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It wasn’t fair.
Aneka made everything look easy. She fills every crevice of her thin frame with a quiet self-assurance. She holds herself as if the word poise was defined with her in mind. It drove Ayo mad most days, to witness her quiet beauty in such proximity. If only she could take advantage.
Aneka never seems to question if her presence in Ayo’s purview is welcome–especially when they’re alone. It isn’t a rare occurrence for her hands to find a sliver of Ayo’s bare shoulder, for her fingertips to brush against the back of Ayo’s palm when they walked by each other. It certainly isn’t unheard of for Aneka to slip into Ayo’s unsuspecting embrace, slotting her narrow hips between Ayo’s relaxed stance, wrapping her arms around Ayo’s neck, and kissing her shoulder, before slipping just as easily away.
Ayo would reach for her as she walked away, her hands hanging in the space Aneka filled and vacated in seconds. Was it a game the two of them played? Ayo could never seem to catch up, and never felt like she had the tools required to win. Mostly she felt out of her depth. She wanted, she yearned, and she waited in earnest for Aneka to fill in the gaps of her education. How could she receive Aneka’s touch so freely and hesitate to return the same actions she cherished?
It was awkward.
“What are you doing?” Anekas chirpy voice came out softly, without judgment.
Ayo squeezes her fist tightly. Aneka’s river home was cleared of any guests. They’d spent the last thirty minutes straightening up–she’d brought all the errant dishes to the sink to soak and Aneka had put away all the uneaten food and swept.
When they were done, Aneka poured them each a glass of amber courage over the last two ice spheres and leaned back against the counter to enjoy her beverage. Her bright orange dress had two circular cutouts just at her waist, the perfect handholds, except–
“It’s nothing.” Ayo is still wearing her armor. The gold idzilla still feels heavy on her shoulders in its newness. Everything feels new, even this, even them, even though they’ve been going steady for nearly six months now.
Aneka puts her glass on the counter and steps forward. Without breaking eye contact she takes Ayo’s glass from her firm grip and rests it beside her own. She holds both Ayo’s wrists, tugging her closer, so gently that Ayo wouldn’t move forward if she didn’t want to.
“Was there something you wanted?” Aneka asks. Her voice is even quieter now and Ayo’s close enough to hear the light rasp beneath the chirp of her words.
Ayo’s shoulders lift in a deep breath. She looks down at where Aneka holds her wrists. Her fingers flex open and closed around nothing as she calms her nerves.
“You make it look so easy,” Ayo responds.
“Make what look easy?”
“Touch,” Ayo says. “You touch me like it’s not a thought in your mind but an instinct.”
“You want to touch me?” Aneka asks.
Ayo nods.
Aneka releases Ayo’s wrists. “Touch me, then.”
Ayo’s heart skips a beat. She feels this doesn’t count now that she has Aneka’s express welcome. “It’s not the same when you’ve said I can. You touch me anytime and you never need to ask for it or say that you can. It just flows so easily for you.”
Aneka gently nudges Ayo’s chin so that they can look at each other again. “Have I ever touched you in a way that you didn’t want?”
“No, of course not. I would have said something.”
Aneka smiles. “And has my touch ever been unwelcomed?”
Again, Ayo shakes her head.
“Do you think I would touch you so freely if I thought you didn’t want it?”
Realization seeps onto Ayo’s face.
“I love you,” Aneka continues. “I show it through touch. You love me. You want to touch me. Why would that ever be unwelcomed?”
Ayo shudders. She tilts her mouth up to catch Aneka’s and Aneka allows it for a brief moment.
“To be clear,” she says, breaking the kiss. “Your touch is always welcome.”
Ayo bites her lower lip, processing. Her hands find their way to the bits of Aneka’s skin that have driven her wild all evening and Aneka smiles as Ayo pulls her closer.
“Is that what you wanted?” Aneka chuckles as she wraps her arms around Ayo’s shoulders.
Ayo nods, using her lips to kiss Aneka’s cheeks, jaw, and chin. Aneka continues with an airiness in her voice. “Is that all you wanted?”
