#bp masterlist

PHASE 1: False Confidence

“But, my Lady, do you have to go to that miserable convention? What’s the point of those things anyway?” your husband called out, trailing behind you with your baby girl in his arms. You had an important gathering in New York City to prepare for, and he wasn’t about to let you leave without a fight.

M’Baku followed you as your twin boys, Mustafa and Monte, darted around the living room, squealing with excitement. You stopped in the doorway of the kitchen, hands on your thick, curvy hips, waiting for him to stop following.

“My Lord, you rule thousands of people in our tribe. What makes this any different?”

He paused, his face serious. “Easy. Our children have my blood.”

You gave him a look and walked past him toward the living room where your bags waited. M’Baku lingered for a moment, gazing into his one-year-old daughter’s eyes. “My love… I can’t be without you,” he said softly.

You pressed a quick kiss to his lips. “Honey, you’re a strong Lord. You’re not going to let three tiny humans take over your kingdom, are you?”

Bending slightly, you kissed your baby girl’s cheek and called over the six-year-old twins, who froze and snapped to attention like true little warriors of Wakanda. “Alrighty, boys. Don’t give Baba a hard time, okay? That’s my job.”

“Yes, Mama,” they chorused, performing the Wakanda salute.

As you opened the door, N’Jadaka appeared, shaking his head. “I blame you, woman.”

You clicked your tongue. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, N’Jadaka.”

He entered with his son N’Jobu strapped to his chest and Serenity wrapped around his leg. “You got my baby mama heading to New York with y’all, trying to keep her away from us. Y’all trying to break a happy home, you witch!”

Nicole stepped forward with a grin. “N’Jadaka… I’m your wife, remember? We met in California six years ago. I twisted your nappy-headed hair, almost killed you, and we fell in love.”

“Oh yeah? I forgot all about that,” he muttered, earning a round of laughter from everyone—and a mock glare from Nicole.

“Yeah, yeah. Very funny. Don’t forget, I’m the one who blesses your scalp—and I do know how to cut hair,” she shot back.

N’Jadaka wrapped his arm around her. “See? You’re already making us fight. You just want us apart. You sick, sick woman.” Serenity giggled and clung tighter to her father’s leg, making him sway a little.

T’Challa entered, holding his son’s tiny hand, the boy clutching his backpack. “N’Jadaka has been throwing a tantrum all day about Nicole leaving.”

“And what about you, T? What about your wife, huh?” N’Jadaka asked. T’Challa just smiled.

“I can handle my wife being away. She’s always on the move. Besides, Nyla is there now, and it’s only a week,” T’Challa replied calmly.

“A WEEK?!” N’Jadaka turned to his wife. “Your thick self told me it was only three days!” Pouting, he muttered, “Serenity, N’Jobu… your momma hates us.”

Serenity’s big eyes locked on Nicole. “You hate us, Mommy?”

Nicole shot a playful glare at her husband, who was grinning at her, golden canines shining. “I guess you’ll just have to stay home now, queen,” he said.

Nicole bared her own canines in a mischievous smile. “Perhaps not.” She knelt to her daughter’s level. “Princess Serenity, I can never hate you, my chunky monkey. Daddy is just… doing that thing we hate men doing.”

Serenity gasped, looking at her father. “Are you lighting gas on Mommy?” N’Jadaka frowned, and Nicole pressed a quick kiss to his cheek.

You glanced at your friends and said, “N’Jadaka, she’ll be fine. You won’t even notice she’s gone.”

“Bull. I’ll definitely know she’s gone when I don’t see her thick self around the crib,” he muttered.

Sighing softly, you gathered your child Amahra in your arms and kissed her cheek. “My little lady… you’ll be the main lady while I’m gone, okay? Keep these men in line.” She nodded, reaching up for a hug, and you held her tight, knowing you’d miss her terribly.

Nicole lifted Serenity, planting kisses on her little face as the group prepared to leave. One by one, hugs and kisses were exchanged, until it was Nicole and N’Jadaka’s turn. Their secret handshake, followed by a kiss—or maybe ten.

You kissed all your children’s heads, then looked at your husband, who met your gaze with a stern but loving look. Even amidst the chaos, the love and laughter of your family filled the room.

“Baku, you’ll be fine, my Lord. What’s the worst that could happen?” you said, giving him a reassuring smile as the women finally left. The King, Lord, and Prince stood together in the quiet aftermath, the air thick with tension and barely-contained chaos.

