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1: T’Challa
T’Challa Namiri had once imagined that Ororo Munroe would turn out to be the love of his life. In many ways, she was. They met in kindergarten and had become fast friends, despite the widespread belief of kindergarteners that such girl-boy intermingling would hasten the spread of ‘cooties.’
When their teachers talked about them, they called them “Ororo-and-T’Challa.” It goes without saying that one day, his mother grew curious about the other half of the portmanteau that her son’s name had become a part of.
He imagined that as a chaperone for their first field trip, she, like him, was immediately struck by her positively outlandish features. The silver-white plaits of her hair and the gray-hazel irises that were blue in certain lights were a strange foreground on her cool, dark brown skin.
(He’d felt immensely plain playing with her sometimes, with his standard-issue dark brown eyes and black hair which fit in achingly normally with his own brown skin; but, usually he had so much fun with her, chortling at her silly fruit jokes and humming along to the Sunday school hymns she liked to practice, that his bouts of childhood insecurity were soothed.)
T’Challa’s mother led them around the art museum during the field trip, and then waited with her after it was all over for her father to pick her up. She wanted to meet him. They shook hands and exchanged contact details, and his mother exclaimed about her beauty, yet carefully avoided the less-than-conventional coloring of her eyes and hair--which he knew now, were characteristics that identified her as a mutant--instead choosing to dote on how wide and intelligent her eyes appeared, how elegant her nose was.
“She’s the spitting image of her mother,” her father had remarked, his tone equal parts proud and wistful.
All through grade school, her father and his mother arranged frequent playdates for them. Truly, they were the best of friends in every way, and when they started to grow into themselves, when they began to become young adults, he realized that perhaps Ororo could be--would be--more to him than his best friend.
Of course, that all changed when their parents started dating--and, really, if he’d been a bit older and a bit more tuned-in, he would’ve seen that coming from miles away.
Now, it wasn’t unheard of, step-siblings falling in love, but, well, that ship never really had a chance to sail.
He was fourteen when he’d started to recognize his possibly more-than-friendly feelings for her, sixteen, when he actually acknowledged them, and seventeen when their parents married each other and they all moved in together, effectively making things way too weird, at least for him personally, to pursue. At any rate, he’d always been much too afraid to find out if Ororo reciprocated his burgeoning feelings in the first place.
One cloudy, moonless night, during their senior year in college--well, his senior year; her architecture major was a five-year-program at the university they attended--he told her all of this, how he’d nursed an idealistic crush on her all throughout high school, and how he’d once felt very frustrated that this easy, simple, logical path to love had been thwarted.
“That makes so much sense. You were always so moody during high school,” she laughed. “Imagine my father’s surprise,” she smiled, her white teeth gleaming, “expecting to have to deal with a flighty, hormonal teenage girl--only for his stepson to be the sulking, brooding one.”
“I did not brood,” he defended.
“You sure did,” she countered. “Me, I always thought it was because you were embarrassed because our parents were dating.” She hopped up from her spot on the sofa next to him to retrieve a bottle of merlot and two wine glasses, wiggling them in her hands teasingly.
Honestly, thinking about it--really thinking about it--romantically, they would have been incompatible. They were much too the same, and in all the wrong ways. He would have enabled her vices, and she his. Even platonically, this was the one failing of their friendship: that they held each other up on pedestals, and never called each other out the way people ought to if they were going to be in a healthy romantic relationship.
T’Challa always conceptualized romantic love to be about accepting each other’s flaws, yes, but also about a united growth and improvement. Together, two souls would break away from their individual weaknesses and save each other from self-destruction.
Ororo, sweet, beautiful-souled Ororo, would always have a singular place in his heart. He basked in her eternal acceptance, loved her especially because out of everyone he knew--including himself--she was the only one who was perfectly content with who he was, how he was, at the current moment.
She demanded nothing additional from him, because she felt he was already exceptional the way he was. In this way, he felt the same for her. It was straightforward, and uncomplicated, the love they shared, but T’Challa thought that romantic love should be complicated, that there should be no small amount of accountability involved.