Ayo’s hand slips to the small of Aneka’s back, then further still, until her hand is lightly cupping Aneka’s ass. “No, that isn’t all I want.”
The memory played in Shuri’s head sometimes. It came to her when she was searching for something bright to think about, something that made her feel good, something that didn’t bring up painful memories, or make her yearn for the family she no longer had.
“Bring it in,” Riri had said. She opened her arms wide and enveloped Shuri in her embrace. She held Shuri and hugged her until she started to pull away. She had waited for Shuri to pull away first. Shuri, who had fished her father's car from the Charles River and rebuilt it piece by minuscule piece. Shuri who had waged war to protect her.
And here she was, hugging Shuri like Shuri was the one that needed comforting.
“Incoming call from Riri Williams.” GRIOT’s voice comes from the tiny speaker at her desk.
“Answer,” Shuri commands.
“What’s good, princess?” Riri’s voice is loud no matter what volume Shuri has the speaker set to. She’s given up on trying to adjust for it.
“Hello Ms. Williams, how are you?”
Riri scoffs. “Girl you’re always so formal! You’ve probably never used a contraction in your life.”
Shuri shakes her head, though she is smiling. “No, I suppose I… haven’t”.
Riri cackles. “I bet you’re cringing right now! How hard was it for you to say “Haven’t?”
“Do not be ridiculous, Ms. Williams.” Shuri bites her lower lip.
“Oh, we’re back to full words are we? “Do not be ridiculous, Ms. Williams” Riri mocks. “What’s ridiculous is you calling me Ms. Williams. My name is RIRI!”
“Your name is Riri Williams, hence Ms. Williams ”.
“Friends don’t call each other Ms.Whatever. I’m for sure not addressing you as your “Highness” so you had better get used to calling me Riri.”
Shuri is caught on the word Riri uses to label them. Friends. It echoes in her mind so much she almost misses what Riri says next.
“Anyway, I was calling to see if I could finally convince you to catch a Bulls game with me? I have something to celebrate and what better way than to introduce my friend to some culture!”
“I suppose,” Shuri says steadily. “If we are celebrating, then I must.”
“Woohoo!” Riri cheers. She speaks a mile a minute planning their outing, never stopping for breath. Shuri listens as best she can while also contemplating the concept of friendship.
A day later, correcting for the time zones, Shuri finds herself in the crowded United Center flowing covertly through the mass of people coming to watch the game. Riri walks beside her. Though she’s short, she takes long strides barely watching where she’s going but somehow managing to maneuver her way through the crowds.
She’s talking faster than she walks and Shuri only listens with a quarter of her attention–the rest of her focus is on this singularly unique experience of being here– for fun.
She doesn’t quite catch what Riri says, only that she chuckles at her own joke and slips her arm through Shuri’s.
Was it really that simple?
She’d known Riri for months, befriended her somehow, and allowed Riri to see her at her most vulnerable. She’d gone to war to save this girl’s life.
Why was it so difficult to understand that the girl liked her in return–that she wanted to be friends with her?
As a princess, having friends was a foreign concept. She had colleagues. She had guards. She had people who had been in the service of her family far longer than they hadn’t been and therefore were also considered family.
But she didn’t have friends.
All these thoughts whirl through her mind when Riri loops her elbow through hers. The free touch, the innocence and fluidity of it, shocks Shuri. She halts immediately, tripping Riri as she does, who in turn grasps her arm firmly to keep from falling.
The Dora, dressed in street clothes and armed in undetectable weaponry, part around the two as if they expected the snafu and could read it before it happened. They intermix with the crowds, giving them space, but also keeping an eye on them.
“Oh shit!” Riri calls out, stumbling. “Girl, what the–” she manages not to run into any of the milling mass of people scurrying to their seats before tip-off. “You good?”
She sees the expression on Shuri’s face.
“How do you do…” She struggles to find the words. “...That?”
“Do what?” Riri asks. Her tone has softened immensely.
“We were having a conversation and you just slipped your arm through mine.”
