panther finally found her teeth,” He said, leaning up to kiss her, “But the next time, tear their throats out.” 

XXX

Namor was not a model citizen. He wasn’t redeemed through the act of marriage, through the gentle touch of a woman’s hand. He wasn’t swayed by logic and affection.

Shuri knew this going into the marriage, but sometimes, she was still surprised by the fact that Namor could sometimes feel like two very different people.

There was the person he was with her, her husband, Ch’ah. A name used strictly when they were alone, and never outside of the sea palace walls.

With her, sometimes, he was the most human she’d ever seen him. He’d tell stories about his day and play with Zizi. Genuine, funny, generous. He worshipped every inch of her body. He made her sing. He always assured that she had a good time first. 

But then, there was the side that gained him the title of ‘a man without love’. The reason he had enemies far and wide that shuddered at his name. The reason his people would die for him.

The darkness of him.

It was the side that would not hesitate to kill someone if it meant he kept his people safe, or it got him where he needed to be. He had never apologized for killing her mother, and somehow Shuri knew he never would. It was the side of him that not only lived in the sweetness of temptation and vices but actively tried to pull Shuri into there too. Begged her to give up her morals. Asked her to let the blood run down her throat, to become vicious. To burn the world with him. 

The issue wasn’t that this side of Namor surprised Shuri, or that she had hoped that he would change, like a foolish young-adult novel protagonist. 

She had married a god of death, or the closest one could get without literally being a god like Thor. She knew exactly who Namor was when she agreed. She knew that he was obsessive, and protective, and would never let her go. As long as he lived, Shuri was to be his wife. 

The issue was that, as much as she liked the sweeter moments together, the vulnerable ones where they swapped stories about growing up or the time she’d convinced him to watch a movie with her that one time, she felt electrified by that other side of him.

She knew it was wrong to want him like that. 

She should be afraid. She should be disgusted. She should be the good girl she was raised to be, and refuse him whenever he changed his mood or made a choice that Shuri morally disagreed with.

But in truth…she wanted him even more during those times.

It wasn’t a rebellious ‘going for the bad boy’ to make her mother upset. She had no mother to judge her anymore, and it felt deeper. It felt like there was some part of Shuri too, the part that had summoned Killmonger and not her mother or her brother, that almost felt relieved to have found someone that had the darkness in her heart that she did. 

He had just gotten years and years to act on it, while Shuri’s darkness mostly stayed dormant.

She doubted T’Challa ever struggled as she had. When defending, sometimes she had to remind herself multiple times to not maul them and leave them just ribbons of flesh but to allow them to live. T’Challa didn’t seem the type to want to kill, the way Shuri did. 

She wondered if he’d be angry with her.

Angry that she even had to stop herself in the first place, or angry that she was drawn to Namor in all his ways, the good and the very bad, and she didn’t outright denounce the way he handled the protection of his nation.

The threats to Talokan were small in the times that Shuri was around, so she didn’t have to confront her moral compass too much. The worst attack had actually been the one from Wakanda, and everything since then had been easily manageable issues, usually only needed to dispatch a few warriors instead of Namor himself having to handle it.

She knew the shoe was meant to eventually drop. Having the only other place in the world with Vibranium, and America’s obsession to possess it, meant that eventually, this fight would come to a head again.

But, by the time it was happening, Shuri was none the wiser. Not until Attuma came to visit her in her lab.

“What?” She snapped, “I’m very busy. In the middle of something.” She should have known. Attuma never came to give her news. It was usually a maid or something similar, or Namor himself if it was bigger. 

“I have been informed to tell you that Namor’s gone to war,” Attuma said, speaking without emotion, “And he asks if you have anything to help with healing, to have it ready when he returns.” 

“What?” Shuri looked up, startled, “What do you mean he’s gone to war?” 

“He’s gone to protect us,” Attuma said, “With 200 of the best warriors. The Americans have deployed what are called their SEALs to mine and find Vibranium close to us.” 

“Were you warrior 201?” Shuri asked sarcastically, "Didn't make the cut?" 

Attuma gave her a hard glare, “My sister is close to labor. Her husband was asked to go, so I volunteered to stay in case she gives birth.” 

“Oh,” Shuri blinked, “How…kind.” She grabbed items, “Where is he? I’m going to find him. He could use the Black Panther.” 

Any attack on them for their Vibranium had rippling consequences for Wakanda. Far better to get this settled now. 

“You cannot.” 

“I can fight. Or would it make you shameful for a battle to be won by the Black Panther?” She sneered, “I will find him-,” She began, angry most of all that Namor had not even asked her before he’d gone, or that he’d sent someone to tell her, like a war wife that waited up at a window for her husband. 

“You need to stay here,” Attuma said, standing in front of her, “And before you take your claws out, kitty,” He said derisively, “If Namor dies…” He paused, swallowing, as though greatly distressed even to speak the idea, “You’re all we have. You would be the ruler, as per the marriage traditions.” 

Shuri paused in place, slowly raising her head.

They’d never talked about this directly, but Attuma was right. Though Namor was immortal, it didn’t mean he couldn’t be killed in battle. Just not by age or illness. 

She’d seen it in his eyes before she’d allowed him to yield. That had been actual fear. He had thought she was seconds from killing him.

He could die.

At some point, he’d shared these thoughts with Attuma. And if the person that perhaps hated Shuri the least was acknowledging that she would be the next Talokan leader if something did happen felt like a huge deal.

“Is that really such a concern? Namor is a skilled fighter, as are all of you,” Shuri knit her eyebrows. The idea of Namor dying in this battle, or any other here on out, was almost impossible for her to conceive.

“From our research, SEALs are…” Attuma struggled and finally used a native word, something that amounted to a translation of ‘no joke, militant, and serious as hell’, “So…there is a concern. Miniscule, but it is there.” 

“Okay,” Shuri said, “I will wait. But you need to take me to his chambers.” She commanded, “So I know exactly when he arrives home.” 