Perhaps he was an overly-romantic being, but in his heart he felt that things weren’t quite right for them here, in this life. His soul required something that she didn’t have, and he believed that he, too, lacked what it was her spirit needed in order to grow.
Later that night, through an ethereal haziness caused by several shared bottles of wine, they experimentally pressed their lips together, eyes slowly closing. T’Challa placed his hands around her waist and she put hers against his chest, pushing, gently, after a few seconds, to break the chaste kiss.
“Maybe in another life,” muttered Ororo, her hazel eyes fluttering open before she failed to stave off a fit of giggles.
“My thoughts, exactly,” he answered, smiling fondly down at her before erupting into laughter himself. “That was actually really weird.”
Silently, they came to the mutual agreement that they were siblings by all ways but blood.
2: Thor
T’Challa’s graduation and subsequent absence left a huge hole in Ororo’s life. The first four years of college spent with him at her side were a flash in the pan compared to her last year at school without him.
Of course, she got a lot of her work done more quickly, without him around as the huge distraction he was. But now, she mused as she began to pack up her things from her carroll--there was no way she could study pre-Renaissance English history in the comfort of her own apartment without falling asleep--she didn’t really have anyone to do fun things with.
Without T’Challa at her side, she was the world’s biggest homebody. She dumped the numerous gum and Lärabar wrappers into the recycling bin near her with a contemplative frown. How was she supposed to know that about herself, anyway, having had T’Challa at her side for as long as she could remember?
It wasn’t quite dark dark by the time she got back to her apartment, less than a mile away from campus, so she decided to go for a jog around the quad and back. She peeled out of her Chucks, her jeans, and the the oversized Black Power Fist t-shirt she’d stolen from T’Challa--he had, like, a good seven of them anyway, so he wouldn't miss this one--in exchange for her running gear.
Ororo didn’t consider herself a huge runner, but she loved being outside. She greatly appreciated the openness that nature could offer. It was only just now hedging into the changing of the seasons from summer to fall; the southern heat of Tennessee had only just begun dulling into the soft roves of wind that would soon coax the leaves from the trees.
She always felt very connected to this, to nature and its natural cycles, the order of it all, for reasons she could never fathom. Once, she had thought that that was the way every person was; she had thought that every human felt a link to nature, that could never be severed, which surrounded them and which had created them. (She’d soon found that to be a very, very wrong presumption.)
She stood by a bench, propping a foot up on the old varnished planks of oak, wiping her brow of sweat before she began to adjust her shoelaces.
“Here, little black kitty kitty,” rasped a low, grating, male voice. Slowly, Ororo closed her eyes to calm herself. If that voice was addressing her, there would be no small amount of hell to pay.
Another voice joined in on the action. “Oh look! I think she’s a mutie. That white hair and the eyes? Well, isn’t that something special--a nigger mutie. Don’t you wanna play with us, girl?”
Ororo’s haunches rose at the slurs. No, it wasn’t the first time she’d heard that particular combination of invective directed at her, but it still caused her to bristle, and it always would. However, at the moment her primary concern was how she was supposed to get out of this potentially dangerous situation intact. Where was T’Challa when she really, really needed him?
She still wasn’t sure where these men were even hiding, but soon found out as one of them popped out from behind the shrubbery like someone from the beginning, murder-y part of a crime-investigation television show episode. He was grimy, and sort of lanky, weak-looking, for a man of his height. Maybe she was just telling herself that he looked weak, as the other guy came out too; and, as her fist tightened around her keys, she thought could take them, she could--
Nearby, the light of an old-fashioned post lamp began to flicker.
“Babe!” called a booming voice with a European accent. “Seems like you literally ate my dust.”
A tall, broad and muscular man with long-ish sandy blonde hair that she recognized from a couple of her architecture classes came jogging up to her, gracing her with a broad grin before addressing her two harassers. “Oh, hello, there. And who are you two, then?”
“I--” said the taller of the two.
He cut them off with a grin that was a little more...off than it was friendly. “I hope you weren’t accosting my girlfriend, here. For your sakes, that is. She packs a punch...and so do I.”
