#erik killmonger angst

[starcrossedxwriter]

Unbreakable Part 1 (Erik Killmonger x OC)

A/N: here is the summary for our new story! Enjoyyyyyy!

Warnings: This is an AU with bits of the movie and the comics mixed together

“Fuck! J-Just like that.” Naja screwed her face up in one that gave the impression of a woman lost in the throes of pleasure, internally rolling her eyes at the haphazard thrusts of the man on top of her. 

In fact, she was merely counting down the minutes until he came and would leave. She supposed the time was good to clear her mind and reminisce.

There was that guy from London, her brain immediately recalled.

He was her favorite one-night stand to think about when she needed an extra boost to get off. Now, that man was gorgeous and he fucked like a God. She actually felt a tinge of guilt when, after he made her cum for hours, she returned the favor by torturing him for hours… and not in a pleasurable way. To his credit, he lasted a long time, which earned her respect. 

I hope he is doing ok, she thought to herself. Well, she knew he wasn’t. But had he just given up his supplier of stolen vibranium faster, he’d likely be doing better. 

“You like that??” He demanded as he fucked into her like a jack rabbit. No finesse, no skill, no care. He did not even ensure her needs were met. 

That’s ok, she decided. If his fucking was any indication of his skills in other activities, he was actually doing her and her pussy a favor. 

“Yes, I love it!” She called out, cringing at her own voice. She faked her orgasm to finish the ordeal faster. 

Anytime now, Bast, she called out to the god above. This was getting irksome. 

It seemed Bast heard her calls and blessed her, the man finally cumming and filling her. She silently thanked Wakanda for the painless, side effect free birth control that would last her five years. 

He rolled off of her, his chest heaving slightly while Naja was wholly unruffled aside from a thin layer of sweat. 

“That was… something,” she offered with a fake smile, a content and pompous smile he did not deserve forming on his lips. 

The male ego, she shook her head as she slid out of bed and threw a robe on. After returning from the bathroom, she was surprised to find him still lounging in her bed. Most of her night time companions knew the rules… no one stayed the night. But this one, Kofi…

No, this is Kwame, she thought to herself. 

No… Kwame actually knows how to fuck you. Or at least, attempts to make you cum even if he doesn’t succeed. Kwame gets an A for effort. Is there a grade lower than F we can give this one? Maybe it’s Amari? She tilted her head as she studied him. Hell, she did not know who he was but she did know one thing: he clearly did not know when to get the fuck out. 

“Ok well, this was fun but I should be heading to bed,” her tone was polite but left little room for negotiation. She gathered his clothes with lightning speed and tossed them onto his lap.

He pushed himself up onto her forearms. “Wait, you serious?” 

She stared at him, a dead panned expression painted on her face. “Yea. I sleep alone. I had fun though,” she lied with ease and a smile. 

“Oh… ok.” He started gathering his clothes, Naja wholly unmoved by the hurt glimmering in his eyes. “When will I see you again?” 

“I’m at the bar… working every night,” she handed him his shoes to speed the process along. The sooner he was gone, the sooner she could pull out her vibrator and actually service the ache between her legs. 

“So we can do this again sometime?” He asked as she shooed him toward the door. 

“Definitely, definitely. I’ll call you. Get home safe.” She pushed him out of her front door, locking and dead bolting it behind her. 

She rolled her eyes before returning up the stairs to her bedroom. She did not know why she even bothered. Every time she brought a man home after her shift, she knew they would likely not be able to please her. But she allowed them into her bed anyway. Fucking, even if it was lackluster, filled some void.

She settled into bed, about to pull out her trusted and faithful bullet when her phone rang. She groaned, glancing at her phone. 

Dayo. Her boss. 

“It is offensive to call someone this late, Dayo.” She chastised as she settled into bed. 

“I gave you an hour. I assume your suitor has returned home?” 

“He just left. What’s wrong?” 

He sighed. “Another child went missing in the village tonight.”  

Her heart sank. “That’s the 15th child in the last three months. Soldiers?” 

At his silence, she let out a frustrated groan. “The family?” 

“Devastated but not talking. They won’t admit it was the King’s men, which means they were threatened. The father tried to fight back and was killed. The mother had to be taken to the hospital, she was distraught and collapsed.” 

“FUCK!” She paced up and down her bedroom, the wood panels of her floor creaking softly. 

“I just wish we knew why he was targeting this village specifically. I reached out to the network across the rest of the city and the country and nothing like this is happening elsewhere.” 

She shrugged. “This is the poorest village in the Capitol. It’s like child soldiers across the continent and trafficking across the world. You steal people from those who do not have the resources and means to fight for their return. The King maintains his throne and his games with intimidation and violence. We will find them, Dayo, and we will liberate our people. I promise. I will talk to you tomorrow. Let me know if the family needs anything, I can try to go to the markets tomorrow night during my shift.” 

“Everyone needs everything, Malika. Thank you for doing what you can. For the liberation of Niganda.” 

“For the liberation of Niganda. Good night, Dayo.” 

She sighed, the ache between her legs vanishing completely. She grabbed her kimoyo beads and went over to the plain, nondescript wall across from her bed. She pressed the beads to a circular groove in the wood, both lighting up a mysterious shade of light blue. She glanced over her shoulder, as if someone were watching her, as the wall parted to reveal a walk-in closet.

However, this closet was filled with more than just clothes. It was a small arsenal. Spears, blades of all shapes and varieties, guns of equal diversity, even a bow and arrow, which she never got to use but she liked the look of it. And clothes. All black, fashioned to hide a many assortment of weapons in the oddest places, laced with vibranium to protect her body. She missed donning those clothes. And while those days might be over, the cache of weapons she maintained proved that some habits never died. 

She pulled a duffle bag out of the back of the closet, the bag filled with passports, Nigandan currency, and Wakandan dollars. She pulled out a notebook she kept stashed under everything else. She flipped through it, each page filled with notes from her years in Niganda. The last 20 pages or so were each numbered with the name and # of a child. Her notes, witness accounts, leads. All of it jotted down on those pages, a complex map that helped her get no where closer to find in those children.

She did not know #15’s name yet but when she learned it, their name would join their number on the page. She wrote down the bit of information Dayo shared, figuring she could fill it out more tomorrow after she spoke with him in person. 

All these children, all these souls lost. And no one seemed concerned or like they cared, no one willing to risk their lives to find them and save them. No one except those in the Nigandan Liberation Front. Dayo was their leader and he was committed as anyone to overthrow the tyrant that ruled over this country. 

Her writing was interrupted by a ping from her kimoyo beads. 

“Damn, can no one leave me the fuck alone?” She wondered aloud. However, she knew if someone was calling this line, it was important. No one from Wakanda ever bothered her unless there was news to share. 

She knew it would be an encrypted and recorded message, it was too risky to ever call her and expect her to answer. She checked her beads once a week at different times and intervals, usually there was nothing there. 

Shuri’s upper half materialized from the beads. Her voice was professional and calm, very unlike her. 

“Malika, please return home. The Royal Talon will be waiting for you on the other side of the Nigandan-Cannan border at the following coordinates at 2 a.m. in seven days. Your presence has been requested in Wakanda for two months by order of the King. Please confirm that you received this message.” 

“Anddddd this is why I never check this fuckin’ thing,” she mumbled, frustration coursing through her. 

Two months??? The power of the throne had clearly gone to T’Challa’s head. And only giving her one week to prepare to leave? And how many children, she glanced at the photos in her book of each one, would go missing in that time? How many families would be torn apart while she stayed in the safe bosom of Wakanda?

She hated herself for knowing she had to go, hated him for forcing her hand. He knew how she felt about that place, knew why she had chosen the path and life she had chosen. Why she had only stepped foot in her borders twice in the last seven years. But an order from the King was an order from the King, she took liberties but even she could not refuse him. 

As she laid in bed, frustrated, her mind already churned on what lie she could tell everyone to explain a two-month absence. She had already laid the groundwork for relatives in South Africa. Perhaps she could use that. 

“Ugh!” She now only had a week to get everything in order. “Every King on this bast-forsaken continent is a tyrant,” she mumbled to herself before flopping to her side to try to sleep. 

***

When Naja stepped off the Talon, she was thankful to only find General Okoye waiting for her, her stoic face a sight for sore eyes. She was thankful the rest of the family remembered she hated the excessive fanfare of returning home and immediately being pestered by a million people. It had been a long time since she saw many of them so she figured a certain King would ignore that directive. But she was thankful to have a moment to ease into seeing everyone. It was already an adjustment, as it always was to be back on Wakandan soil in the first place. It still felt new, every time, even though this was technically her home. It did not feel like home to her, not anymore. 

“General,” her lips tugged into the smallest of smiles as she saluted her old friend. It was the first genuine smile she could remember giving someone in months. There was little happening in Niganda worth smiling about anyway and when she did, it was usually fake. 

“Naja.” Once Okoye returned her salute, she reached out and squeezed Naja’s hand, Naja returning it gently, before their faces returned to their usual stoic and neutral expressions. “I trust your journey was well.” 