Attuma stiffened, “Namor does not like people in his space-,” 

“I am his wife. I am not merely people.” Shuri scoffed, “Take me there. Now. And I will continue working on healing draughts while I wait.” 

The fact that she even needed Attuma to direct her was telling. He always came to the Palace. He had a room between the Palace and under the water, but Shuri had never been fully in there. It seemed like a bit too personal, something that up until this point, she’d cared about keeping a respectful distance about.

As she was led to his room, she realized how foolish that sounded. And how silly she probably seemed, being led there like a doe-eyed giggling girl with a crush, not the wife of a ruthless leader that was, if he did not return home, the one that would be making the choices for his (no, their ) nation.

She shoved her water suit, nearly completed, into a bag, fully prepared to be taken down beneath the depths of the water. It's where his throne was, his people, and his whole heart. She was not naive enough to think that she was counted in the contents of his most beloved, and this did not bother her. If she had wanted to marry for love, she would have found a way to transport herself into a Disney Princess movie.

However, she was shocked when Attuma led her past the mural hall and the chambers where she’d first been taken to, down winding catacombs and paths, with only the bioluminescence of the caves twinkling above her. She wondered, briefly, if Attuma was taking her down here to kill her until they reached a narrow hallway.

“Through there,” Attuma said, motioning. 

“Are you going to be with your sister?” 

“Yes,” Attuma said, “You won’t be trouble in here, will you?” He asked with a sneer. 

“That’s none of your concern,” Shuri said with a forced smile, “Give your sister my good luck.” 

Attuma gave a jerky nod, clearly having zero intention of doing so, and left Shuri. She hoped she could find her way back because her running theory was that Attuma had just decided to abandon her in the middle of nowhere.

Yet, as she came around the corner, she realized that this must be Namor’s bedroom.

It was exactly how she imagined it to be and, equally, not at all.

There was a bed, a table, and a chair. Very sparse furniture other than that. Almost utilitarian. Off to the side was a bathroom, something slightly more modern than what she would be expected for someone who claimed to hate the modern world so much (but then again, certain revolutions, like proper plumbing and bathrooms, were certainly welcome). 

There wasn’t much to tell her a great deal about him. It wasn’t like any of the bedrooms she’d seen, little ecosystems that spoke entire stories about the person inside of it. She was struggling to find things to take away from his room, but she figured she had hours to weigh it out.

Was he clean because he had so few things or because he liked tidiness? 

Did he have so few things because he was a guy or because he was immortal, and things were so fleeting to him? 

Was it a nod to traditionalism, or was it a lack of interest in the mortal world? 

Did he prefer a bedroom up here, or was it necessary, because he could not actually live full-time under the water? 

Was his room always here, or had he moved recently, to be closer to Shuri’s palace? 

He did have a pool of water near the far side, no doubt a quick entrance to the underwater Palace.

The water was warm and she sat with her feet in the opening, watching the ripples kick against her legs. 

Up on a shelf were the only personalized pieces in this room, and they were hidden so far back that she almost missed them. Getting up to investigate, she saw a physical linear timeline of the world; from the era he was born into, all the way up to the most recent battle with Wakanda- she spied a defunct pair of beads sitting on the last spot in the line of items.

She tilted her head. These were not mementos of his favorite moments in history, like collecting postcards from every decade or a cell phone for each big jump as it advanced. This was, instead, a collection of trophies. A war prize, likely from each big battle or war he’d ever been in. Some pieces still had flecks of dried blood wedged into the etching.

She had a feeling that Wakanda was the first nation he’d ever lost to, and as it was, he nearly took her and her people out, wiping them from the mat.

A shiver ran up her spine and she wondered…how many of these trophies were from communities that no longer existed, wiped away by Namor and his warriors? 

She stepped away, the answer pulling up her throat uncomfortably…no one stayed this secret for so long without silencing a few people first. 

She finally settled herself back onto the bed. It was large and some ceremonial woven blankets lay over a thin comforter. It was not as hard as she assumed it to be, for some reason having the absurd idea in her head that Namor slept on a slab of rock or something. He had a few books near his desk, an odd spattering of literary merits. 

There were some sea-faring semi-historical books, like The Voyage of Kon-Tiki or Robinson Crusoe, and there were some fiction books and a few ancient-looking journals (not his) that seemed like they might fall apart at the seams. 

On a shelf down were his paints and brushes. No art sketchbook, as he’d told her he had never used his clear talents for personal art, just for the murals. 

She finally settled on a book, after finishing a battalion of healing salves, and then, Shuri waited.

It was hard to count exactly how long Namor had been gone. Grigot didn’t work so far under the cave system, but it didn’t matter. She was settled that she would wait for him until he returned. It had been dark when she’d arrived, and it was dark still when he came home, so how long it had been was really anyone’s guess.

He didn’t have any electricity, just candles, and lights, but they left faint glows in pockets of his room, instead of illuminating the whole area. Which is why when she heard footsteps and she set the book down and looked up, when Namor came into the room he didn’t see Shuri at first. 

She would never forget this moment and how he looked. It was seared into her brain, a juxtaposition slamming into her so quickly and so violently that she felt at war with herself at that moment. Namor looked equally parts horrifying and utterly sinful at the same time.

He was just wearing his shorts, nothing more. His body, besides this, was clothed in blood.

It caked onto his skin, dried and wet all the same, in patches. It took just a quick once over for Shuri to realize that none of it was his, or very little of it was his, so this meant he had been right in the fray, never willing to send his warriors into a fight he wasn’t also willing to participate in.

He looked tired. Exhaustion seemed to carry his footsteps. He stumbled to the back of the room, where that shelf was, and in a hand that had been fisted, he set a small item there; a bloodstained badge. 

His jaw locked as he stared at it, and when he turned around, he wiped his hand over his mouth as though to stifle a yawn and pulled his fingers down his neck. His palms, dripping with blood, left almost an artistic swatch of blood over his face.