N’Jadaka bounced N’Jobu against his chest, kissed his teeth, and quickly covered the baby’s ears. “Damn it, T. This is your fault, man. You and that damn wife of yours, tryna save the world and all that WPS nonsense,” he muttered under his breath, before uncovering his son’s ears.

M’Baku, still holding his daughter Amahra in the center, raised an eyebrow, while T’Challa to his left asked, “N’Jadaka, why are you whispering?”

N’Jadaka froze. When he glanced down to his right, the men followed his gaze—and there she was: his and Nicole’s daughter, four-year-old Serenity, arms crossed, brows scrunched, and lips in a perfect pout.

Prince N’Jadaka’s eyes went wide. He forced a shaky smile. “Heyyy… Princess Serenity,” he said, trying to sound casual.

“Daddy,” she replied, tilting her head with the judgment of a tiny queen, “did you just say bad words?”

He blinked, flustered, then straightened. “Psh… me? Bad words? Never, Princess,” he said with mock innocence, teeth clenched behind a tight grin.

Through gritted teeth, he muttered to himself, “That’s why…” before turning his gaze back to her. Seeing her crack a small smile, his tension eased slightly—but only a little.

THIRTY MINUTES LATER

N’Jadaka emerged from the back hallway, rolling his shoulders like he’d just completed a mission. “Aight. My baby boy is down for his nap,” he announced, pride heavy in his voice.

At the dining table, T’Challa sat beside his son, T’Challa II, who was carefully sounding out words from The Book of Royal Principles. His little feet barely touched the floor as he read aloud, brow furrowed in concentration.

Across the room, Serenity was sprawled on the floor with her personalized coloring book, tongue peeking from the corner of her mouth as she filled in a jaguar with an extremely creative use of purple.

On the long, eight-person sofa, Mustafa and Monte sat side by side, legs dangling, boredom written all over their identical faces. One leaned back dramatically. The other sighed like the weight of the world rested on his six-year-old shoulders.

In the center of it all, M’Baku stood by the feeding chair, carefully spooning puréed bananas and spinach into Amahra’s mouth. “Open wide, mighty warrior,” he murmured. She complied happily, smacking her lips, a bit of green already decorating her chin.

N’Jadaka surveyed the room, then squinted. “Why is it quiet?”

T’Challa didn’t look up. “Because chaos is gathering its strength.”

Right on cue, Mustafa slid off the couch. “Baba… we’re bored.”

Monte followed immediately. “Yeah. Very bored.”

Serenity glanced up from her coloring book, unimpressed. “That’s because y’all don’t know how to sit still.”

Mustafa gasped. “Do too.”

Monte nodded. “For, like… two minutes.”

M’Baku glanced between the children, then at the clock on the wall. He exhaled slowly. “The women have been gone less than thirty minutes,” he said, deadpan.

N’Jadaka rubbed his face. “This is already the longest week of my life.”

Amahra squealed, kicking her little feet, flinging a tiny streak of green onto M’Baku’s sleeve. He froze, looked down, then sighed deeply.

“…I miss my wife.”

T’Challa finally smiled.

“This will be easy. We are the royal men of Wakanda. There is nothing we cannot do,” T’Challa said with calm certainty.

N’Jadaka nodded, settling into a chair. “T got a point. Look at my baby girl over there—just bein’ her adorable little self. Besides, the kids ain’t even that bad.”

He leaned back, then sighed, softer this time. “Still… I already miss my baby.”

T’Challa gave him a knowing nod. “No worries, cousin. The women will be back before we know it. And besides”—he gestured subtly around the room—“all the children are behaving properly.”

M’Baku followed their gazes, and for a brief, fragile moment… it was true.

Mustafa and Monte were still on the couch, clapping through an intricate hand game only twins could master, whispering rules to each other like secret generals.

Serenity sat cross-legged on the floor, coloring with intense focus, humming to herself as she carefully stayed inside the lines—mostly.

From the back of the house, N’Jobu slept peacefully, the soft hum of the baby monitor steady and reassuring.

At the table, little T’Challa II sat upright, reading aloud beside his father, his small finger tracing each word with pride.

And Amahra—sweet Amahra—cooed happily in her feeding chair, kicking her feet and smiling at anyone who so much as glanced her way.

T’Challa exhaled, allowing himself a rare moment of satisfaction.

“See?” he said quietly, almost smug. “Easy.”

PHASE 2: Micro-Mischief

It started quietly.