“It was. Though it was difficult to spin my absence on such short notice. Do you know why the King saw it to order me home?” 

“No.” 

Her answer was simple, and Naja knew, untrue. Okoye was one of two people in this palace privy to all of the King’s decisions and thoughts. But she also knew Okoye would not give her a single inch. It was worth a shot though, she reasoned. But it also let her know the reason was not straightforward, which meant her nap in her quarters would have to wait. 

“Of course. May you take me to his office if he is not too busy? I know the way to my room from there.”  

Okoye did not nod or answer her. She merely changed the direction of their walk through the palace toward T’Challa’s office. Naja tried not to get too wrapped up in the bustling movement and sounds of the palace. The last time she was here, it felt more like a ghost town than anything else, lifeless and dreary. Wakanda had weathered the Blip better than most countries but it still struggled and during those five years, the palace wore the scars of its lost King and Princess and half its population. But with their return, life and joy returned to the palace and all of Wakanda. She was happy for it. They all deserved it, to be whole again. 

She did not let the facade she had on fall until Okoye opened the door to T’Challa’s office, her brother in law sitting behind his desk reading. He glanced up, a wide smile gracing his tired but ever youthful features, as his eyes landed on Naja. He immediately stood up, joy rippling off of him like waves. One thing she always appreciated about T’Challa was, even when he and Nakia were not together, he treated her like a younger sister. A colder one than the one he actually had but a sister nonetheless. 

“Thank you, General. Naja, welcome home.” 

“My king,” she saluted him. She waited for the firm click of the door closing behind Okoye before she offered him a smirk. “My king summons, I answer.”

“No need for the formalities, sister. And I know you despise hugs. But it has been 7 years, humor me?” He rounded the desk to stand before her. 

“I was told the Blip only felt like minutes to those of you who were gone. So technically, for you, it has only been two years. But as my king, I suppose you make the rules. You get seven seconds.” At his raised eyebrow, she shrugged. “One for each year.” 

She allowed herself to be gathered up in his arms, the man squeezing tight. She forced herself not to fall into it, though she wanted to. The warm embrace of family, she had missed it. But instead, she merely cleared her throat, letting him know the timer on their emotional reunion had indeed run out. 

To his credit, he immediately released her, his hands holding onto her forearms as he took a step back to examine her. She chuckled and rolled her eyes as he attempted to inspect her form for any injuries or drastic changes that would worry his Queen. Seven years might have passed since she last laid eyes on T’Challa at his coronation but time had done little to change either of them.  

“You look well. Thin,” he remarked. “But well. How are you?” 

“Glory to Bast, I am in good health,” she offered lazily as she sat in the seat opposite of his desk. She tried not to look at the pictures that littered the office, keeping her eyes trained on him, knowing she would find more than one that featured him. She did not need or want to see him ever again.  “Food in the Capitol has been sparse since the return of everyone from the Blip.”

“Do you need more money? I know the alias and job you chose does not offer much.” 

She shook her head. In addition to the money she made at the bar she worked at, all War Dogs received a salary discreetly added into their accounts disguised as local side jobs and businesses. She had more than enough money. 

“No, no, no. Thanks to you, I am the world’s richest bartender. Just the monarchy hoarding resources, there is more than enough to go around for the wealthy. And the black markets continue to thrive there under the King’s nose but what I usually get from there, I give to those who need it more,” she shrugged. “I’m good. I’ve survived on less.”  

“Anything of note on those black markets?” 

She tilted her head before shaking it, T’Challa’s shoulders sagging a bit. “Aside from delicious meats and vegetables the royals have now deemed delicacies? No.” 

“Well, make sure to eat two plates at dinner. Or else your sister will not rest tonight.” 

She nodded. “Two plates? That feels gluttonous. Though I suppose I need to reacclimate to this… abundance,” her eyes flickered to the obvious signs of wealth and prestige littering his office. A pang of guilt hit her for even being able to indulge in it. “So I’m sure Nakia will make it her mission to fatten me up before I return home. So are you going to tell me why you’ve grounded me for two months? I hope it’s a good reason. Do you know how hard it will be to explain a two-month disappearance?” 

T’Challa’s deep chuckle filled the office as he sat back in his chair. “Only you would consider a vacation and a bit of time off a punishment.” 

She scoffed. “It is hardly a vacation when it comes as a direct order from my King himself, one he knows very well I would never refuse.”

“You could refuse.” His eyes twinkled with humor as he handed her a glass of Wakandan rum, the one thing he knew she missed from home.

“And face the wrath of the Black Panther?” She shook her head, throwing the entire glass back in one gulp before sighing contently. She slid the glass across the desk, gesturing toward the decanter, T’Challa refilling it for her. “The people outside these walls may call me ongenaloyiko* (the fearless one) but I am still smart enough to fear the greatest warrior in all Wakanda. But as your elder,” she started to say with a wink that she knew would agitate him. 

“You may have surpassed me in years thanks to the Blip, dear Naja, but you are still my younger sister always,” he reminded her. 

“Then tell me why you brought me back. Niganda is in a precarious place right now… things are… brewing. This is a long time to be gone.” 

He raised an eyebrow. “The other War Dogs in the region report no issues. Remember, Naja…” 

She sighed. “I know, I know. No interfering and we only care about things that threaten the interests of Wakanda. I’m being a good leashed watch dog now, I promise.” She knew she was not off to a good start, lying to him so soon. But she hated the new role expected of them. To witness the suffering of the world but do nothing to help. The other War Dogs in Niganda may be fine with such an existence but one thing she had in common with her sister, Naja would always do whatever she could, as long as life pumped in her veins.

“Good.” She was surprised he believed her. “I brought you back for many reasons. The first and most important being that your sister is pregnant,” Naja’s eyes widened. “And due any day now and she has spoken of what a great support you were during the birth of Prince T’Challa while I was…” 

“Fake dead,” she supplied. She knew the Blip was not a laughing matter. It was traumatic for those gone and those who were forced to stay and carry on. But they had all survived, she saw little point in dwelling on it. 

“Yes. And I knew she would be happy to have you here for the birth and a bit of time afterward as well. Second, you have a nephew that is growing day after day and barely knows you. I did not know my uncle before he died. You can understand that I would prefer for history not to repeat itself.” 

“Don’t worry, I wasn’t planning on stealing vibranium and selling it to the highest bidder while I’m here,” she mumbled as her thumb traced patterns in the condensation of her glass, trying to stay aloof at the mention of his father. 

“I’m serious, Naja. The War Dog program is important but N’Jobu taught me that it is not more important than family and connection. And third, I am hoping that some time back here will give you some perspective and perhaps… change your position on certain matters.” 

She scoffed, standing up to pace his office. She was dressed simply, far too simply to address the King some would argue. But there were perks to her position and her reputation, no one would correct her. Her standard soft black pants and tank top provided comfort and agility and ensured she never stood out. Tucked into her waist band was a gun, she had forgotten to remove it on the plane. Though she felt safer with it, even here, on her person. She had left her other weapons at home, her calf felt uncomfortably bare without her blade attached to it.

“And there it is. So just so I understand the rules of engagement. Are you speaking to me now as my King or as my brother?” 

“I speak to you as your brother, Naja, always.” 

“Except when you ordered me home,” she muttered as she leaned against the window sill, her eyes starting into the heart of the capital city. A small part of her ached. She’d never admit it aloud but she did miss it sometimes. She had tried for so long to find something like it but nothing compared to Wakanda. She ignored that, pushing it into the depths where she stored every other feeling she did not want to deal with. 

“You may reject the displays of our love and affection but it will stop none of us from giving it or caring for you.” 

“I am happy with how things are now, T’Challa. I have no interest in changing my position on certain matters.” 

“We are entering peace talks with Niganda, and while you do not trust them -” 

“I do not trust them because they are untrustworthy,” she cut him off sharply. “I’m the best War Dog you have there. You’d do well to heed my warnings where the Nigandans are concerned.” 

“If these negotiations go well, there is an opportunity for you to consider a position that is here in Wakanda. You are the best War Dog I have in any country on this planet, Naja. But it’s been 15 years. We have other War Dogs stationed in Niganda now, thanks to you, who can ensure the peace treaty is adhered to. You can come home.” 

“Those other War Dogs don’t know what they are doing. And… This is not my home, T’Challa,” she muttered. 

“You can spend as much time as you want away from our borders and pretend to be Malika, a lowly Nigandan bartender all you want. But you will always be Wakandan, Wakanda will always be home.” 

“And the best way for me to honor Wakanda is by doing what I have always done: serve her. Protect her interests. In Niganda.” 

She and T’Challa stared at each other for a few moments. While most would have withered under the intense gaze of their king, Naja did no such thing. It was T’Challa who finally broke their standoff, bowing his head as if to signal his surrender. 

“For your sister’s sake, I ask that you merely consider it. She misses you terribly. And not just your physical absence. She misses who you were.” 