“I am become death, destroyer of worlds,” Shuri whispered, no other way to describe how Namor looked right now than a true God of the underworld, having tipped the toll to send more souls to the afterlife. 

Though it had been a long shot, Shuri had wondered if perhaps he would settle this with his words. It was clear he had not, and in most likelihood, had killed every single one of them.

“Will Wakanda have to dodge accusations tomorrow?” Shuri asked, suddenly furious. Not just that Namor hadn’t thought to tell her, but that he had done something that- while it would keep him safe- would be dropping Wakanda right back into an investigation. Fewer than Shuri would like had even believed Wakanda the first time around. 

Namor turned sharply, and his eyes were blown out, dark as night. No humor, no laughter, no teasing. Just a cold, still war-like expression on his face, as though he didn’t know how to switch between the two with ease. 

“What are you doing in here?” He asked, his tone clipped and tone a thin growl. 

“You didn’t answer my question. Did you just put Wakanda in a war with the Americas?" She demanded. 

“Of course not,” Namor said like he was furious she would ever suggest that, “I promised you we would be allies. America will be looking to Nigerian Pirates as the culprits tomorrow. Not a trace left to track back to us,” He said, “And now, I repeat my question. Why are you in here?” He asked, coming to stand at the foot of the bed, between her legs. 

“You decided to leave for war without having the decency to tell me. Instead, you sent Attuma, who also dropped the bomb on me that apparently, I would be the leader if you did die?” She scoffed, “You’re lucky I didn’t swim out there and drag you back by your stupid pointy ears, you fucking emotionless Vulcan.” 

Namor’s eyebrows crinkled, “I…do not understand that reference,” He murmured. 

“That’s not the point of any of that! The point is-,” 

“I get the point,” He cut her off, grounding his teeth, “Did you think becoming my wife meant you’d just be tasted with nothing?” He asked. 

“No, but this still seems like it deserves to be a conversation.” She looked him up and down, tracking the blood that spattered him like a Pollock painting, “Are they all dead?” She asked with a quiver.

“All of them,” Namor purred, pushing Shuri back onto the bed with a firm hand, “Does that bother you, darling? To hear that?” He asked in her ear, his other hand digging into her thigh, “No…” He said after a moment, almost shocked, “You’re upset because it doesn’t bother you. In fact, I’d say it turns you on,” He said, pressing a finger to her nub and making soft circles over her underwear. Shuri let out one gasp before covering her lips and shaking her head.

“No, it doesn’t,” She argued.

“When why are you so wet, Shuri?” He laughed, “Why have you not shoved me off and insisted I wash off? Why did I see the way your eyes looked me up and down before?” He asked in her ear as she writhed beneath his hand. 

“Why are you doing this now?” She gasped out, “Aren’t you tired?” 

“No. I want to devour the world,” Namor said, eyes alight with what some may call sheer insanity, “But tonight, you’ll have to do.” 

Shuri gasped as he tore off her pants, leaving the tattered ends hanging as he shoved his face between her thighs, fingernails making half-moon marks on her skin.

There was nothing sweet about this right now. It was violent, harsh, and needy, and Namor was unyielding. He bit and nipped between her legs, pushing the line far enough and then over it, just slightly, as he opened her up and the fingernails on his hands scraped up inside of her, the nailbeds coming out bloody.

“If I tell you to stop, will you?” She asked with a narrowed glare. 

“Yes,” Namor said, “But I will ask you to leave my room immediately.” He paused, “Do you want me to?” 

Did she? Did she want him like this? Dripping with blood, high on a bloodthirsty victory, and in the mood to continue taking, and taking, and taking just as he had been in the war? 

Yes. Two can play that game, you have claws too.

The answer whispered somewhere in the back of her brain.

“No, I don’t,” Shuri said, opening her legs wider and squeezing Namor where she could to push him farther up against her.

For all the times that it had been rough, far outweighing the times their sex had not, this felt different somehow. More erratic, less controlled. It was like Namor was on the precipice of a ledge and every second she was sure he was about to fall off it and drag Shuri down under the earth with him.

This is what she had thought their first wedding night would be like.

The hatred and lusting and wanting were so intermingled that it all tasted the same; the coppery tang of blood on both of their tounges. 

While she had appreciated his gesture the night they were wed to go slowly and take the time that was needed, she’d felt like something hadn’t clicked quite right that entire time, as she had just been waiting for a wrong to be fixed, for something under her feet to shift and pull her deep within herself.

And this was exactly that.

This was all the pent-up confused feelings Shuri had been battling with for all the years she’d been married, and likely fighting for many years before that. It was a catharsis of the highest satisfaction, and Shuri realized all at once that she couldn’t breathe, but the lack of oxygen made her feel lighthearted and freer than she ever had before.

Her fingernails tore into his skin, but he did the same.

Just as this was the moment she’d been wanting for so long, as his fingers drew blood, she wondered if this was what he needed too. If not totally realized, some part of him was still longing for that victory, to kill her as he’d hoped in the battle on the beach.

But he wouldn’t kill her.

No more than she would kill him.

She could almost see it; the red thread of fate tying them together, and perhaps, she could see that it stretched far in both directions, a bond that existed before they ever met and would exist long into the future.

Shuri found her breath with a gasping, anguish sob.

With strength only usually used for when she was fighting an enemy as the Black Panther, she flipped them so she was on top, pressing her nails tightly against his throat, wondering if she was wrong.

She did not think that Namor would kill her, but she wondered if she held it within her to kill him. She’d long held the opinion that it was her conscious speaking to her that made her spare Namor, not her mother speaking from beyond. Deep down, Shuri was not Killmonger and was unable to end the life of anyone, even someone like Namor. Even as the Black Panther, she had never killed anyone, always finding ways to incapacitate them. And she’d believed that to be her better nature. Sure, sometimes she thought about it, but she never had. And she'd always thought that the thing separating her from Namor was a good conscience, and that voice telling her to kill those who wronged her wasn't exactly her, but something else, some holdover from doing the Heart Shaped Herb with an unknown entity from Talokan. 