Amahra smacked her lips, eyes lighting up as M’Baku lifted another spoonful of puréed banana and spinach. She accepted it happily… then, with a sudden burst of curiosity, flung her tiny hand outward.

Green splattered across M’Baku’s forearm.

He blinked. Looked down. Looked back at her.

Amahra squealed.

“…She is testing gravity,” M’Baku said slowly, wiping his arm. “Very well.”

Across the room, Mustafa slid to his feet on the couch cushions. “Monte,” he whispered, “bet you can’t jump from here to the table.”

Monte grinned. “Watch me.”

“Gentlemen,” T’Challa called without looking up from his son’s book, “feet remain on the floor.”

“Yes, Uncle T’Challa,” they chimed—then immediately crouched again.

On the floor, Serenity paused her coloring and glanced up, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. She watched M’Baku miss a spot on Amahra’s chin, then sighed.

“Um… Uncle Baku?” she said, sweet but firm. “Mommy wipes under the neck too.”

M’Baku froze. Adjusted the cloth. Cleared his throat. “Noted.”

At the table, T’Challa II raised his hand politely. “Baba?”

“Yes, my son.”

“Mother says quiet time means whisper voices,” he explained gently, glancing toward the twins, who were now arguing in increasingly loud whispers about who jumped farther.

T’Challa opened his mouth… paused… then nodded. “That is correct.”

The volume in the room crept up anyway—feet thudding softly, spoons clinking, crayons rolling, overlapping voices stacking just enough to be noticeable.

N’Jadaka leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. He glanced around once, clocked the noise level, then waved it off.

“They good,” he muttered. “This is normal.”

Amahra laughed—loudly—and slapped the tray again.

Another green streak flew.

M’Baku sighed.

Another green streak flew.

M’Baku sighed.

He set the spoon down, wiped Amahra’s chin with the back of his hand, and glanced up as the room’s energy shifted from pleasantly busy to cleverly disruptive.

Mustafa and Monte, flush with the thrill of minor rebellion, moved from hand games to reconnaissance. One twin edged toward the coffee table, eyes locked on the stack of coasters like they were treasure. The other crawled behind the sofa, counting the legs out loud as if plotting a heist. “Bet you can’t make it to the—” Mustafa whispered.

“Watch me,” Monte mouthed back and vaulted—landing with a triumphant slam that sent a magazine and a coaster skittering into the air. Mustafa clapped. Monte bowed.

Across the floor, Serenity abandoned her coloring with the solemnity of a four-year-old adjudicator. She sat up, considered the twins with the cool disdain of someone who knows the rules, and hopped to her feet. “Stop that,” she announced, crisp as a bell. “Daddy, the twins are being bad.”

N’Jadaka glanced over, brow raised, and gave a small, resigned shrug. “Hey, sit down somewhere,” he said, but his voice was softer now—more indulgent than stern.

M’Baku’s voice, measured and practiced, rose in response. “Please keep the feet on the floor, boys. No jumping on the furniture.”

“Okay, Baba,” the twins chorused in unison—then immediately began plotting a daring course that kept their little feet hovering just above the cushions, testing gravity and patience in equal measure.

Serenity, ever the vigilant observer, climbed onto the arm of the sofa and assumed her new role: Supervisor-in-Chief. “Mhm. Be good, or Auntie Y/N is gonna get y’all good,” she warned, her tone carrying the unwavering logic of a tiny, unflinching prosecutor.

For a brief half-beat, the twins froze, their mischievous grins flickering. Then, as Serenity returned to her coloring, Monte leaned over and whispered something into Mustafa’s ear. Both faces lit up with conspiratorial smiles, the calm shattered in the sweetest way possible.

Nearby, T’Challa II looked up from his book, tiny brow furrowed in scholarly concern. He straightened his shoulders, raised a finger, and spoke with the precision of a miniature lecturer. “Baba… the twins are doin’ something bad,” he whispered, every word wrapped in the innocence—and certainty—only a five-year-old could wield.

T’Challa chuckled, ruffling his son’s hair. “Now, Prince T’Challa the Second, the twins are just being silly. No harm in that,” he said, letting the laughter behind his eyes soften the edges of mischief.

T’Challa II glanced between his father and the twins, still clinging lightly to his father’s side, a mixture of worry and fascination written across his little face.