She rolled her eyes and chuckled as she walked back over to his desk. Her eyes fell on a picture of T’Challa, Nakia, and their son. She picked up the frame, her fingers grazing along the patterns surrounding their smiling faces.  

“Who I was is of little consequence now, T’Challa. This is who I am. It’s been 15 years and my sister would do well to accept this version of me. Wakanda and I are better for it anyway. Does she know I’m here?” 

“No, it is a surprise for dinner tonight.” 

She sucked her teeth before nodding. “Fine. I will serve out my two month sentence - without complaint - and I will not tell her of your clever but well-intentioned manipulation to force me here. But I say this with all the love and reverence for you as my brother and my King, when these two months are up, I will return to Niganda with or without your approval. Are we clear?” 

Few could talk to T’Challa as she did or had the privilege to make demands. But when Naja spoke, T’Challa listened. “Crystal clear. It is good to have you home, sister. We missed your bubbly personality and disposition around here.” 

“It is good to see you too, T’Challa. Congrats on the new baby. Next time you want to send me encrypted messages, send me good news like that. I’m going to lay down until dinner.” 

“Naja!” 

She stopped and turned around to face him once more. 

“I recognize, accept, and love who you are now. But I would push back on one point.” At her raised eyebrow, he continued, “Wakanda is served well by every version of you because you love her and she loves you back. This version of you is extraordinary. But better implies there was something wrong with the equally extraordinary version of you from before. And there wasn’t.” 

Something pricked the back of her eyes as she turned away from him, a sting she despised about as much as physical affection. 

“This is why I hate coming back,” she huffed. “Tell anyone my eyes so much as misted and I’ll kill you in your sleep.” 

He chuckled. “Bast’s fiercest warrior and daughter never cries. Even if my eyes witnessed such a feat, I would not know the words to share it with a soul.” 

She smiled before exiting his office, immediately swallowing the emotion she felt. She hated how out of sorts she felt being back here. Seeing T’Challa in the flesh again after seven long years, the emotions of being back here in this home and in this city, finding out her sister was pregnant, the emotional exhaustion of switching from her alias back to Naja… this was why she preferred to be alone when she first got home. Had not been on Wakandan soil for an hour and she had already been through a rollercoaster of emotions. 

Naja moved through the halls silently and swiftly, moving like a panther herself to ensure she did not run into her sister. Though she was not happy about being forced to return, she was excited to see her sister and her nephew. Though Nakia still treated her like a fragile dove, her sister loved her beyond comparison and reason. 

When she finally found her way to her room, she stripped down and curled into bed immediately. A content sigh slipped from her lips as she settled into the comfort of the soft mattress and linens. The room was obscene, triple the size of her home in Niganda. It was home to her and served her needs but it left much to be desired compared to what she left behind. 

Don’t get used to it, she thought to herself as she already started to drift off to sleep. Two months and then we’re out of here.

***

Naja yawned deeply as she rushed to dinner, realizing she was several minutes late. She hated that T’Challa was right, per usual. 

A break from life as a spy was not so bad. She did not know how to relax and rest but her body seemed determined to ensure she did it. She slept like a rock, a call from T’Challa 10 minutes past dinnertime was the only thing to jolt her from her sleep. 

She paused outside the family dining room, her heart warming as she heard her nephew spitting rapid fire questions at his parents about training. Her sister’s voice filled the room. 

“Will you teach your sister how to train when she’s old enough?” She heard Nakia ask. 

TJ’s small voice responded. “Would that be safe for her? I don’t want her to get hurt like I do.” 

“As safe as it is for any Wakandan,” Naja offered with a teasing smile as she rounded the corner. 

“Auntie Naja!!” TJ sprung from his seat with the strength of a cannon and ran into her outstretched arms. “I missed you!” 

“My prince!! You are getting taller and taller every day!” She tickled his sides, his giggles filling the dining room and everyone’s hearts with warmth. “And when you’re training that little one in a few years, you should remember what my baba always told us. Our battle scars are our strength, our power, and…” 

“A reminder from Bast that we lived another day to serve Wakanda,” TJ finished, reciting the words Nakia and Naja’s father always said. 

She cradled him against her chest for a moment once more before letting him go, his small hand gripping around hers to drag her farther into the room. 

“Now why doesn’t he have a time limit on your affection?” T’Challa’s voice was filled with fake indignation. 

She merely shrugged as TJ demanded she take the open seat next to him. 

“I simply like him better than you.” 

However, before she sat, she rounded the table to her sister. 

“Sister. No, don’t get up,” she cautioned as Nakia started to move. The hug she bestowed was longer than most would receive but she could tell by the unshed tears in Nakia’s eyes that she needed it. She cradled one hand to Nakia’s cheek before the other rested on her belly. “How are you? And how is my future niece, Wakanda’s next great warrior?” 

“We are both well, even better now that you are here. You’re so thin.” She tsked slightly, T’Challa and Naja sharing a knowing glance and chuckle. “You need to catch me up on everything. But first sit. Eat.” 

As she returned to her seat, she watched as a silent conversation passed between her King and Queen. Though Nakia’s face appeared happy, there was something brewing beneath the surface. She could sense the anger passing through her to T’Challa, a guilty look plastered on his face. She watched as he busied himself with his own plate to avoid her glare. 

She did not know what to make of it as she piled food on her plate, she could not deny she was starving. However, she realized the reason for that silent conversation quickly as two voices grew louder and louder as they moved toward the dining room.

“If you had just listened to me, we wouldn’t have been late! Your elementary knowledge of nanotech is useless. I could’ve finished it in an hour if you hadn’t been there mansplaining,” Shuri ranted as she rounded the corner into the kitchen. She was so frustrated she did not even notice Naja at the table or acknowledge her. 

“Aye! I went to MIT, short bit,” a sharp American voice filled the space, Naja’s blood turning to ice water, her head whipping toward the door so fiercely she could have broken her own neck. She felt as if her heart completely stopped as she watched Prince N’Jadaka enter the dining room. “That shit’s hardly element-” his words immediately fell off as his eyes fell on Naja, his entire body paralyzed in mid step. 

The pair merely stared at each other, the dining room rapidly filling with tension so severe even the staff ceased moving. And only four people, save the Prince and Naja, knew the source of that tension. Her body did not move an inch, her fork still hovering in the space above her plate as indescribable rage took control of every cell in her body. She could feel it deep in her bones, 15 years worth of pain she had buried warped into a monster. Her nephew’s presence mere inches from her were the only calming presence she could feel, the only thing keeping everything from boiling over. 

“Well… this is painfully awkward,” Shuri muttered as she sat down in her seat next to the Queen Mother. “W-Welcome home, Naja.” 

She cleared her throat, an even and cold timbre falling on her voice. No longer did Naja, the sister and friend, sit at the table. Naja, the spy, with her iron clad facade sat before them. Cold, unfeeling, ruthless. Unbreakable, she reminded herself. That was the weapon she had fashioned herself into. That was who she was now. And she was better for it. 

“Thank you, Princess. I am happy you are back and well. I see much has changed since my last visit. Erik.” 

He had started to make his way to his own seat but stilled at the sound of his American name. It was the name he had gone by his entire time in Wakanda when he moved here as a child after his father’s death. Prince Erik, preferably just Erik, he forced everyone to call him. But Naja… she was the one person aside from T’Challa he allowed to call him by his Wakandan name. She knew he had once loved hearing her say it as much as she loved to say it. She knew the dig, however coded it was, hit its mark, a part of her savored in the hurt that crossed his face. 

“I prefer N’Jadaka,” he offered as he sat down in the last open seat directly across from her, which only increased her anger. 

“Hmm… So you have returned to Wakanda for the birth as well, Erik?” She asked, ignoring his preference. She would never call him N’Jadaka or prince again. She did not care if the whole damn country referred to him as such. 

He sucked his teeth. “Nah. I’ve been back for months… I owed T and Wakanda a favor so I’m home for good, helpin’ rebuild after everythin’.” 

The entire table seemed to shift as rage wafted off Naja. She cut her eyes from Erik to T’Challa, the rest of the room falling away as she threw him a glare that made him thankful the heart-shaped herb ran through his veins. However, beneath that glare, T’Challa knew it masked hurt and one question only he and Nakia could likely decipher. 

How could you? 

“I have suddenly lost my appetite. Sister, I will check in on you in the morning. Good night.” Her fork loudly clanked against the dinner china before she rose from the table. She ignored the calls of her sister and T’Challa for her to stay as she turned to leave. She slowed herself just enough to kiss her nephew on the forehead briefly before exiting without a second glance.

He was home… How could T’Challa not tell her? Tell her that she would be living under the same roof as him for months? Did he consider her too fragile for such knowledge? That her feeble, weak mind would collapse or fall apart? Those days were behind her. 

She had turned all that hurt and pain into fuel, it drove her and pushed her. And now here he was, and all that hurt she suppressed for 15 years, all of that was back with one look at his face. She hated him, despised him. She did not want to look at him, much less sit across from him at every meal for the next two months. 