But staring down at Namor now, she wasn’t entirely sure. As her hand tightened and Namor did nothing to stop her, she imagined what it would be like to feel him die.

She was struck by the thought like lightning. The realization that she could kill him. That some part of her almost wanted to, even now. 

This meant that, impossibly, it must be her mother who actually appeared beyond the grave and actually swayed her choice.

And this, the breaking into truth and faith and the belief in the afterlife, broke Shuri.

“I hate you,” She said, the truth tearing from her throat. This in itself was not anything new, this announcement not shocking Namor by any means, but what came after was, “I hate you for so many reasons. But the reasons I cannot…I must not forgive you…” She pressed her lips together, trying to keep them from trembling, “You killed my family. Everything I had left. But now you’re all I have.” She grasped at her own skin, finding it impossible to be in it at that moment, wanting to tear away and be anyone but herself, “You are the person who wrought such agony but are the person that I am tied to. And I enjoy moments with you,” Shuri spat out, “But the worst offense is that the herb that could save my brother was here…the whole…time. And I will never forgive myself for not searching harder, for not finding it sooner. For not finding you sooner. Every time I look at you, and know that your life was saved by it, I cannot help but think about how my brother never got that chance. If only I had found you just a bit earlier. Or if you had made contact with us. It would have been different.” 

Namor was quiet for a long moment. 

“You cannot imagine yourself happy,” He said quietly, “So you must make up reasons to be angry with me.” 

“Do not dismiss me!” She spat, “Like I am a child!” 

“I’m not!” Namor snapped back, “I never set out to kill your mother. I had no idea she would protect the life of a girl she didn’t even know. I could not have predicted at any moment! But you were the one who refused to give up that girl, who let yourself be taken and let one of my children die on the cold ground of the caves, and it was you who was so stubborn in protecting the life of one compared to the entirety of your nation!” 

“Do not turn this back on me and vilify me for having compassion!” Shuri exploded, “Or blame me for my own mother’s death!” 

“But you blame yourself!” Namor threw out his hands, “And somehow you are still blind to it. You do blame all of your misery on yourself. You said it yourself; if you had found us earlier. If you had known about the herb in the bracelet. If you, if you, if you!”  Namor shook his head, “Do you not think it was equally difficult for me and my people? As your nation said, you were led to believe you were the only ones with this gift. That your ancestors choose you specifically. How do you think I must feel?” 

Shuri opened her mouth, but Namor spoke over her, “I know you care little for your ancestors and traditions but that is all I have, Shuri! It is what I was raised on, it is what gave me power! I do not even know if I am just a mortal or a god or some horrible mix of in-between. And then you…Wakanda opens itself up to the world and we have to also contend with the idea that we’re not what I told my people we were for hundreds and hundreds of years!” 

He inhaled hard. She watched his nostrils flare, and then, a quiet sigh.

“I would have given it to you if things had been different. The herb. If I’d known earlier.” 

Shuri frowned, shaking her head, “No, you wouldn’t have. You would not make such an important gift.” 

“Who said it would have been a gift?” Namor asked, drawing Shuri close to him, and pulling her across the bed, “I would not have given it without strings attached.” 

“What would you have asked for?” Shuri asked, her voice quivering. 

“Do you really need to ask?” Namor questioned, entering her again, holding her firmly, “It would always be you.” 

“My brother would have never allowed it.” Shuri gasped out, her words coming out in incoherent whispers. 

“But you would have never let your brother die. You would have gone with me.” Namor said, which was entirely true, “And even so, maybe I would have just taken you. Stolen you away to the underworld. Maybe that’s what I should have done the first time…” Namor whispered, “Let your mother and the scientist live. Make sure you remained with me. You would have, wouldn’t you?” He questioned.

Shuri gave a quiet whimper in agreement, toes curling as Namor continued his fast pace. 

“As you said,” Namor murmured, “We are tied together by something much stronger than I think either of us truly knows. And I think that in any history, you would become mine. It was inevitable.” 

Shuri opened her eyes, displeasure curling in the back of her throat, “I am no one’s prized poodle,” She spat, “Or a pretty canary to sing your praises in my gilded cage.” 

“If you think that’s what you are, darling, you haven’t been paying any attention,” Namor laughed, “My goddess. My equal. My ch’ul . And we will make sure that our people are never ignored or thought to be weak ever again.” 

Shuri finished with a sound like a battle cry, emotions running high all strung out like someone had just torn open her chest and squeezed its contents onto the ground. 

Namor rolled to her side, his fingers tracing the scars on her body from this night of passion, voice drowsy with slumber.

“They will tell stories of us for the next thousand years,” He murmured, pulling her close to him, wiping her tears from her cheeks with his fingers, “About the feathered serpent god and his panther bride. And how no one crossed either of them. You will live forever, Shuri.” 

His voice, like a grand storyteller, lulled her into a sense of calm.

And then, for the first time since she’d married Namor, she slept next to him until morning.

If someone were to have captured a moment of them in the morning, Shuri curled against his chest and Namor's arm wrapped over her, his nose nuzzled against the crown of her head, with a golden morning light spilling across his covers, it was almost what she thought love might look like. 

Chapter Text

It was Toussiant that put the idea in her head. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He, perhaps, pushed it along and moved it to fruition, but honestly, Shuri had already been thinking about it.

Six years after marriage, Toussiant- at the precocious age of eleven, when he was still very much a young boy but starting to take the familiar shape of his father and namesake, was old enough to visit Shuri without his mother. It was the first time any of her family had come at all, the first time Shuri was starting to feel like she was on solid ground with matters, and comfortable enough to want people to see how she lived half her life.

Toussiant arrived with Nakia. His mother would never let him just run off with his favorite Aunt Shuri, even if she did trust her good sister completely. It wasn’t Shuri she was nervous about. 