“Uh, yeah?” Riri’s eyes widen and her expression projects that she doesn’t see what the issue is.
“How’d you do that?” Shuri asks, ever straightforward.
“Are you asking mechanically?”
Shuri wishes the cement floors would open up and swallow her. She wishes she hadn’t reacted at all.
“You just…No one ever touches me so freely.”
“Oh. Oh! Should I not have? Is this a war crime in Wakanda? Will I be sentenced to death by duel the moment I step foot in Wakanda if I’m ever invited again?”
Shuri shakes her head, chuckling, and feeling the tension ease from her shoulders.
“No, it’s not against the law. It’s just no one ever does it.”
“Do you want me to stop?” Riri asks, unclear still of what the issue is.
“No, I just wasn’t expecting it.”
“Ahh.” Riri thinks back to the time when Shuri had fished her father’s car out of the Charles and personally put it back together piece by piece. She remembers how obvious it was that she wanted to hug, how she opened her arms wide and said “Bring it in”.
“Would you like me to announce it next time? Say ‘Hey, I’m gonna loop my arm through yours.”
“No, that is not necessary.”
“Then what–”
“How do you do it?”
“Oh.” Something clicks for Riri. “Well, cultural differences aside, you kind of just do what’s natural. Like now, what would be natural for me would be to swat your shoulder, shake my head, and say ‘Girl, it’s not that deep.’ And earlier, I was excited to be here with you and to celebrate my internship at Kawasaki, so I linked arms with you. Look around. Everyone is doing it.”
Besides everyone walking towards the court entrances or standing in lines for refreshments, people gathered in groups, laughing and chatting. She watches a group of people burst into fits of laughter, each one reaching out to grab the person nearest them in their rambunctious laughter.
It’s so foreign to her.
Others are linked arm and arm, hand in hand. Some pairings or chains of girls are linked together as they walk, and others are mixed genders, which confuses Shuri.
“You mean to tell me not every person linked up is… in a relationship?”
Riri guffaws. Loud, full-body laughter, shakes her small frame. She reaches out to grasp Shuri’s shoulder as she laughs. When she’s had her fill, she stands up straight wiping a tear from her eye.
“Girl, you are too funny.”
Shuri, for the life of her, cannot figure out what she said that was so funny.
“You’re cute or whatever, princess. But I like mine a little thicker.”
If Shuri were light-skinned, her face would have shown red with embarrassment. “I didn’t mean it like that!” She exclaims which causes Riri to laugh again.
“I mean, I get it princess. These cargo pants definitely make my ass looks fat! I’d want me, too.”
“For Bast’s sake!” Shuri shakes her head.
“I know, I know. I look fly as fuck. This is light work.”
Shuri looks like she’s about to combust so Riri finally decides to take it easy on her.
“I know that’s not what you meant,” She laughs. “And for the record, not everyone who links arms or holds hands is romantically inclined. It’s just a show of affection. And affection can be familial, or platonic.”
She bumps shoulders with Shuri. “We’re girls,” She reassures. “It's what friends do.”
“I would like to return your… gestures of affection,” Shuri replies. “I just don’t know how.”
Riri shrugs. “You just do what’s natural. And if nothing feels natural, but you still want to try something out, well, try!”
Shuri hesitantly puts her arm around Riri’s shoulders. “That wasn’t so bad, now, was it?”
“No, I suppose not.”
Riri shakes her head, wrapping her arm around Shuri’s waist. “Come on, girl. I think I just heard the five-minute bell. Let’s find our seats!”
And that’s how they walk to their seats. Shuri doesn’t know what it means, but she finds she’s glad to just take this new development as it comes.
It’d been so long since she’d felt the touch of another. She’d relied, these last six years, on her own hand for comfort and pleasure. She preferred it this way. It was safer.
“You’re in your head again.” His voice jolts her. “You normally don’t let me get this close without some sort of offensive strike.”