Ororo blinked several times as the men left with their proverbial tails between their legs, feeling the securing warmth of her classmate’s hand upon her back. “I’m going to call campus police about those pricks. Did you get a good look at them? I want to give a detailed description.” He whipped out his phone. They stood there for about five or ten minutes, both of them reciting the details of the two men. “So.” the tall long-haired blonde said, redepositing his phone. “The name’s Thor Odinson. And yours? The ‘babe’ thing was sort of spur-of-the-moment; sorry about that.”
Ororo stared at him wide-eyed. “I feel like the ‘babe’ thing is fine...in the grand scheme of things. I’m Ororo. It’s nice to meet you, Thor.”
“Are you in the architecture program?”
“Yeah, actually. Fifth year. You?”
“Same...I’ve seen you around in a few classes. You always stick out to me.”
“Yeah, I’m hard to miss,” Ororo replied dryly, dropping her eyes to the ground.
“I didn’t mean like that,” Thor said, simultaneously confronting and ignoring the elephant in the room--or, courtyard--with the large, warm hand that he now placed on her shoulder. “I meant that you’re breathtakingly beautiful.”
Ororo felt her face heat up. “Oh, don’t flatter me.”
“I wasn’t flattering. I was observing.” Thor smiled again. “Let me walk you back to your place.”
In the twilight they walked, only to learn that they lived in the same complex and had similar interests. When they reached her door they exchanged cell numbers. “Call me whenever.” He said. “We mutants have to stick together,” he added with a conspiring wink.
The next day at around a quarter after four found Ororo sitting at one of the long tables in the dimly lit library with her Macbook and several freshmen in the Black Student Union, hosting a small makeshift workshop on AutoCAD.
“’Ro,” Monet whispered, “don’t look now, but there’s a super hot blonde guy staring at you.”
Ororo fought a sigh. It wasn’t even really as if Monet needed tutoring, but she could at least put up the front that she was paying attention. Still, she didn’t fight the urge to chance a glance up at where the younger girl was subtly tilting her head.
“I said ‘don’t look!’” Monet hissed.
“Monet, really, it’s okay. I know Thor,” she said with a smile, beckoning him over.
“Isn’t it weird, you know, how when you properly meet someone for the first time, you suddenly start seeing them everywhere?” Thor said with a grin.
Ororo grinned back. “Isn’t it, though?”
3: Loki
Thor Odinson had once thought that maybe Ororo Munroe would be the love of his life. Clever, gentle, beautiful, and more. They’d had a short, very fun fling during their last year of university, but it was never anything serious. They did, however, remain very good friends.
“I want you to meet someone,” he said as he and Ororo strolled together through the open-air corridor. He rolled both of her suitcases along, and would’ve been wearing her backpack, too, if she hadn’t complained that it made her feel completely useless. "He has a very green thumb, and I know how you feel about everything that has to do with nature."
(“If she is your ex,” Loki stated slowly, his pale green button-up’s sleeves rolled up to his forearms as he embarked on the task of cutting a few dozen roses. “then why are you so keen on her coming here? Are you upset with Sif?”
“Ororo was my friend before she was my ex,” Thor grumbled reasonably. “Sif knows her, and likes her very much.”)
“Oh, god, Thor. The last time you ‘wanted me to meet someone,’ it ended horribly. Do you remember?” she arched a silvery-white eyebrow.
“I do,” Thor said with a nod, and a grimace. “This will be nothing of the sort. I want you to meet my brother, Loki.”
“Your brother?”
“You know he owns a flower shop, the same one my mother opened when we first came to the States. He’s looking to expand, and he wants to contract an architect.”
“Thor…” Ororo began with an upraised brow and a sarcastic grin, “I don’t know if you knew this, but you’re an architect.”
Thor look slightly put-out. “I’m trying to get you a gig, ’Ro! Loki doesn’t want me for his architect, I’m too boring. He never likes my ideas. Plus, you have interior design certification, and, I, uh...may have already told him you’ll do it.”