She could not do it. Fuck the King’s commands. She was returning to Niganda tonight. Even if she had to hitch hike the entire way. 

She was so wrapped up in her escape plan that she did not hear the footsteps behind her until she felt a presence directly on her back. Without thought, she pulled out the gun still tucked in her waistband and cocked it, aiming it directly at… T’Challa. 

She ignored the bang of the Doras’ spears on the ground as she kept the gun aimed at him. She was thankful it was just him. That was the one thing she did not enjoy about her life as a spy, her instincts were too difficult to turn off now. 

“Still ever vigilant, I see?” T’Challa raised his hand to the Dora, silently ordering them to stand down, wholly unperturbed at having a gun pointed at his chest. 

“Well, you never know when someone’s gonna betray you,” she spat with venom that made him flinch.

“I understand you’re upset...” 

“You understand nothing,” she seethed, taking a step toward him. She lowered the gun, the weapon shaking in her hand. “I understand that you knew I would not agree to return if I knew he was here so instead of telling me of the birth and asking me to return, you forced my hand. I understand that you used your title and my love for my sister as manipulation to force a reconciliation. It. Is. Not. Happening.” 

“You cannot avoid him forever. You are both part of this family.” 

She paced, agitated and frustrated. “I can and will avoid him forever. Because if I don’t, I will use his body to test out the multitude of ways I know how to kill someone.. I can’t believe you didn’t warn me he was here.” 

“I am sorry. I thought it would help but I was wrong.” He sighed before gesturing at the gun. “Will it help?” 

She thought about it and nodded. 

The black fibers of his suit emerged and covered his whole body. With perfect precision, she shot him over and over again, emptying her clip until his suit was bright purple with the stored kinetic energy of each bullet. The loud bangs reverberated through the halls, her eardrums rattled. 

“Better?” He asked when she finally lowered the gun and tucked it back in its hiding spot.

“Yes… and no. You’re still able to talk,” she muttered. Though shooting something did take the edge of her anger off. 

“I am sorry for deceiving you. You are right, I knew you would not return if you knew Erik had returned home permanently. But your sister… and I… we need you here. I know what he did, the pain he caused you. And if you do not speak to him ever again, you would be within your right. But I ask very little of you, Naja. And right now, I am asking you to stay here,” Naja was annoyed that he somehow already realized she was going to run back home. “And endure for us. Two months and then you can leave and I will not utter a word to convince you to stay. I promise.”  

She nodded. “Fine. But just so you know, any ill conceived notion you had of me returning to this country for good? That is gone now. As long as Erik Stevens calls Wakanda home, I never will.” She turned on her heels and disappeared down the hall, leaving T’Challa alone surrounded by shell casings. 

She only paused when she heard him yell back, “I’ll have dinner sent to your room. Please eat or your sister will kill me.” 

She scoffed. “That’s not reason enough,” she called back. Though they both knew she would eat whatever was brought to her. 

***

Unlike Naja, Erik was able to hide his emotions a tad bit better and hold it together through dinner. However, his emotions did not include rage, except for toward T’Challa. All he had felt at dinner was the hot, uncomfortable spotlight of guilt and shame. What he had done, he’d never forgive himself. And any stupid notion he once had that Naja could forgive him one day was wiped out in a manner of minutes. 

“What the fuck, T?” Erik demanded as he stormed into T’Challa’s office, the King nursing a glass of rum as he continued to work. 

“Your ex already shot me several times this evening, figuratively and literally. So go easy on me, N’Jadaka.” 

“You told me she didn’t ever come back to Wakanda? That she moved on??

T’Challa shrugged. “Those things are not untrue. Naja is a War Dog stationed in Niganda,” he admitted. “You wanted nothing to do with Wakanda once you left and worked for the US Government so I could not reveal War Dog identities to you. And when you came back, I thought it best that she remain out of sight and out of mind.” 

Erik’s eyes grew wide. “W-wait, w-wait… a watch and report back War Dog or a Hatut Zeraze-era War Dog?” 

There was a distinction, one only a precious few in the country knew. For most, the War Dogs were merely spies, a Wakandan-style CIA force that watched, patiently integrating themselves into their host country’s world to report back critical information to protect Wakanda. However, past kings used a specialized force of them for other purposes, ones the average Wakandan knew nothing of, purposes that actually kept Wakanda safe and protected all these years. 

T’Challa sighed and rubbed his eyes. “The latter until my coronation. She was handpicked during training by my father, and worked her way up to leading missions across the continent and beyond.” 

Erik scoffed. “Missions… I know what missions mean. Assassinations, torture.”

T’Challa tilted his head. “None that we would ever admit to.  She is stationed in Niganda 90% of the time unless my father needed her for another assignment. When I became king, I disbanded that portion of the War Dogs and she has been our lead War Dog in Niganda ever since.” 

The stinging heat of anger and fear prickled his brain. The Naja he remembered was soft, not in a bad way either. You wanted to lean into her and soak up her warmth. It was comforting and soothing. However, he knew first hand the things she would have had to do to be part of that specialized force. And he would not wish the damage all that had done to his own soul on anyone else, least of all her. 

“’N you didn’t think to tell a nigga she was comin’?” 

“I thought 15 years was enough time for you both to move past everything that transpired. Clearly I was wrong.” 

“She still hates me?” 

T’Challa scoffed. “Is there a word stronger than hate? Because that may be more accurate.” He paused. “Do you still feel guilty?” 

Erik merely nodded, his finger fidgeting with his father’s ring, which he had worn around his neck since he was a small boy. 

“15 years and one look at her and all that shit just comes right back,” he let out a low whistle. “She looks damn good. Different though. Not just physically. She’s colder than I remembered.”  

“You miss her?” 

He nodded. “Yea, being back here this year. She’s gone but every fuckin’ place in this damn country reminds me of her. I fucked up.”

“You still love her?” 

Erik shrugged. “A lack of love was never the issue. Doesn’t matter if 50 years go by… it’d still be her. Only her. Who knows, maybe I can make this shit right. Can’t be a coincidence that Bast brought us both back?” 

“May I be honest with you, cousin?” 

“Me saying no ain’t ever stopped you.” 

“When Naja first joined the War Dogs, her father made a personal plea to my father and I  to reject her application. When I asked him why, he said that though they were crafted by the same hand, his daughters could not be more different. Nakia, he said, was an assassin’s blade. Beautiful, striking, and when wielded with the right hand, deadly. While Naja was no weapon at all. She was a delicate sculpture, something to gaze upon, he said. She could be a weapon, like anything. But one blow would be all you get and the cost would destroy her and she would never be the same again.” 

“This fuckin’ Wakandan proverb shit,” Erik mumbled. “Like what the fuck does that even mean?” 

“It means… You broke her, N’Jadaka. And that isn’t a judgment or condemnation,” he added at the pain that flashed across his face. “I understood then and now what ailed you when you did what you did. But you broke her. And to cope with that pain, like you, she picked up all those broken pieces and fashioned herself into a weapon that is more deadly than even Nakia ever was. Someone who is unbreakable. She is the most lethal weapon I’ve ever seen with stunning effectiveness and precision. She is pragmatic, she is cold, she is cunning, and merciless. And for her, love for anything other than this country and its throne is weakness. She is not the Naja you left here 15 years ago. She may look like the woman you love but she is an entirely different person, N’Jadaka. Be wise and remember that.”

“What are you saying?” 

“I am saying that as much as I would love to see the two of you reconcile, this Naja will sooner kill you before she will let you close enough to break her ever again. Goodnight, cousin.” T’Challa grabbed his glass and stood up, walking to the door, leaving Erik to contemplate the consequences of his actions. 

Tag List: @miyuhpapayuh @pipsqueak-98 @injerafiend @themakingsofdion

A/N: Ok I've never written Erik before so I'm really excited. I also feel like this OC is very unlike my others so I'm excited about.

Drop a comment and let me know what you thought or if you want to be tagged!

[reveryfics]

Choices

Erik Killmonger x Male Reader

Summary: Erik faced a tough decision: permanent exile from Wakanda or living under T'Challa's strict rules. While he strongly preferred leaving to submitting to T'Challa, a unique possibly one sided connection to Shuri's associate compelled him to stay.

A/N: Bare with me on this one, I don't know how it went so off rails from my original idea, but here we are. Anyway requests are open, as I rot in bed while sick.

TW: Angst - Unspecified illness - Fluff ending

Words: 7.6k

In the aftermath of actions that had rippled with pain through countless lives, the concept of choice seemed like a distant luxury, one not freely bestowed upon all, especially not upon those who had inflicted such profound suffering. Erik, acutely aware of the devastation he had wrought, had long since abandoned any hope of mercy. He had steeled himself for retribution, for the unyielding hand of justice from T'Challa, fully anticipating a singular, harsh decree: permanent banishment from the sacred lands of Wakanda. Yet, fate, or perhaps T'Challa's discerning wisdom, had a different path in mind. Against all of Erik's expectations, T'Challa presented him not with an ultimatum, but with a choice: an opportunity for redemption, a chance to shed the weight of his past and embrace the potential for a better self, a potential T'Challa believed lay dormant within him. The alternative remained, stark and clear: depart Wakanda forever, never to return.