PHASE 3: Division of Labor (30–45 minutes)

M’Baku had Amahra in his arms, carefully wiping the last streaks of banana-and-spinach from her cheeks. The tiny warrior had officially declared her meal finished, smacking her lips contentedly and grabbing at the spoon as if it were a weapon. “Alright, little lady,” M’Baku murmured, “we survived round one.”

T’Challa, sitting at the dining table with T’Challa II perched on his lap, attempted to enforce structure. “Prince, let’s finish this chapter before snack time,” he instructed gently, his son dutifully turning the pages, tiny fingers tracing the words. He glanced toward the twins, who were perched on the edge of the sofa, trying very hard to look occupied, but plotting like seasoned strategists.

N’Jadaka had confidently declared himself in charge of the “big kids”—the twins. Within seconds, he regretted the decision. Mustafa and Monte exchanged wicked grins, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“What are y’all little troublemakers thinking?” he asked, striding over to the pair.

“Nothing, Uncle Daka,” they replied in perfect unison, barely containing their smiles.

N’Jadaka squinted suspiciously. “Sure…”

Monte, emboldened, leaned forward. “Can we… um… play a game?”

“What kind of game?” N’Jadaka asked, trying to sound casual but failing miserably.

“This one!” Mustafa shouted—and immediately leapt onto the arm of the sofa. Monte followed, both giggling as they teetered precariously. N’Jadaka flailed, arms waving in pure panic. “No! Sit down, sit—!”

Across the room, Serenity observed quietly from her coloring station, lips pursed in that calculating way only a four-year-old can master. She finally stood, hands on her hips, and declared: “DADDY! They’re being bad! Make them stop!”

The twins, sensing her attention, sprinted around the room like tiny hurricanes. N’Jadaka looked at his daughter, rubbing his forehead. “I’m tryin’, baby. Just let Daddy be Daddy, okay?”

Serenity sat back down, arms folded, eyes narrowed, silently judging the twins.

Meanwhile, Amahra, sensing the tension rising, squealed with delight and flung a small, soft block across the floor. M’Baku sighed, glancing at N’Jadaka. “Can you hangle them?”

N’Jadaka followed his gaze to the twins, bouncing on the sofa with devilish grins. He exhaled and slumped into a nearby chair, defeat written across his face. “M, I got it,” he admitted.

Somewhere in the background, the faint cries of N’Jobu began—small at first, but growing, an ominous signal of the chaos still to come.

PHASE 4: Full Daddy Day Care Energy (45–60 minutes)

It started as “playing.”

That’s what Mustafa called it when he launched himself off the arm of the sofa and rolled across the cushions. Monte followed immediately, turning it into a full-contact wrestling match that had pillows flying and the couch groaning in protest.

“Adventure mode!” Monte yelled.

“That is NOT a mode!” N’Jadaka shouted, scrambling after them. “Get—off—the furniture!”

Too late.

The twins had already upgraded to parkour, hopping from couch to chair to ottoman like the living room was an obstacle course designed specifically to test adult blood pressure.

Serenity watched it all unfold with interest. She didn’t move right away—no, she waited. Then she stood suddenly and pointed.

“DADDY,” she announced loudly, “they are still being bad.”

“I SEE THAT,” N’Jadaka raised his voice slightly, chasing the twins in a circle. “I AM CURRENTLY SEEING IT.”

Serenity nodded, satisfied, and sat back down—only to look toward M’Baku and add, sweet as honey, “Uncle Baku, they might get hurt.”

Mustafa skidded past her. Monte jumped over a pillow. Chaos continued.

At the dining table, T’Challa II clutched his father’s arm tightly, book forgotten. “Baba… it’s too loud,” he whispered, pressing closer. When a chair scraped loudly across the floor, he flinched and hid behind T’Challa’s leg.

T’Challa placed a calming hand on his son’s shoulder. “It’s alright, Prince,” he said gently, though his eyes tracked the flying children with growing concern. “Breathe.”

“I think,” T’Challa II whispered urgently, “they need rules.”

“That is… very correct,” T’Challa muttered.

Across the room, Amahra decided she’d had enough. Her lower lip trembled. A small wail escaped. Then another.

M’Baku scooped her up just as she flung a toy block across the room with surprising accuracy. It bounced off the wall.

“Ah,” M’Baku sighed. “We are choosing violence now.”

Amahra’s cries grew louder, feet kicking, hands grabbing at his shirt. He bounced her, shushed her, hummed—none of it worked. Banana remnants reappeared on his sleeve.

Then—

A loud crash as Monte knocked over a small side table.