And, Shuri enjoyed the companionship. She took it upon herself to see Nakia and her nephew as often as she could juggle, but she still felt like she was missing so much of Toussiant growing up, and this often clutched at her heart and made her want to scream or cry. If T’Challa were still alive…

She banished the thought from her head. It was foolish to wonder what the future may have looked like if he had never gotten cancer or if someone had intervened at the last moment or if there was some cure out there no one knew. She had enough brushes with the multiverse- and heard what had befallen Wanda- to know you’d drive yourself mad if you thought of it enough. 

Just before Shuri returned to Namor for her sixth year, Nakia had asked if perhaps Shuri would be okay with entertaining them for a time, and then if Toussiant would be welcome to spend the summer. 

“He’s getting so big, Shuri,” Nakia said, and there was a hint of exasperation in her tone, “And curious. And headstrong. And of course, our little island has passed his interest. And I don’t want him to lose on Wakanda, not yet. So, please- for my sanity-,” 

“You don’t even have to ask,” Shuri had assured her, reaching out, and placing a hand over Nakia’s, “He is always welcome.” 

“Don’t you need to ask your husband?” 

Shuri’s expression darkened, “I am not pulled to his whims. If he wants me to be a ruler just as much as he, my family is welcome,” Shuri snapped. 

“Sorry, it just…” Nakia laughed a bit, “Taking on a pre-teen for two months isn’t exactly like hosting us for a weekend.” 

“Namor wants me to feel like it is my home too,” Shuri relaxed her venom, “I doubt he will be so angry with me.” 

And in truth, Namor reacted almost exactly as Shuri guessed. And, if she thought about it, it maybe should have startled her that, in her mind, she could have almost guessed his response, right down to the cadence of which he said it. 

“I’m pleased you feel like you would want them to visit,” Namor said when she sprung this on him- not asking, just telling, “I hope your young nephew has an enjoyable time here and takes the opportunity to grow from the knowledge of our nation.” 

Shuri held in a snort behind her hand, “He’s eleven, Ch’ah. I doubt he’s going to be super interested in civics or history. From what I hear, all he cares about is Pokemon and Star Wars and driving his mother mad. Do you not remember how you were at that age?” 

Namor looked a tad uncomfortable, perhaps ruffled, “I was a god and a leader from the moment I was born.” 

“Yes, but, well,” Shuri blinked, “They didn’t expect you at 11 to be making sweeping decisions, did they?” 

“I was already a strong warrior. And they were convinced I was not human, and separate from the rest. So no, you would not call my childhood normal by any means, and it would probably be inaccurate to think I had one, to begin with.” 

Shuri flexed her fists, swallowing. As much as she had been born a Princess with duties and responsibilities, she still braided her doll's hair, had dance parties with her friends in her mother’s old gowns, and had tea parties with the little robots she’d built to keep herself company. By all accounts, she’d had a wide leash to do all the things any other little girl may wish to do. 

“I’m sorry-,” 

“There is nothing to apologize for. I have never known differently, so there is no longing to be had.” Namor brushed over it evenly, and paused, “What would pique the young Prince’s interest?” 

“Exploring. He’s very tactile. And swimming. And probably friendship. They don’t even need to speak the same language, though I bet by the end of the summer, Toussiant will have picked up our tongue fairly well.” 

Namor grinned. Shuri scowled, confused.

“What?” 

“ Our tongue, my Queen?” 

“Oh! Bast!” Shuri shoved him, “You know what I meant. No need to throw a party about it,” She grouched. 

“Mercy, please, panther,” Namor laughed, “I don’t need to explain another scar to Attuma.” 

“They’ll be here this weekend,” Shuri said, feeling a blush creep up her face, “Nakia for a week, and if she approves, Touissant for the remaining two summer months.” 

Namor nodded, taking the information very seriously, “I will compile a list of worthy companions for Touissant. He will have the best choice for his friendship.” 

Shuri, in spite of herself, couldn’t help but grin, “I appreciate that. I really do.” 

XXX

Nakia and Shuri and Toussiant spent most of the time enjoying the weather and the vacation-esque beaches and the seafood. Not things that were unheard of in Haiti, but they had a different sort of flavor when you were on vacation elsewhere.

Touissant had been introduced to the twins - Kaax and Kan, ten years old- and a girl named Nicte, who was Touissant’s age. They’d only had one ‘playdate’, but Touissant was tickled to have friends, and the langue barrier wasn’t one at all. Joy and imagination needed no common tongue.

“It was kind of Namor to do that,” Nakia said, but there was a worried wrinkle on her face. 

“If you make that face, it’ll set forever,” Shuri said, but part of her felt something die to see Nakia grow old, knowing her brother never would. 

“Oh, off with you!” Nakia shoved her, “We can’t all have your flawless, ageless face. What’s your secret?” She asked, “I’m serious. You look exactly the same as you did on your wedding day.” 

“I’m a few years younger than you. Give it time and I’ll have some gray hairs soon too,” Shuri said, “What gives you such worry?” She asked tenderly. 

“Touissant makes little friends at home. I think I am his best friend.” 

“Isn’t that what you want?” Shuri asked, “You’ll miss it one day.” 

“He is a trooper, but I can tell it bothers him. Everyone sees him as the son of their headmistress. And in Wakanda, he will be the Prince. The only heir. He’ll always be othered. Except for here; these children have no idea who he is, and they don’t care. It’s different. It’s nice to see.” She let out a playful laugh, “You may be stuck with him every summer if this works out.” 

Shuri grinned, “I don’t think that’s the threat you think it is.” 

“Sometimes I wish I’d had another. There wasn’t time for it, of course, but you always had T’Challa growing up and he had you. If I knew how the future would pan out, I would have found the time and space to give him a sibling.” Nakia said quietly. 

“You’re young. You still could.” 

“No, no,” Nakia sighed, “T’Challa was the only one for me.” 

“There are other means. Technology has advanced and-,” 

“I don’t think it’s in my stars,” Nakia said quickly, in the mothering sort of tone that ended arguments, “But I often wish it was.” 