Logically, the decision should have been effortless, a swift exit from a place he had sought to dismantle. But within the intricate tapestry of his conflicted soul, something, or rather, someone, held him tethered. That someone was you, an outsider, much like him in your initial arrival, present in Wakanda due to the invaluable contributions you offered. He was acutely aware of the palpable disdain and fear in the gazes of others, their eyes reflecting the image of a monster. But your gaze, it was different. It seemed to pierce through the layers of his hardened exterior, to see beyond the monster, as if you perceived a hidden depth, a part of him that only you recognized. It was this profound, unspoken understanding that rooted him to Wakanda. It was because of you that he chose to stay, because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, someone looked at him and made him feel like he belonged, like he truly mattered.

He resolved to endure every trial, every challenge T'Challa would place before him, and to withstand the ostracism from those who condemned his past actions. He would bear it all, for the promise of seeing you at the end of each day was a beacon in his desolate world. And indeed, he did. Each night, he would find you, engrossed in your work at your desk, one leg casually outstretched, the other resting against a footstool, your cane leaning against the desk's edge. Your lips would be pressed together in a silent testament to your concentration. From beyond your immediate line of sight, he would simply observe, content in the quietude of your presence. He cherished the peaceful tableau you presented from afar, a fragile beauty he was terrified to disturb. A lingering fear gnawed at him, the fear that this profound connection he felt was merely a construct of his own desperate yearning, that your gentle understanding was nothing more than pity.

He found himself drawn to the quiet rhythm of your work, a silent observer in the vast, vibrant expanse of Wakanda. Every evening, as dusk settled over the Golden City, he would seek you out. He’d watch you, hunched over your desk, the soft glow of the lamps illuminating the fierce concentration etched on your face. Your movements were precise, your focus unwavering, and he'd simply exist in the periphery of your awareness, a ghost in the corners of your vision.

His observations weren't limited to the quiet of your evenings. He saw you often with Shuri, the princess a whirlwind of restless energy and brilliant ideas. You, on the other hand, were a steady anchor, your calm demeanor a perfect counterbalance to her effervescence. He'd watch as you and Shuri hunched over holographic schematics, your fingers tracing invisible lines in the air, murmuring in low tones about complex algorithms and vibranium applications. He saw the easy camaraderie between you, the way Shuri respected your intellect, even when she playfully chided you for your late nights. He’d catch glimpses of you in the royal labs, your brow furrowed in thought as you manipulated intricate Wakandan technology, your explanations to Shuri punctuated by gestures that were both precise and elegant. He recognized in those moments a shared passion for innovation, a silent language spoken between two brilliant minds.

He also witnessed your presence in the council meetings, a stark contrast to his own past, fraught with violence and defiance. In the grand council chambers, surrounded by the solemn faces of Wakanda's elders and leaders, you spoke with a quiet authority that commanded respect. He remembered one particular session, the air thick with tension as the council debated Wakanda's cautious approach to vibranium's global distribution. While others spoke of caution and tradition, you presented a compelling argument for responsible outreach, your voice clear and unwavering as you articulated the potential for global betterment. He watched as you deftly navigated the political currents, your logic unassailable, your commitment to Wakanda's future evident in every word. You weren't afraid to challenge established norms, always advocating for a path that balanced progress with preservation. He saw the respect in T'Challa's eyes as he listened to your insights, recognizing the valuable asset you were becoming to the nation.

He was there, too, when Shuri, her patience worn thin, would finally erupt in frustration over your relentless work ethic. He’d overhear their hushed arguments, Shuri’s voice laced with genuine concern, yours with a quiet obstinacy. "You can't keep doing this! You'll burn yourself out!" she'd exclaim, gesturing wildly. Your response would be calm, measured, a subtle deflective shrug, a murmured assurance that you were fine. But he saw through it. He saw the fatigue etched around your eyes, the slight tremble in your hand as you reached for your cane, the way you sometimes leaned heavily against the desk when you thought no one was looking. He witnessed the subtle signs that others might miss, the unspoken truth that clung to you like a shadow.

He saw your immense value to Wakanda – your brilliance, your dedication, your unique understanding of vibranium and its applications. You were a bridge between their ancient traditions and the limitless possibilities of the future. You were a force for good, undeniably so. But he also saw why you were truly there, the unspoken, devastating reason. It was in the faint tremor of your hands, the occasional wince you tried to hide, the way your breath sometimes hitched when you pushed yourself too hard. You were sick. A silent, insidious battle waged within you, slowly, relentlessly, claiming its toll.

It all made a chilling, undeniable sense. Wakanda had something you desperately needed, a cure, a treatment, a chance at prolonged life that no other nation could offer. And in return, you offered your unparalleled intellect, your very essence, a brilliant mind exchanged for precious time. He knew then that his own unexpected choice to stay was intertwined with your desperate need, a strange, tragic dance of reciprocal necessity.

It was one of those nights. The palace, usually a hive of activity, had settled into a hushed stillness, the only sounds the soft hum of vibranium technology and the distant chirping of crickets. Erik, a restless shadow in the dim corridors, found himself doing what he often did: wandering. He ignored the wary glances from the few Dora Milaje on late-night patrol, their expressions a familiar blend of suspicion and reluctant tolerance. His focus, as always, was singular: finding you.

He knew you wouldn't be in your lab. He'd seen Shuri earlier, her arms crossed, a stern but affectionate look on her face as she practically herded you out. You, ever the workaholic, had protested weakly, a mumbled "I'm fine, Shuri," but even from a distance, Erik could tell you were anything but. As you finally conceded, slowly making your way down the hall, Shuri watched you go, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "That boy is going to run himself thin," she muttered, not to herself, but to the empty air, her worry evident. Her eyes then flickered, catching Erik's silent vigil in the distance. She paused, a flicker of surprise, then a knowing glint in her eyes before she turned back into the glowing sanctuary of her lab, leaving him to his quiet pursuit.

He also knew you wouldn't be in your room. Your quarters, though meticulously maintained by the palace staff, often felt strangely unoccupied. You were rarely there, a stark contrast to the lively bustle of Shuri's lab or the quiet intensity of your own workspace. It was a detail he'd noticed early on, a subtle indicator of your tireless dedication, or perhaps, your reluctance to face the solitude that awaited you there.

He turned a corner, and there you were. Slumped against the cool, polished wall, your head rested at an awkward angle on your shoulder. Your cane lay beside you on the floor, a silent sentinel. Despite the evident discomfort of your position, a profound sense of peace seemed to emanate from you, a quiet stillness that Erik had come to recognize as uniquely yours.

He moved without a sound, a phantom in the hushed corridor, and sank to the floor beside you. He didn't look at you immediately, instead fixing his gaze on the massive, vibrant painting that adorned the opposite wall – a tapestry of Wakandan history, rich with swirling colors and ancestral figures. The silence stretched between you, not awkward, but companionable, filled only by the distant hum of the palace.

Finally, he broke the quiet, his voice a low rumble, rougher than he intended. "You okay?" he asked, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue. He allowed his eyes to finally drift to you, and the blunt assessment escaped him before he could stop it. "You look like shit."

A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped you. Your head slowly shifted, rolling from one shoulder to the other until you were facing him, a small, wry smile playing on your lips. Your eyes, usually sharp with intellect, held a weariness he knew intimately.

"Took me sitting against a wall like a derelict for you to finally talk to me, huh, Killmonger?" you murmured, your voice a little raspy from disuse, the smile widening slightly. "All under the guise of asking if I'm 'okay,' of course."

Erik felt a flicker of surprise, then a ghost of a smirk touched his lips. He hadn't expected you to call him out, or to use that name. Most people in Wakanda either avoided it or spat it with venom. But from you, it felt... different. Almost familiar, like an old scar recognized.

"Yeah, well," he grunted, the smirk deepening slightly, "figured it was a safe bet you weren't about to collapse from over-excitement in the lab." He shifted, settling more comfortably against the wall, his gaze still fixed on the painting, though he was acutely aware of your presence beside him. The air between you hummed with an unspoken understanding, a shared sense of being outside the norm. He appreciated that you didn't sugarcoat things, didn't pretend he was someone he wasn't. It was a stark contrast to the careful tiptoeing of everyone else.

You chuckled again, a soft, dry sound. "Always the charmer, Killmonger." You adjusted your position slightly, a small wince betraying the effort. He caught it, the subtle tightening of your jaw, the fleeting tremor in your hand as you instinctively reached for your cane. He didn't comment, just watched, his eyes missing nothing.

"Seriously though," he pressed, his voice losing some of its earlier gruffness, a hint of genuine concern seeping in despite himself. "You really are pushing it. Shuri's ready to put you in a padded room."