“HEY!” N’Jadaka yelled. “WHY IS EVERYBODY CRYING?!”

As if summoned by the sound, a new cry joined in—thin, sharp, and unmistakable.

From the back of the house came the rising wail of N’Jobu.

N’Jadaka froze.

“No,” he said softly. Then louder, panicked: “NO, NO—WHY THEY CRYING IN STEREO?!”

Amahra cried harder. The twins skidded to a stop. T’Challa II clung tighter to his father.

And just like that—

The house officially tipped from chaos into meltdown.

PHASE 5: Meltdown & Humbling (60–75 minutes)

N’Jobu’s cry cut through the house like an alarm.

Sharp. Insistent. Unignorable.

Amahra immediately answered back, her own wail rising in pitch as if offended she hadn’t been consulted first. The sound collided in the air—two babies crying at once.

N’Jadaka spun in a slow circle, hands in his hair. “Nah. Nah, see—this ain’t right. What is happenin’?!”

The twins took that moment as permission.

Mustafa dove behind the sofa. Monte sprinted toward the hallway, laughing like the noise was fuel. N’Jadaka lunged after them. “HEY—no, don’t run, don’t—!”

They zigzagged instead.

T’Challa moved quickly toward the back of the house. “I’ll get N’Jobu,” he said—but the moment he took a step, T’Challa II clutched his leg with both arms.

“NO,” his son cried, voice cracking. “Baba, don’t go.”

T’Challa froze, torn, crouching slightly. “Prince, I need to help—”

“DON’T LEAVE MEEEEEEEE,” T’Challa II sobbed louder, burying his face into his father’s thigh.

M’Baku took a long, steady breath.

He gently placed Amahra into her highchair, fastening the straps just as she kicked and screamed in protest. “You are safe,” he murmured, though she was not convinced. Then he turned and strode toward the back hall. “I will get the boy.”

In the living room, everything unraveled.

The twins began chanting, circling T’Challa. “He stuck! He stuck!”

“STOP,” T’Challa II shouted suddenly, voice shaking but brave, trying to stand taller while clinging to his father. “EVERYBODY STOP!”

They did not stop.

Monte darted past N’Jadaka and kicked him square in the shin. Mustafa followed with another.

“OHH—!” N’Jadaka hopped on one foot, grabbing his leg. “WHY— little mutha-! Oh when I get ya’ll-”

Serenity ran over, alarmed. “Daddy, are you okay?”

And that’s when it happened.

“STOP ACTIN’ FUCKIN’ GROWN!” N’Jadaka shouted, voice raw and sharp. “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST BE A KID?!”

Silence.

The house went still.

Serenity’s face crumpled. Her bottom lip trembled. “Daddy… you said bad words at me,” she whispered.

The guilt hit immediately.

N’Jadaka dropped to his knees. “Baby, no—Daddy didn’t mean—”

Too late.

Serenity burst into tears and launched her crayons at him. The coloring book followed. “GO AWAY!”

At the same moment, Amahra began screaming even louder, rattling the tray of her highchair. A cup tipped over. Juice spilled across the floor.

M’Baku returned, N’Jobu in his arms—just in time for the baby to vomit. And not a little.

It soaked his shirt.

M’Baku closed his eyes. “What have your parentals been feeding you?!.”

N’Jobu wailed again, offended by his own actions.

T’Challa tried to pry his son loose, but T’Challa II cried harder, clutching tighter. “Baba, don’t leave me!”

N’Jadaka sat on the floor, surrounded by crayons, a crying daughter, aching shins, and two laughing twins now sliding across the spilled juice.

The men looked at each other.

Sweaty. Overwhelmed. Humbled.

This was no longer managed chaos.

This was chaos central.

Then—

M’Baku straightened.

Slowly.

An idea sparked behind his tired eyes.

“Alright,” he said calmly, adjusting N’Jobu on his shoulder. “I have a thought.”

The men’s eyes turned toward him.

PHASE 6: Regroup & Bonding (75–90 minutes)

The backyard became the answer.

M’Baku’s massive, forest-like stretch of land—thick grass, towering trees, and the kind of open air that made noise feel smaller—swallowed the chaos whole. The moment the children spilled outside, something shifted. Screams turned into laughter. Tears dried faster in sunlight. N’Jobu and Amahra sat in baby approved seating.

“Alright,” M’Baku announced, clapping his hands once, the sound cracking through the air. “New rules. We take this outside before someone loses a limb.”

Barely a minute passed before movement rippled across the yard.