Shuri had to think that for as often as she dangerously let herself think about all the other paths her life with her brother could have gone, Nakia thought about them twice as often.

XXX

Shuri could tell that Touissant was growing courage to say something to Shuri for a few weeks. She’d see him at dinner or right before bed or when they were walking on the beach looking for cool-looking shells to gather up his thoughts and puff out his lips, the same way T’Challa used to do when he was alive, the sort of way that Shuri always knew he wanted to say something and usually was trying to restrain himself from saying such.

Shuri gave Touissant time. It was hard being eleven. You felt so old but were yet so young. And if it was of genuine concern, he’d tell her. He was a bright kid. Whatever the question lingered, it seemed to be a personal battle, and white Shuri would be the ‘person’ for him to talk to if needed, she didn’t want to force it out.

Finally, when it was closer to him going home than his arrival, after a month and a half full of days with his new friends, exploring Talokan and its surrounding beaches, he asked.

He sat up in his bedroom, one of the hundreds of guest rooms that Shuri had redecorated to make him feel at home, and got a very serious look on his face.

“Aunt Shuri, may I ask you something? To do something?” 

“Of course, my little warrior,” Shuri said, dragging her knuckles across his head with a laugh, “You can ask me anything.” 

“I’m not sure. Momma told me I have no right to ask what I’m about to ask.” Touissant said, biting his lip, “So I’m really, really, sorry.” 

Shuri frowned, dropping her hands and staring hard at her nephew, “Sounds serious.” 

“It is. To me…” Touissant gulped, “I’ve really enjoyed my time here, Aunt Shuri. And I’ve had so much fun with my new friends.” 

“But you want to go home early?” Shuri guessed, sighing. Somewhere, she knew it was coming. Homesickness. She felt the pangs too and was an adult. Of course, he’d miss his mom. 

Touissant was startled at her words. 

“No! I’d stay here all year if I could!” He said, “I wanted to ask you if you could give me a cousin to play with. Momma says I won’t get a brother or sister. And I know the cousin would be younger than me, but I’d love them so much. And my new friends are great, but I hear all about you and Dad and-,” 

“Touissant!” Shuri choked out, unsure what to say except a surprised inhale. 

“Momma told me it would be bad of me to ask you. That’s adult stuff; that’s what she said. But you said I could ask you anything.” Touiissant looked at Shuri, eyes liquid and wide, “Please?” He whispered, “I’d really, really, really be the best big cousin ever.” 

Shuri found her voice after a few moments, her heart beating wildly in her chest. 

“It’s not that easy. It’s not just a wink and it happens,” Shuri sighed, rubbing his back.

“I know all that,” Touissant said with an almost haughty snort, “I’ve seen nature documentaries. And we had the birds and the bees talk. I’ll wait as long as I need to.” He said, smiling at her. 

“Oh, well, aren’t you…” Shuri wasn’t sure if she should laugh, or cry, “just…something.” 

Touissant scowled, “That’s what momma tells me when she’s annoyed. I didn’t mean to make you upset.” 

“No, no,” Shuri cooed, “Not upset. Just taken aback.” She nodded softly, “I’ll think about it. I promise.” She said, holding out her pinky. 

“Will you tell Momma I asked you this? She’d be mad.” Touissant asked, his finger inches away from meeting hers. 

“No, there’s no need for that,” Shuri said, “You can tell me anything. I really mean it. Including this. Thank you for…trusting me.” 

Because, at the end of the day, it had been significant that he’d spoken with her. It showed her just how lonely he was.

And somehow, she felt that loneliness echoing in her own heart, longing for T’Challa.

XXX

Touissant left two weeks later after a lot of fights, wanting to stay far longer. But school was starting up soon, and Shuri was not his mother. Nor was she going to offer for Nakia to stay here, as she knew Nakia’s entire life was in Haiti now. 

When Touissant had left, he’d hugged Shuri for far longer than normal, but she’d breathed into it. He said goodbye to his friends, promising to be back the next summer (already speaking a broken version of the language, as Shuri had guessed). 

But, most surprisingly, he’d reached up on the balls of his feet to hug Namor. 

“Bye, Uncle Ch'ah! I’ll see you next summer!” 

When he broke away, both Nakia and Shuri were looking at him strangely. Nakia shepherd Touiissant behind her, as though expecting Namor to stab her son with a trident right then and there.

“What?” He asked, growing at the pair of incredulous Wakandans. 

“I didn’t know you were so…familiar with my son,” Nakia said tersely.

“He is Shuri’s family, therefore he is mine. As are you,” Namor said with a nod, though didn’t go so far as to call Nakia ‘sister’. 

“And he called you ‘Uncle’,” Shuri added, "And Ch'ah."

“Is that now the terminology that is appropriate? Or am I mistaken?” Namor asked, tilting his head, genuinely confused at her expression, "And I do not expect your family to call me the name that my enemies breathe with their dying breaths." 

“No, it…it is correct. I just…” She quieted her thoughts that were tempting to leap out, “It’s kind of you.” She finished with. Namor humphed a bit at her statement. 

“Children do like me, darling,” He said dryly, “Better than they like you sometimes.” 

Not untrue, though she was loathed to think it. 

No, not loathed, not anymore. Charmed, almost.

Between that, and the look Touissant sent her as he waved goodbye, yes…the idea was planted in her head.

Perhaps it was time that she had the Talokan heir.

XXX

She didn’t come to Namor that night for sex, thinking her intentions would be too obvious. Instead, she spent three days staring at the implant that kept her from getting pregnant, thinking of every bad and good argument about why she should or shouldn’t do this.

In the end, the little device ended up in her bathroom trash can, and Shuri felt a flutter of anxiety spiked with excitement at the prospect of a future starting today. 

She didn’t have the words to tell him her decision. Part of her hoped it would just occur, and then they’d talk. She knew it was a possibility, or a hope of his one day, though the ‘when’ it was meant to occur had always been a bit fuzzy.