You let out a soft sigh, turning your head to also look at the painting. "She means well," you said, your voice softer now, tinged with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "But there's… a lot to do. And not a lot of time."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Not a lot of time. It was the truth he'd seen in your eyes, in the subtle signs your body gave away. He felt a familiar knot tighten in his gut, a mix of grim acceptance and something else he couldn't quite name – a flicker of frustration, perhaps, at the unfairness of it. He wanted to ask more, to demand answers about what exactly was consuming you, but he knew better. You weren't one to offer explanations unless you chose to.

He simply nodded, acknowledging your unspoken burden. "So, this is your version of taking it easy, huh?" he finally said, gesturing vaguely at your slumped form. "Propping yourself up against a wall in the middle of the night."

You managed another small smile. "It's surprisingly comfortable," you quipped, a flicker of your usual dry wit returning. "And quiet. A good place to think."

"So," Erik mused, his voice a low rumble, "what's so captivating about a wall that's got you thinking this hard?" He finally turned his head fully, his eyes, dark and intense, fixing on yours. "What's on your mind?"

You let out a low groan as you shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the unyielding wall. The slight grimace on your face was fleeting, quickly replaced by a weary resignation. Your gaze met his, a hint of something unreadable in their depths.

"You," you admitted, the word a soft exhalation. It hung in the quiet air between you, a surprising admission.

Erik's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He waited, his expression unreadable, a silent invitation for you to elaborate.

You continued, your voice a murmur. "I've been wondering why you're always there, in the shadows. Always watching. Never talking, not really. What do you get out of it, just... observing?" You gestured vaguely around the empty hall. "It's not exactly a thrilling spectator sport, watching someone work themselves to death." A bitter laugh escaped you, devoid of humor.

He held your gaze, the intensity in his eyes unwavering. "I'll tell you," he said, his voice low and steady, a challenge underlying his words. "I'll tell you why I'm always watching, why I'm here. If you tell me what's going on with you." He paused, letting his words sink in, then added, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "Why you're really here."

You nodded, the slight bob of your head betraying a deeper weariness. With a soft groan, you began to push yourself up from the wall, your cane clattering lightly as you reached for it. Even with its support, your body swayed precariously, a sudden tremor running through your frame.

Erik was on his feet in a single, fluid motion, his hand hovering inches from your arm, ready to steady you if you faltered. His dark eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of genuine concern. He didn't speak, simply waited, a silent sentinel.

"Alright," you murmured, your voice a little softer than before, "I'll talk. But... not out here." You glanced down the empty corridor, then back at him, a hint of a wry smile playing on your lips. "Somewhere a little more comfortable than a glorified hallway wall, don't you think?"

Without waiting for his reply, you reached out and lightly patted his chest, your fingers lingering for a brief moment against the solid muscle beneath his shirt. It was a small, almost unconscious gesture, yet it held a surprising intimacy, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence, his unspoken offer of support. Then, your hand dropping, you began to move past him, your cane tapping a steady rhythm against the polished floor as you headed in the direction of your room, leaving him to follow.

He watched your retreating back for a moment, the faint echo of your touch still a surprising warmth on his chest. Then, with a silent stride, Erik fell into step behind you, maintaining a respectful distance.

The journey to your room was a quiet one, punctuated only by the rhythmic tap of your cane and the soft shuffle of his boots on the polished floors. The palace, usually bustling, felt almost deserted at this late hour. Shadows stretched long and distorted from the ornate pillars, creating a hushed, almost intimate atmosphere. He observed your movements: the slight stiffness in your gait, the way you occasionally leaned a little more heavily on your cane, a subtle grimace flitting across your face when you thought he wasn't looking. He was acutely aware of the vulnerability in your posture, a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding intellect you displayed in the labs and council meetings.

He noticed small details along the way – a framed piece of Wakandan art you paused to glance at, the way your hand instinctively reached out to brush against a cool vibranium railing. You didn't speak, nor did he. The unspoken agreement to talk seemed to hang in the air, a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled once you reached your destination. He wasn't sure what to expect from this conversation, from you. He had prepared for confrontation, for defiance, for anything but this quiet vulnerability.

Finally, you reached a door, set a little apart from the others in the corridor. With a quiet click, you unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing a space that, while sparse, held a surprising sense of personal warmth. A comfortable-looking armchair sat by a large window, a stack of books on a small table beside it. The air smelled faintly of herbal tea and cinnamon. You stepped inside, leaving the door ajar, a silent invitation for him to follow.

Erik quietly closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the sudden intimacy of the room. He watched as you kicked off your shoes, and followed suit, shucking his own heavy boots. His eyes, ever observant, took in the details of your sanctuary. An old, ornate tea set sat on a small desk, undoubtedly a gift from Queen Ramonda, the various tea leaves beside it hinting at calming rituals. Books lined the shelves, their spines worn from countless readings. He noted the soft, inviting bed, and above it, a painting he recognized – a vibrant depiction of the Wakandan sunrise, the same one he'd often seen you staring at from afar.

He turned back to you, and a silent gasp caught in his throat. You were in the process of changing, having just pulled off your overshirt. The lamplight, soft as it was, illuminated your form in a way the shadows of the hall had not. He’d thought his own scarred body was a testament to hardship, but the sight of you was a different kind of shock. Your skin was startlingly pale, almost translucent, and beneath it, a delicate tracery of veins was unnervingly visible. As you turned slightly, he could see the faint outline of your spine, too prominent, too fragile. It was a stark, visceral illustration of the sickness you carried.

Erik's gaze snapped away, his head whipping around to pretend a sudden, intense interest in a framed, ancient Wakandan map on the wall. He stared at it, his jaw tight, giving you privacy as you quickly finished changing into something more comfortable – a loose, soft pull over and joggers.

"It's not as bad as it looks," you said, your voice a little softer now, tinged with a weariness that settled deep into his bones. He heard the rustle of fabric as you moved, then the soft creak of the bed as you laid down, settling against the pillows.

He finally turned back, finding you propped up on your side, your arm extended, patting the spot beside you on the bed. Your eyes, calm yet searching, met his. Erik hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

You managed a weak, almost wry smile. "Come on, Killmonger," you said, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Laying beside another guy isn't going to kill you. And I'm not contagious, as far as I know."

Erik sighed, the sound a low exhalation, and then, with a quiet grace surprising for his build, he moved. He eased himself onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on the vibrant painting above, the one you often stared at. The colors swirled, a silent explosion of Wakandan beauty, reflecting in the dim light of the room.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, the air filling his lungs before he spoke. "Erik." The single word, his own name, hung in the air, a stark declaration.

You turned your head to face him, your eyebrow subtly crooked in question, a silent invitation for him to elaborate.

He shifted, turning his head to meet your gaze. His dark eyes held a rare vulnerability, a flicker of something he rarely showed to anyone. "I'd like you to call me Erik," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it, a quiet plea in the request.

You simply smiled, a small, genuine curve of your lips. Your eyes, deep and knowing, never left his, even as you began to speak.

"I'm sick, Erik," you admitted, the words flowing out in a quiet, steady stream. "I can't even begin to tell you what it is, because I don't even know myself. Doctors... they can't pinpoint it." Your voice was devoid of self-pity, just a weary acceptance of an unyielding truth.

You then turned your head, your gaze returning to the vibrant painting above. "I'm here because T'Challa thought Wakanda had the answer," you continued, your voice distant, thoughtful. "A temporary fix. A way to slow it down, to buy me time, until they could figure it out. And all he asked in return was that I respected them, respected Wakanda. Everything else – working with Shuri, contributing to the council, everything I do now – added bonus I guess."

Erik lay still, his gaze still fixed on the painting, but his mind was racing. Sick. The word hung in the air, a stark contrast to the strength and intellect he'd witnessed from you. A temporary fix. It explained so much: your relentless work, the guardedness, the subtle signs of frailty he’d observed. T'Challa's trust, and your reciprocated respect, felt like a silent rebuke to his own past actions, driven by a thirst for power and vengeance. You, a virtual stranger, had been given a chance at life, a chance at belonging, by the very people he’d sought to destroy, all because you had something they needed, something you desperately needed in return.

He turned his head slowly, meeting your gaze again. His expression was unreadable, a complex mixture of thoughts swirling beneath the surface. There was a flicker of something akin to grim understanding, a recognition of the brutal truth you had just laid bare. His own body bore the scars of a different kind of sickness, a rage that had consumed him. But yours was a silent, internal war, fought with every breath.

"So," he began, his voice low, a rough rasp, "you're trading your brain for borrowed time." It wasn't a question, but a blunt statement of fact, stripped of any pretense or pity. He watched your reaction, searching for any sign of weakness or regret, but found only a quiet acceptance.

You didn't flinch, your gaze steady. "Something like that," you confirmed, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's a fair trade, I think. I get more days. Wakanda gets... well, whatever I can offer." A faint, melancholic smile touched your lips. "They're trying, Erik. They really are."