T’Challa emerged first.

The Black Panther suit hugged him like a second skin, sleek and deadly, the silver accents catching the sun as he landed lightly in the grass. He straightened slowly, deliberately, like he knew exactly what effect he was having.

The twins froze.

Their mouths dropped open.

Mustafa whispered, awed, “He fly?”

Monte grabbed his brother’s arm. “He real.”

N’Jadaka came striding out from the trees in his Killmonger suit, shoulders rolling loose, mask tucked under his arm, grin sharp and unapologetic.

“Is this y’all king,” he asked, pointing at his cousin, voice smooth and dangerous. “Nah, I ain’t feelin’ him.”

The kids absolutely lost it.

They screamed. They jumped. They ran in circles like the world had cracked open and spilled superheroes into their afternoon.

M’Baku stepped forward, arms crossed, chest puffed like a mountain with opinions. “I will be the referee,” he declared. “No biting. No crying. And no aiming for the crown jewels.”

T’Challa tilted his head slightly. “Always so dramatic.”

N’Jadaka chuckled. “You love it.”

They squared up.

Bare feet dug into the grass. Shoulders loosened. The air changed.

They began circling each other, slow at first—predatory. T’Challa feinted left, quick as a shadow. N’Jadaka mirrored him, grin widening, eyes sharp.

Then T’Challa lunged.

N’Jadaka ducked, pivoted, swept a leg—T’Challa barely vaulted over it, twisting midair and landing in a crouch. The kids screamed like they were courtside.

T’Challa shot forward again, shoulder-checking N’Jadaka’s chest. N’Jadaka stumbled back two steps, then laughed and charged right back, tackling T’Challa around the waist.

They hit the ground rolling.

Grass flew. Elbows locked. Knees slammed. T’Challa flipped them, pinning N’Jadaka for half a second before N’Jadaka bucked hard, twisting them sideways and reversing the hold.

At first, it was playful—too playful.

Then T’Challa muttered, breathless but smug, “You always did fight sloppy.”

N’Jadaka froze.

Slowly, he lifted his head. “What you say?”

“I said—”

The tackle that followed was not playful.

N’Jadaka surged forward, pure momentum, driving T’Challa backward until they crashed into the grass again. He landed on top this time, forearm braced against T’Challa’s chest.

T’Challa hooked his leg, rolled them both, and came up swinging.

A sharp elbow. A blocked punch. A quick knee to the side that made N’Jadaka grunt.

They were laughing—but through clenched teeth now.

M’Baku barked with laughter, arms raised. “YES! GOOD FORM!”

The kids were feral.

“GET HIM!” Mustafa screamed, hopping in place.

“NO, THE OTHER ONE!” Monte yelled back.

Serenity clapped so hard she almost fell over.

T’Challa sprang to his feet, chest heaving, then launched himself back in—N’Jadaka caught him midair, staggered, and slammed him down again. They rolled toward the tree line, grappling, limbs tangled, neither willing to give an inch.

Finally, both men collapsed flat on their backs, staring at the sky, breathing hard, sweat-soaked, grass stuck to their suits.

M’Baku stepped between them, hands raised. “Tie!” he declared. “Before someone needs ice or an explanation to their wife.”

The kids booed loudly.

T’Challa laughed, pulling his mask back. N’Jadaka groaned, hands on his stomach, smiling despite himself.

The laughter lingered long after the suits came off—echoing through the yard, grounding everyone back into warmth, into family, into something safe after the storm.

Later, with everyone back in regular clothes, the energy softened. Snacks appeared. Juice boxes were handed out. Storybooks were dragged onto blankets.

N’Jadaka noticed Serenity sitting alone on the back porch, legs swinging slowly, apple juice clutched in both hands. Her shoulders were slumped, quieter now that the storm had passed.

He approached slowly. “Hey… can I sit with you, princess?”

She didn’t look at him at first, just nodded.

He sat beside her, elbows resting on his knees. “I owe you an apology,” he said gently. “Daddy got overwhelmed. That wasn’t your fault.”

She sniffed. “You yelled.”

“I did,” he admitted. “And I shouldn’t have. You were just trying to help me. You always help me.”

She glanced at him then. “I like helpin’ you.”

He smiled softly. “I know. That’s why you my best friend.” He bumped his shoulder lightly into hers. “Thank you for always having my back.”

Her face brightened. Slowly, she held out her hand. “Handshake?”