Even though Shuri came, knowing that tonight might be the night she got pregnant, their nightly session was no warmer or more romantic than any other night.

Namor, of course, likely had no idea.

And Shuri felt it would be disingenuous to change up their preferred positions or intensity just for the sake of a child who did not yet exist yet. 

Besides, this always got him off, and got him off hard; fingers curled in her head, pulling her hair back, his other hand digging half-moons into her arse as he pushed her over the edge of her bed, whispering ancient prayers against her warm skin. 

Or; pushing her legs aside, his fingers rubbing underneath her hood while she quivered around him, breath pitching as he moved deeper inside her.

Who said that she couldn’t enjoy the act itself? 

For the first summer, she didn’t do anything in itself to try to make it happen, other than the act. She didn’t hold her hips up after he finished, she didn’t take fertility drugs to increase chances, and she didn’t track her cycles with a fine-tooth comb to figure out her hours of ovulation. She just hoped it would happen.

When she returned home, no baby yet, Shuri tried not to be disappointed. 

Not everyone got pregnant on their first, second, or even third try. She knew it had taken her mother a long time to get pregnant with Shuri after T’Challa, thus their age difference. If she was anything like her mother at all, perhaps the wills of the world were less in tune for her than other women, and that was perfectly natural.

She told no one of her plans, nor hinted to anyone or asked anything that could be construed as suspicious. Until there was anything to make a fuss about, Shuri had zero intention of stirring the gossip pot.

When she returned again, promising once against to take Touissant for a bit (though, only three weeks this time, as he had a camp to attend later in the summer), she almost thought of thinking of a clever way to tell him that maybe he’d get his request.

But asking a twelve-year-old boy to hold a secret was a foolish plan from the start, and she caught herself before the whole world knew what she was trying to make happen. 

He seemed to have forgotten his request or perhaps recognized that if it were to happen, it was better to not badger her every other week. He reunited with the twins and Nicte and the foursome were once again nearly inseparable. 

If she did manage to get pregnant, Shuri thought, she would want another one soon.

Any child of hers deserved another; a companion. 

She had six months to make it happen, she told herself, and Shuri was nothing but determined once she set her mind to it. If Namor noticed an increase in nights spent with her husband, he probably didn’t think too deeply of it, likely just enjoying the time in itself. 

This time, Shuri did try a little. 

Her period had always been irregular as a girl, and it had never gotten better, so it was harder to track. And, keeping herself in peak condition as the protector of Wakanda probably didn’t help, so her periods were few and far between. But she did her best. She took levels to try to see what days would yield results. She did all the proven scientific ways to help a baby quicken, and all the old wives' tales she wasn’t sure would work anyway, but at this point, she was willing to try it all.

The first month passed without success. And then the second…and then the third…and then the fourth, fifth, and sixth.

So Shuri did something that probably tipped Namor off; she requested to stay another month. 

At this point, the constant disappointment curled in Shuri like a snake, slowly restricting her heart. She hadn’t even realized how much she wanted a child until she was unable to conceive one, each negative pregnancy test like a punch to her gut, knocking the wind out of her. 

When she asked if she could stay on, Namor regarded her with such intensity and concern that she was bowled over by an unusual show of emotion from him.

“Are you ill?” He asked, voice halfway panicked, “Are you unwell to travel?” 

“No, I just…there’s something I need to complete here, and I’d rather not leave until it’s done,” Shuri said, not a lie. Namor relaxed slightly, likely attributing this to a lab test, which wasn’t too far out of possibility for her to do. 

But she knew she hadn’t shaken his concern totally.

So, perhaps it shouldn’t have been such a surprise that, as she took her blood again - a month later- to reveal another turn of the moon without managing to get pregnant, and a sob welled inside of Shuri, Namor appeared in the doorway of her lab office. 

Without asking permission, he came in, took the stack of papers from her hands, and flipped through them. She wasn’t even sure if he could figure out the jumble of medical words, but there were months and months of negative tests in his fingers, and she watched as he read each quickly but swiftly.

“You’ve been trying to get pregnant,” Namor said after a long moment, looking at Shuri with a tilt of his head.

“Yes,” Shuri wiped her eyes, “Since last summer.”

Namor licked his lips, unsure of how to continue. He was rarely at a loss for words, but this had done him in.

“Why did you not tell me of your plans?” 

“Because maybe I thought you’d say no. Or have a reason why we shouldn’t. But I’ve made up my mind…I really have!” Shuri said, ready for a fight before it was even started.

Namor set the papers down, kissing the edge of her lip, “My wife, I told you I would give you anything you wanted. And if that is children, who am I to deny that?” He asked, fingers linking in hers, “Do you not think I also desire an heir? Someone to lead if I am ever gone?” He asked, “I did not know you desired this of late.” 

“It’s recent,” Shuri said, taken aback by his genuine reaction, “As I said, just since last summer. But…so far…” She took a glance at the papers and looked down, tears prickling at the back of her eyes again, “I must be doing something wrong. Perhaps I need to be giving vitamins or supplements or taking counts of you or my eggs or-,” 

“None of those things will work, Shuri,” Namor said, confused. 

“You don’t know that!” Shuri said, shaking her head violently, “I just haven’t figured out the right combination of aids, but there is so much out there to help couples unable to conceive, and we’re no different. Or maybe your biology is fundamentally different and not totally human, so maybe I need to adjust myself to match yours, or vice versa.” She went to a notebook with some calculations, scratching out one and starting to write a new one, “Maybe we need to-,” 

Namor plucked the pen from Shuri’s hand. She turned, angry. 

“I was right on the edge of figuring it out!” She huffed. 

“Shuri…you…I…” Namor seemed ungodlily uncomfortable, “You will not get pregnant.” 

“But…you told me we could…” Shuri felt her fingers shake, “Back when I agreed to this? Were you lying?” 