They’re sparring, or more accurately, Attuma is sparring and Okoye is mechanically parrying his strikes. She returns to herself just enough to block his next strike and reply with her own. He catches the hilt of her spear just below the head and realizes his mistake instantly, bracing for the electric shock.
She smirks. “In my head and still able to defend against you.”
He huffs, yanking the spear from her grasp.
“Hand to hand, then,” he demands, tossing both their weapons aside. He seems affronted to be so adequately defended against without her full focus.
Okoye flushes at the thought of hand-to-hand combat. This is how her fantasies would begin. They would be sparring–or worse, in actual combat–and he would touch her in ways that their station required. He would grasp her hips and pull her into the sea with him. Or she would be running into the line of fire and he would tug her back until they were chest to chest.
But his touch wouldn’t stop there. In her fantasies, once she was safely out of harm's way, he would keep his arms wrapped snugly around her. Perhaps his palm would graze her ass in a way that could be taken as accidental had it been the only glancing touch. He would press his body into hers and caress her cheeks. Maybe he would say “I must protect Talokan’s greatest asset” or something equally cheeky as an excuse for why he was still holding her but deep in her heart she would know the real reason.
Other times, in her fantasies, they would be sparring and there would be no question of his intentions. Inevitably, he would pin her beneath him; yet, instead of releasing her with some arrogant remark about her needing to do better, he would take full advantage of their positions. He would rip the necessary bits of her clothing away, leaving the scraps to tangle from her prone body. He would slip his fingers between her legs and say he was claiming what was rightfully his.
In her mind, Okoye had had him in nearly every position, on every surface of her apartment, many times in the training room under fear that they’d be walked in on. In her wildest fantasies, she was the one initiating, letting her fingers trail into his hair and tugging his face to hers.
But they were just fantasies. It was so difficult for Okoye to determine whether these fantasies were due to their constant proximity or if she was truly attracted to him. She can’t recall when the change occurred or what prompted it, only that the thought of his hands on her body sends a flurry of images through her mind. It’s shameful.
She’s glad the Talokanil haven’t developed telepathy, or else she would never show her face again. If he knew what fantasies of his touch occurred when Okoye was helping herself to sleep at night–she could never allow him to know.
He attacks her–an open palmed swat at her face which she agilely avoids. Her hands press into his rippled shoulder, wrenching back his arm as she presses him forward. His skin burns beneath her palm.
He stumbles, taking her with him as he falls. She tries to keep her balance, but what he lacks in speed, he more than makes up with his strength. He flips her, pins her hips beneath his own, and presses his palms into her forearms.
“You’re so distracted.” His voice is a rasping whisper. She aches for him. “What are you thinking about?” He asks.
Words fail her. This used to be normal. When did she start basking in the flutter of his glancing touch? Her own hand used to be enough. When did she start yearning for his?
“I think I know.” He brings her two wrists together to be held beneath his one palm. “I know how your mind wanders when we’re alone together.” He cups her cheek with his other hand, his thumb caressing her slightly opened lips.
Her breath is a shuddering gasp, shivers run up her spine. She means to lick her lips in an attempt to wake her voice. She doesn’t mean to outline his thumb with her tongue.
The sound he makes is filthy. She feels her resolve breaking.
“It’s as I suspected when I saw that look in your eye.” His hand traces down her throat. It’s that same glimmer of desire he felt incapable of hiding in his expression. His hand comes to rest flatly on her sternum between her breasts. “What do you want, Okoye?”
The glass shatters. Him. She wants him. She wants his hands beneath her clothing, his skin pressing into hers. She wants his touch. And it occurs to her that these fantasies of his fingers wrenching pleasure from her touch-starved body could be made a reality if she simply told him.
“ You. ” She gasps. “I want you.”
He leans back as if shocked by the revelation. Okoye’s hands break from his grasp and she touches him in ways she’d only fantasized about. Her hands cup his cheeks, the tips of her fingers play in the locks of his ebon hair that rest at the nape of his neck. She tugs him forward until their face to face, nose to nose, nearly lips to lips.
“I want you,” she repeats. “I want you to come back to my place.”
He could do nothing but acquiesce.