“You’re getting sneakier, Thor. I’m not sure how I feel about it. And,” Ororo thought to add with a scowl, “you’re not boring!”
Still, less than an hour later saw her sitting at the kitchen table of the brothers’ shared apartment-cum-flower shop alone with the newly-acquainted Loki...It just so happened that Sif needed to get Thor out of the place for some emergency Christmas shopping.
It was October.
“I do believe,” Loki began as he placed a cup of tea in front of her. “that we’ve been had. You are an architect, right?”
“Yes I am, so today won’t be completely fruitless, Mr. Odinson.” she said, smiling into her cup, taking a long breath in. “By the way, what sort of tea is this? It smells divine.”
A quirk of the lips. “Jasmine,” he supplied, taking the seat next to her. “with a smidgen of orange. A dash of lemongrass, and I think I added just a smidge of bergamot.”
Ororo gazed at him in wonder. “Do you...grow the plants and all…” she made a wild hand gesture that somehow served to get her point across. “make your own tea?”
“That I do.”
“Wow.” Ororo said. “You should consider running a tea shop as a side-hustle. And we’d be in the right part of the city, too! It could be quite lucrative, you know, popular among all the gentrifying hipster-types and all that…” she trailed off, a bit cowed. She hadn’t meant to be so forward. Generally, clients didn't want suggestions, they just wanted their own plans seen to fruition.
But lo, a contemplative knit formed between his eyebrows, as if he hadn’t entertained that notion before that moment, and then his face melted into a fond smile, just for her. “A duly noted proposal, Miss Munroe.”
Ororo bit her lip and stared shyly at the table, before her eyes raked over a manilla folder. Why was she so antsy? She was usually significantly more professional when it came to meeting with potential contractors. “These are your ideas?” she asked softly, slowly inching her fingers across the table to reach it. Sharp, brilliant green eyes flicked up to meet hers before he answered.
“Yes. Now, I know I’m not an expert, like y--”
“Oh, my,” she hummed, already flipping through the pages. “This is a very beautiful concept, L--Mr. Odinson.”
“Please, call me Loki.”
“And you may call me Ororo,” she answered. “You’ve a very talented mind’s eye, Loki,” she said softly, looking up into those green eyes again as she tested the name on her lips. A tremulous thrill went through her at the sight of his slight flush.
“Of course,” he said, “I’ll--we’ll have to change the insides to make room for the tea shop bit.”
“You really think that's a good idea?”
“Really, it’s an ingenious idea, Ororo.”
She preened. “Well. Thank you.”
Loki simply nodded, and thereafter were a few moments of silence during which she continued to look through his early-stage plans, blushing minutely, too, because she could feel his eyes on her. It was all very doable, she thought--about the plans. The plans were doable.
“We should go to dinner,” he said, suddenly. “To discuss your contract,” he added hastily. “I’d like to hire you.”
Ororo just as hastily nodded in agreement. “Of course. Let’s.”
Dinner, as well as dessert, went very, very well; and Ororo is currently entertaining the thought that Loki Odinson may very well be the love of her life, even though she's only known him for a few odd hours. They just seem to be clicking very nicely.
(“Isn’t it against the rules to mix business and pleasure, though?” Ororo asked breathily with a wry smile as Loki trailed kisses down her neck.
“Well,” Loki replied, eyes dark, “my namesake was never one for the rules. I like to follow in his footsteps.")
The next morning, Thor walked into the kitchen with a concerned frown on his face. "I stopped by Ororo's hotel this morning but they said she'd never went back to her room last night. Do you know where she might have gotten off to after your meeting?"
Loki, who stood in front of the stove and was cooking what looked to be a suspiciously bountiful quantity of French toast, said nothing; but, as luck would have it, this was the very same moment that Ororo decided to step into the kitchen, notably wearing the same clothes as the day before. “Good mor—” she began cheerfully, only to freeze in her tracks when she caught sight of Thor. A beat of silence, and then a small, crooked smile and a shrug. She placed a chaste kiss on Loki’s cheek, and began to make tea.
The fluorescent lights of the kitchen were brighter than usual.