They did it—clap, snap, twist—ending with a gentle tap of foreheads. N’Jadaka pressed a soft kiss to her nose, then pulled her into a hug, showering her cheeks with kisses until she burst into giggles.

“I love you,” she laughed.

“I love you, princess,” he whispered.

Across the yard, away from the lingering laughter and rustle of trees, M’Baku lowered himself into a deep crouch in front of Mustafa and Monte. For a man who could lift both boys with one arm, his stillness was almost more intimidating than his size. The shadows of the trees framed him, broad shoulders blocking out the sun as his gaze settled on them—steady, unblinking, not angry, but unmistakably serious.

The twins felt it immediately.

Mustafa stopped rocking on his heels. Monte’s hands slid behind his back, fingers twisting together. The grass beneath their feet suddenly felt very important.

“Jabari men,” M’Baku began, his voice low and grounded, carrying the weight of mountains and tradition, “do not act like wild creatures—especially in private spaces meant for rest.” He gestured faintly back toward the house, where naps and quiet were supposed to live. “That chaos? That was not strength.”

Both boys straightened instinctively, chins lifting, backs stiff.

“Strength,” he continued, tapping his chest once with two fingers, “is knowing when to stop. Strength is listening when someone smaller is scared. Strength is control.” His eyes moved between them, making sure each word landed. “And today… you forgot that.”

There was no yelling. No raised voice. Somehow, that made it heavier.

Mustafa swallowed hard, then nodded. Monte nodded too, quickly, like agreement might smooth things over faster.

“We sorry, Baba,” Monte said, voice small but sincere.

“Yeah,” Mustafa added, rushing the words. “We won’t do it again. We promise.”

M’Baku studied them for a long moment, silence stretching just long enough to make them hold their breath. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate.

“Good,” he said. “Apologies accepted.”

His expression softened—not by much, but enough. The corner of his mouth twitched. He opened his arms wide. “Now come here.”

The shift was instant.

The twins exploded forward with whoops of relief, launching themselves at him with full-body enthusiasm. Monte scrambled up his arm like a tree, Mustafa climbing his back, laughing as M’Baku let out a dramatic grunt and dropped to one knee.

Serenity, not about to be left out, squealed and joined in, wrapping her arms around his neck from the side. “We got you! We got the gorilla!”

M’Baku roared loudly, exaggerated and playful, shaking them gently as if trying—and failing—to dislodge them. “Ah! Is this how Jabari warriors attack now? By tickling?”

The children shrieked with laughter, clinging tighter, convinced they were winning as he finally toppled sideways into the grass with a thunderous oomph, careful arms curling around them all.

“THE GREAT GORILLA HAS FALLEN!” Mustafa declared.

M’Baku laughed, deep and booming, the sound rolling through the yard as he hugged them close. “Enjoy this victory,” he warned warmly. “It will not come easy next time.”

Their laughter rang out—lighter now, safer—proof that the lesson had landed, and the love beneath it never wavered.

Nearby, T’Challa II curled happily into his father’s side during the cuddle pile, his earlier anxiety replaced with warmth. Amahra squealed from M’Baku’s lap, delighted by the noise without fear now. Chaos was still present—but contained. Warm. Safe.

Eventually, the energy faded.

One by one, the children fell asleep in the living room, sprawled across blankets and pillows in front of the couch. N’Jobu slept peacefully on N’Jadaka’s chest. Amahra was heavy and warm on M’Baku’s lap.

The men sat quietly, exhaustion settling in.

“That,” N’Jadaka murmured, voice barely above a whisper as N’Jobu slept warm and heavy on his chest, “was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

M’Baku let out a low, tired chuckle, carefully adjusting Amahra where she’d gone slack and peaceful in his lap. “And yet,” he said, eyes half-lidded, “we survived.”

T’Challa nodded slowly, one arm still wrapped protectively around T’Challa II, who clung to him even in sleep. “We did it though,” he said, disbelief threading his voice. “Somehow… we actually did it.”

“For real,” N’Jadaka added, shaking his head. “And our wives?” He scoffed softly. “They do this every day. By themselves. Calm. Collected. Like it’s nothing.”

M’Baku exhaled through his nose, a deep, reverent sound. “My wife handles this before breakfast,” he said. “Then smiles at me and asks how my day was.”

T’Challa huffed a quiet laugh. “Nyla would’ve had them fed, bathed, read to, and asleep by now. No yelling. No casualties.”