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched. He thought of his own desperate need for Wakanda, for what it could grant him: power, control, the means to reshape the world. You, on the other hand, sought it for survival, for a chance to simply be. The irony wasn't lost on him. He felt a strange tension building within him, a brewing storm of emotions he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. Pity wasn't one of them, not truly. It was something more primal, a recognition of shared mortality, perhaps even a nascent, unwilling respect for your quiet fight.

He looked back at the vibrant painting above, its bright colors seeming to mock the fragile reality of your life. The silence stretched between you once more, but this time, it was different. It was no longer the silence of observation, but the silence of shared truth, a quiet acknowledgment of the profound and unexpected connection that had just been forged.

He lay there for a long moment, the vibrant colors of the painting above seeming to press down on the quiet truth of your words. Borrowed time. The phrase echoed in his mind, stark and unyielding. It was a currency he understood, a battle against an unseen enemy. He thought of his own fight, his own desperate grab for what he felt was owed to him, and how it contrasted with your quiet acceptance, your selfless contribution.

"And that's why you don't sleep," he finally said, his voice flat, devoid of judgment. It wasn't a question, but a statement born of observation and the recent revelation. "Why you're always working."

You shifted slightly beside him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. "Every moment here is a moment I might not have later," you murmured, your gaze still fixed on the painting. "Every algorithm I refine, every application of vibranium I help Shuri discover... it's a small way to justify the grace I've been given. To leave something behind." A hint of sadness, fleeting but potent, touched your voice.

Erik turned his head fully to look at you, his dark eyes intense. "Grace," he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. It wasn't a concept he was intimately familiar with, certainly not in the context of his own life. "You think it's grace?"

You finally met his gaze, a faint, almost wistful smile on your lips. "What else would you call it, Erik? They have no obligation to help me. Yet, they do. And T'Challa... he trusts me, even with me being an outsider, even with this." You gestured vaguely at yourself, encompassing your illness.

He frowned, a deep line appearing between his brows. Trust was another foreign concept in his world, often a weakness exploited. Yet, he saw it here, a tangible force. He considered the sheer audacity of T'Challa's choice, to offer you, an outsider with a profound, unspoken vulnerability, such a pivotal role in Wakanda's future. And he considered his own unexpected presence here, an even greater act of defiance against expectation.

The silence settled again, a comfortable weight between you two. The quiet hum of the palace, the distant city, faded into the background. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Erik felt a strange sense of... stillness. Not peace, not yet, but a quiet truce with the world, found in the unexpected company of someone fighting a battle far more personal than his own.

As the silence stretched on, a comfortable weight settling between you two, you shifted slightly. Your body, weary from the day's toil and the relentless internal battle, instinctively sought comfort. With a soft sigh, your head came to rest gently against Erik's shoulder. He tensed almost imperceptibly at first, a reflexive reaction to unexpected intimacy, but then he remained still, a solid anchor in your fragile world.

"I answered your question, Erik," you murmured, your voice a soft whisper against his ear, the warmth of your breath a surprising sensation against his skin. "Now you have to answer mine."

Erik’s shoulder was stiff beneath your head, a testament to his initial surprise, but he didn't pull away. He remained utterly still, the warmth of your head a foreign, unexpected weight. Your question hung in the air, a silent challenge he couldn't ignore. He had demanded honesty from you, and now it was his turn to deliver. The vibrant painting above seemed to mock him with its brightness, contrasting with the dark corners of his own mind.

He took a slow, deep breath, the subtle rise and fall of his chest a silent preparation. "I watched you," he began, his voice a low rumble, rougher now with the effort of articulation, "because you were different." He paused, searching for the right words. "Everyone else here... they either feared me, hated me, or they were T'Challa's people, following orders. They looked at me like a monster." He could feel the familiar bitterness begin to creep into his tone, but he forced it down.

"You," he continued, turning his head slightly so his gaze could meet yours, even though your head was still resting on his shoulder, "you just... looked. Like you were figuring me out. You didn't flinch. You didn't pity me. You saw something else." His voice softened almost imperceptibly, a raw honesty creeping in. "And you were an outsider, like me. Someone here for a reason no one else really understood. Someone who was… useful." He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "I saw how important you were to Shuri, to the council. And I saw the cost."

He shifted, a subtle movement that subtly invited you to adjust, though you remained where you were. "I saw the toll it took on you," he admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The way you worked, the way you pushed. I knew there was something more. Something you were fighting that wasn't about Wakanda, but about you." He finally looked away from you, his gaze returning to the painting, as if seeking answers in its vibrant chaos. "I didn't know what it was," he confessed, "but I knew it was serious. And I... I recognized a fighter in you. Someone willing to burn out rather than give up."

The air in the room was thick with unspoken truths. He had laid bare a part of himself, a vulnerable admission of his curiosity, his reluctant acknowledgment of your shared isolation and silent struggle.

Your head remained resting on his shoulder, a silent testament to the raw honesty of his words. You had felt his gaze on you for months, a persistent, watchful presence, but to hear his reasons articulated, stripped bare of malice or pity, was disarming. He hadn't seen a monster, but a fighter, an outsider, someone facing their own battle. It was a connection you hadn't anticipated, a mirror reflecting a part of yourself you rarely showed.

"A fighter," you echoed softly, the words barely a whisper, a faint, melancholic smile playing on your lips. "Or just too stubborn to quit." You shifted slightly, the gentle movement a silent invitation for him to remain. The warmth of his shoulder beneath your head was oddly comforting, a grounding presence in the quiet of the room. "I guess we both know a thing or two about fighting, don't we?"

You closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of his confession, the unexpected intimacy of the shared silence. The hum of the palace, the distant sounds of the Wakandan night, all faded into the background, leaving only the quiet rhythm of your breaths. In this small, intimate space, a fragile understanding had formed, an unspoken alliance between two unexpected souls.

Your hand, almost instinctively, came up to rest lightly on Erik's chest. Your fingers, slender and delicate, began a soft, rhythmic tapping against the hard muscle beneath his shirt, a silent counterpoint to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It was a gesture of unexpected intimacy, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw truths that had just passed between you.

Erik remained still, but a subtle shift occurred within him. He felt the light pressure of your head, the gentle tap of your fingers, and for the first time in a long time, the rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. He leaned into you, a barely perceptible shift, as if allowing himself to unwind, to finally shed the heavy armor he wore against the world. "Yeah," he rumbled, his voice a low, almost guttural agreement. "Yeah, I guess we do."

You opened your eyes then, your head still resting against his shoulder, and looked up at him. His gaze was already on you, dark and deep, a complex storm of emotions swirling within their depths. A genuine smile, soft and unburdened, blossomed on your face – a smile he hadn't seen before, a stark contrast to the wry amusement or weary acceptance you usually displayed.

"You love me," you stated, your voice a quiet, unwavering conviction, your eyes never leaving his. "I can tell."

Erik froze. The subtle softening in his posture vanished, replaced by an instantaneous rigidity that radiated from him. His dark eyes, which moments ago had held a flicker of something akin to understanding, widened almost imperceptibly, a raw, exposed vulnerability flashing within them before they hardened into a familiar, defensive mask. The casual ease of your touch, the gentle weight of your head on his shoulder, suddenly felt like a brand.

The air crackled with a sudden, palpable tension. He had braced himself for many things: for you to ask about his past, to condemn his actions, even to offer pity. But this? This unvarnished, direct declaration, spoken with such quiet certainty, was a direct hit to the heavily armored core of his being. Love. The word was a foreign body in the rough landscape of his existence, a concept he had long ago dismissed as a weakness, a luxury, or a tool for manipulation.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He didn't pull away, but the warmth of his shoulder seemed to become an unyielding wall. He stared down at you, his gaze intense, searching for any hint of mockery, a hidden agenda, or even delusion. But your eyes, still wide and guileless, held only a disarming sincerity, a genuine, undeniable belief in your own words.

The silence that followed was deafening, far heavier than any that had passed between you before. It was a silence filled with the unspoken questions, the shock of your declaration, and Erik's own desperate internal struggle to process a word that had no place in his lexicon, especially not from you.

Erik's breath hitched, a harsh, almost pained sound that escaped his throat. The word, "love," hung in the air between you like an unexploded ordnance. His dark eyes, which had been fixed on yours in a stunned silence, finally broke away, snapping to stare intensely at the painting above, as if seeking an answer there. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his temple.

"Don't... don't say that," he choked out, his voice a low, ragged whisper, laced with an unfamiliar mix of disbelief and something akin to fear. It wasn't a command, but a plea, a raw exposure of a vulnerability he never allowed himself to show. The word itself seemed to scorch him, utterly foreign and terrifying in its unexpectedness. He couldn't reconcile it with the harsh realities of his life, with the person he was, or the pain he had caused. It was a concept so utterly alien to his self-perception that it shook him to his core.

You sighed, a soft, weary sound that brushed gently against Erik's cheek, a stark contrast to the sudden rigidity of his body. "It may not be obvious to you, Erik," you murmured, your voice quiet but firm, "but it is to me." Your hand, still resting on his chest, gave a faint, rhythmic tap. "So tell me, Killmonger," you challenged, your voice dropping to a near whisper, "are you more scared of love... or because you know I'm sick?"