“No!” Namor was quick to rush, “I am no liar. But I think you have somehow missed something about yourself, Shuri. And I thought you knew. So it is my mistake for not confirming that you knew what I thought-,” 

“Oh, enough with the riddles!” Shuri stomped her foot, “And tell me before I claw your head off!” 

Namor chuckled at her anger, then sobered. 

“Shuri, a body that does not change cannot sustain life.” 

“So…it’s you?” She asked suspiciously, “Your…swimmers are the issue?” 

Namor crossed his arms, “Shuri, you are not changing right now.” He said firmly, without pause or any more waffling, “When you found the way to revive the Heart-Shaped Herb, you took my plant with it. And I was not sure if it would take, but I am certain now. In taking on the new mantle of the Black Panther, the one that gave me my extended life, you too are immortal. And changing so slightly, so barely, that it’s as though you are not changing at all.” 

Shuri stared at Namor, her brain running a thousand miles a minute. 

“That’s…you’re…” She shook her head, “No, that cannot be right.” 

“I am floored you didn’t realize it! You take the science of everything, and yet you never thought to consider what changes my plant would make to yours?” He asked, “Shuri, gods!” 

“It worked! It just needed to work and it did!” Shuri threw back, but was furious at herself too, “And it didn’t seem different, it just seemed like we got what we needed!” 

“Look in the mirror, Shuri, and you will see the face of the woman who took the herb seven years ago, unchanged from that day,” Namor said, steering her to a pool of water, “And you, deep down, know it to be true.” 

Shuri stared down at her reflection and saw the face of a girl who had just lost her brother in a war far too big for her or her country. A face that, yes, seemed to not age a day since. And every time she’d looked in the mirror and thought that perhaps she’d seen a gray hair or a crack in her complexion, it was her mind trying to save her from this shattering revelation. 

“I’m immortal too…” Shuri whispered and felt dizzy. Namor caught her as she fell, easily scooping her in his arms and carrying her bridal style to her bedroom.

He called up for some tea and fruit, rubbing her hair and kissing her neck.

“Did you think that after finding you, I’d be able to bear watching my wife die, leaving me for eons and eons more?” He asked, his voice husky. 

“So you did something?” Shuri asked, voice warbling. 

“No, no,” He pressed his forehead to hers, “But it made marrying you a question that never was a question when I started to suspect it. Because I knew that you’d be by my side and I…I would not be alone anymore.” 

Shuri turned to Namor tears clogging in her throat. 

She wasn’t sure what emotion of tears they were, and perhaps they were everything that flashed across her mind. 

“So are we to adopt?” She asked, “Because I want kids. I really, really do.” The ferocity of this truth scared her too, coming tumbling out on top of this first shock of the day. 

“The way I see it…and you are the scientist so perhaps I am wrong,” Namor rubbed his chin, “I was born with the plant, intertwined in my DNA. You took on the herb like a cloak over yourself, a mask. And if you were to…defer that power, just for a moment in time, you would return to your natural state of change. And then when you were satisfied, you’d take it back. And then you’d be the Black Panther forevermore, always protecting your people.” 

She liked the sound of that. They’d never have to be without one, never have to worry about someone else razing their plants or leaving a vacancy. 

“I don’t know how to.” She paused, “Do you?” 

“It is all just theories, guesses,” Namor waved a hand, “I am not…adept in pursuing them as you are,” He said carefully, “That would be your forte.” 

“What if it doesn’t work?” Shuri asked, fingers scratching at her shirt like she wanted to unravel it, to see the thread roll out across the floor.

“Being able to give away and reclaim your title, if that is your choice-,” 

“It would be,” Shuri said, the feeling surging up inside of her. She was the Black Panther. The new age of protection. 

“-Or getting pregnant?” 

Shuri inhaled hard, “Either. Both. It’s very uncertain.” 

“The Black Panther is up to you to take. I would prefer you to live forever with me…I do not like the idea of having to watch you pass, like everyone else I care for. I almost think…” He swallowed, “That would be too much. But I know you are smart enough to figure out why the plant does as it does and I would ask you to consider a life in perpetuity with me.” 

“Forever is a long time,” Shuri said. 

“Not when you live as I do. It feels like mere seconds.” Namor chuckled, “And as for children? I would like a blood heir, but I am…” He paused, “Open to other avenues. Surrogacy. Adoption. If you feel the risk of handing off the mantle, even briefly, is too great.” 

“I think I’d be okay. It has only been a few years since I stopped aging. I think if somehow you could separate yourself from the plant, it would be much more dire. Or, I hope,” Shuri managed to snag a ball of thread, pressing it between her fingers, “I will need to research this more,” Shuri said, rocketing up out of her chair to grab a needle from the lab pack she always kept in all her rooms she frequented, in case science was needed on the go, as it was now, “Hold out your arm.” 

Namor jumped, “Why?” 

“Bast, don’t tell me you are afraid of needles! You are pelted with arrows and sliced with swords on the daily, but this makes you nervous?” Shuri rolled her eyes, “It’s nothing.” 

“Arrows and swords are familiar. That is…” He eyed it very carefully, “New world inventions.” 

“Give me your arm,” Shuri said evenly, “I promise I’ll kiss it better,” She added sarcastically, “But I need to compare our blood. I want to be sure before I try anything. You did say you’d give me anything I desire.” 

“My blood is yours, darling,” Namor agreed with half-nervous laughter, “In whatever way you desire.” 

Shuri took two vials, mind already whirling. She was already so preoccupied she did not notice Namor coming up to place a nearly gentle kiss on the back of her neck.

She turned, “What was that for?” 

“I just…” Namor seemed surprised, as though he himself wasn’t sure why it happened, “I’m just…” The words died in his throat like it was too blasphemous to even say it. 

But Shuri felt it too. A great mixture of emotions, perhaps too nuanced to find one way to describe it.

Excited. Happy. Eager. Anxious. 

But Shuri didn’t finish his thoughts either, because she wasn’t sure what saying any of those feelings out loud would do, how it would irrevocably shift their relationship one inch closer in the sands of time, to whatever their final form was fated to be.