“And Nicole,” N’Jadaka said, glancing down at Serenity curled nearby on the rug, “would’ve clocked my tone before it ever got that far. One look and I would’ve shut up.” His mouth curved into something fond and humbled. “She makes it look easy. It’s not.”

Silence settled again—thick, warm, earned.

“Warriors,” M’Baku repeated softly. “Every one of them.”

They leaned back together, shoulders sinking into the couch cushions, exhaustion finally claiming its due. The house hummed quietly now—soft breathing, the faint tick of a clock, peace hard-won.

Then—

“One day down,” T’Challa said, almost to himself.

“Six to go.”

Three sets of eyes snapped open.

They turned slowly, looking at one another.

And worried—deeply, sincerely, respectfully—in perfect unison.

PHASE 7: The Return (One Week Later)

The doors opened to laughter.

Soft at first—relieved, familiar, loved—then fuller as the women crossed the threshold and were immediately swallowed by arms, small bodies, and the weight of a week apart finally lifting.

Nothing looked… wrong.

No overturned furniture. No suspicious stains. No lingering scent of chaos. The floors gleamed. The pillows were fluffed. The house stood calm and dignified, like it had never known the battlefield it once was.

Nicole paused just inside the doorway, slowly turning her head as she took it all in. Her brows lifted. Then her lips curved into something impressed and dangerous.

“…Wow,” she said, slipping her bag from her shoulder. “You actually did. Good job, ‘Royal 3.’”

N’Jadaka straightened immediately, chest puffing like he’d been waiting all week for that exact tone. Serenity ran into her mother’s legs while N’Jobu babbled happily in his arms.

“You see this?” he said proudly. “Not a scratch. Not a crumb. I told you I had it. We had it.”

Nicole arched a brow, stepping closer, fingers smoothing over Serenity’s braids before she looked up at her husband. “Mhm, you sure did, baby. And I did say,” she reminded him slowly, “that if you managed the week… I’d owe you.”

N’Jadaka’s grin turned wicked.

“Oh, I remember exactly what you promised.”

Before anyone could react, he scooped Serenity up under one arm, adjusted N’Jobu securely against his chest, and started backing toward the door.

“Alright!” he announced far too loudly. “Change of plans. Serenity, N’Jobu—y’all having a sleepover at Auntie Nyla’s and Uncle T’s!”

Nicole blinked. “Wait—what?”

Serenity squealed. “SLEEPOVERRR!”

“N’Jadaka—” Nyla started.

Too late.

He was already halfway out the door, waving over his shoulder. “Love y’all! C’mon and let’s go pack y’all bags!”

The door shut behind him before anyone could stop it.

Silence.

Then Nyla laughed, shaking her head as she adjusted T’Challa II into her arms. “Tha is your cousin, honey.”

T’Challa sighed, fond and tired, pressing a kiss to his son’s curls. “Not by choice, kitten. Let us head home. We should go before he circles back.”

T’Challa II clung to his mother, arms looped tight around her neck, eyes already drooping as Nyla carried him out. T’Challa followed, offering the others a knowing look—the look of a man who loved his family deeply and would be asleep within ten minutes of getting home.

The door closed again.

Quiet returned.

You stood near the center of the room, slowly turning, taking it all in with fresh eyes—the order, the peace, the unmistakable signs of care rather than survival.

“Well,” you said softly.

M’Baku shifted, suddenly unsure, wiping his hands on his pants as if bracing for inspection.

You smiled at him.

“I’m impressed,” you said honestly.

His shoulders relaxed just a little.

At the dining table, Mustafa and Monte sat side by side, books open in front of them. No wrestling. No whispers of mischief. Just quiet concentration. One glanced up at you instinctively—then straightened when you smiled.

You crossed the room and lifted Amahra into your arms, breathing her in, her small hand immediately finding your collar. She babbled happily, completely content.

You kissed her cheek, then looked back at M’Baku—really looked at him.

“You did good,” you said again, softer this time.

He swallowed, nodding once. “We all did. But…” His voice lowered. “It is not lost on me who truly holds this family together.”

You smiled, resting your head briefly against his chest as the house settled into something whole again.

The chaos had passed.

The families were reunited.

And the men—humbled, exhausted, and deeply in love—would never underestimate the women again.

I hope y'all enjoyed this. I giggled and felt all the feelings while finishing this. Let me know what else you would want to see the Royal 3 do?

-𝕾𝖜𝖊𝖊𝖙 𝕭𝖆𝖇𝖎𝖊𝖘-