The words hung in the air, a direct strike at the core of his carefully constructed defenses. Before you could even register his full reaction, Erik moved. It was a swift, almost predatory motion, yet executed with an unexpected grace. In what felt like a single, fluid second, he was no longer lying beside you but hovering above you, his body a dark silhouette against the dim light of the room. His hands were braced on either side of your head, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin. His face, usually a mask of controlled intensity, was now raw, exposed, every muscle taut.

His dark eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and blazing, fixed on yours with an almost desperate intensity. The question had hit a nerve, a deep, festering wound he kept hidden even from himself.

"Don't you dare," he snarled, his voice a low, guttural growl, rough with barely contained fury and something else, something akin to terror. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I'm scared of. You don't know a damn thing about me, about what I've seen, what I've done." His breath hitched, a ragged sound. "And don't you ever confuse... whatever this is," he gestured vaguely between you two, his hand trembling slightly, "with weakness. I ain't scared of a damn thing. Not of some sickness, and damn sure not of some... some sentimentality."

He leaned closer, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning into yours. "You think you see something? You think you know? You don't know the first thing about what it takes to survive, about what you have to become to make it out alive." His voice was laced with a bitter, self-loathing edge, a desperate attempt to push you away, to rebuild the walls you had so effortlessly breached.

Erik let out a deep, shuddering breath, the harshness of his outburst slowly deflating. His forehead lowered until it rested gently against yours. The proximity was startling, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cold fury that had just erupted from him. His body, still hovering above you, trembled almost imperceptibly, a raw admission of the control he was struggling to maintain.

"This is why," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, the words laced with a profound weariness and regret. "This is why I'd rather watch you from afar. Why I never should have talked to you. Never should have let you in, even if it was just... just something like this." His words were a desperate attempt to retreat, to rebuild the shattered walls around his heart. You could feel the immense effort it took him to admit this, to acknowledge the vulnerability that had been momentarily exposed. His outburst wasn't anger directed at you, not truly. It was a violent internal struggle, him trying desperately to push you away, to cling to the brutal, hardened identity he'd cultivated for survival, rather than face the possibility of the man you saw within him, the man he, deep down, knew he could be. He was scared. Terrified, perhaps, of the unfamiliar tenderness, of the connection that threatened to unravel decades of self-preservation.

You said nothing for a long moment, simply absorbing the raw confession, the tremor in his body, the heavy weight of his forehead against yours. The air was thick with the unspoken, with the fragile truth of his fear. You felt the faint, ragged rhythm of his breathing, the almost imperceptible shivers that ran through him.

Slowly, carefully, your hand that had been resting on his chest lifted, your fingers gently reaching up to cup the side of his face. Your thumb brushed softly over the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the faint outline of a scar. Your touch was feather-light, yet it held an immense strength, an unwavering empathy.

"I know," you whispered, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the remnants of his fear. You didn't argue, didn't try to reason away his pain. You simply affirmed the truth you saw. "I know you're scared, Erik." Your voice was filled with a quiet understanding, devoid of judgment or pity. "But it's okay to be scared. And it's okay... to let someone in."

You kept your gaze steady, looking into the depth of his eyes, letting him see the unwavering belief you held in him, in the man beneath the armor.

Erik's breath hitched, a raw sound in the quiet room. Your touch on his face was a gentle, persistent warmth, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the fear that still clung to him. His eyes, still locked with yours, held a desperate, vulnerable plea.

"How could I?" he rasped, the words barely audible, infused with a pain that went deeper than any physical wound. His voice was thick with unspoken history, with the ghosts of abandonment that haunted him. "How could I let someone in... who's just going to leave me alone again?"

Your heart ached at the raw vulnerability in his voice. His words hung in the air, a profound echo of a deeply wounded past. His fear of abandonment, so deeply ingrained, was laid bare.

"Erik," you whispered, your voice a soft, unwavering anchor in the storm of his emotions. Your thumb continued its gentle caress on his cheek, feeling the slight tremor beneath your skin. "Everyone leaves, eventually. That's just... part of life." You saw a flicker of defiance in his eyes, a renewed tension, but you pressed on, your gaze unwavering, holding his. "But I'm not leaving you alone now. And I won't. Not when you're finally letting me in."

You took a slow, steady breath, letting the weight of your promise settle between you. "And when I do leave," you continued, your voice softening to a near murmur, "because of this," you gestured vaguely to your own fragile body, "it won't be because I chose to. It won't be because I wanted to abandon you. It will be because I couldn't fight it anymore."

You saw the truth of your words register in his eyes, the grim understanding that flickered there. You shifted your hand from his face, letting it rest on his shoulder, your fingers gently squeezing. "But until then," you stated, your voice gaining a quiet resolve, "I'm here. And you won't be alone. You don't have to be."

Erik’s eyes, usually so fierce and guarded, remained locked on yours. He absorbed your words, the stark honesty of your fragile future, and the unwavering promise you offered in the present. The truth of your impending battle, a fight against an unseen enemy, seemed to resonate deeply with his own history of relentless struggle. His initial terror, born from the fear of abandonment, slowly began to give way to something else, something softer and more profound.

He didn't pull away. Instead, a subtle shiver ran through his frame as if the last remnants of his defensive walls were finally crumbling. The harsh lines around his mouth softened almost imperceptibly, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to finally release. His body, which had been poised for flight or fight, now relaxed, the weight of his forehead settling more fully against yours. He took another deep, shaky breath, the sound rasping in the quiet room.

"Yeah," he finally whispered, the word a raw, guttural admission. It was an acknowledgment not just of your words, but of the profound shift occurring within him. It was an acceptance of your promise, an acknowledgment that, for now, in this quiet room, he was not alone. The fear hadn't vanished entirely, but it was now mingled with a fragile, almost bewildered sense of connection. He didn't know what this was, this unexpected solace, but he knew, in that moment, he didn't want it to end.

The early Wakandan dawn, painted in hues of soft violet and rose, began to filter through the window, chasing away the deepest shadows of your room. Erik remained above you, his forehead still resting against yours, the subtle tremor in his body having long since faded into a profound stillness. The tension that usually radiated from him, a constant hum of barely contained power, had dissipated, replaced by a quiet vulnerability you hadn't dared to hope you'd ever witness.

You felt the warmth of his breath on your skin, slow and steady now, a stark contrast to the ragged gasps of fear from moments before. Your hand, still resting on his shoulder, felt the solid muscle beneath the soft fabric, a grounding presence. The world outside the room was waking, but in here, a fragile, new world had just begun.

He eventually lifted his head, slowly, as if breaking a delicate spell. His eyes, no longer burning with anger or fear, held a deep, reflective gaze, softened by something akin to wonder. He looked at you, truly looked at you, taking in your pale face, the slight smudges beneath your eyes, the quiet strength that radiated from you even in your most vulnerable state. There was no judgment, no pity, only a quiet, understanding acceptance that mirrored your own.

He gently shifted, settling down beside you once more, this time closer, his hip brushing against yours. He didn't speak, but his hand, large and calloused, hesitantly reached out, his fingers brushing against your hair before resting, almost tentatively, on your arm. It was a gesture of profound tenderness, unpracticed and raw, yet more meaningful than any words. He lay there, staring at the painting above, the vibrant sunrise on the canvas now reflecting the quiet, unexpected dawn breaking within him.

You closed your eyes, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The warmth of his presence beside you, the gentle weight of his hand, was a comfort beyond measure. You felt safe, truly safe, in a way you hadn't felt in years. This wasn't the kind of safety that came from vibranium shields or skilled guards; it was the safety of being truly seen, truly accepted, even in your fragility.

The sun climbed higher, painting the room in golden light. Erik remained, a silent sentinel, his presence a comforting weight. He hadn't left. He hadn't pushed you away. He had, in his own rough, beautiful way, let you in. And in that quiet, shared space, as the city outside hummed to life, a new understanding bloomed, a gentle promise whispered not in words, but in the enduring warmth of a touch, and the unwavering presence of someone who finally chose to stay.

[unconventialsailormoon]

Don’t Wait for Me

Pairing - Erik Killmonger x reader

Warnings - Slow burn, enemies to reluctant allies to almost lovers, soft angst, cultural healing, yearning, forbidden tenderness

Summary - You were just supposed to teach him Wakandan, language, history, tradition. Not fall in love with the prince who swore to burn it all down.

You meet him on the third day of your new post.

The first two are filled with whispered warnings in palace halls.

“Keep your head down.”

“Speak only when spoken to.”

“He doesn’t want to be here.”

“He’s dangerous.”

You expect a storm.

You get a man in gold and leather, eyes so sharp they cut into your quiet like a blade. He doesn’t knock when he enters the study room, just pushes the door open with the back of his hand, saunters in like he owns it.

(Technically, he does.)

“Where’s the tutor?” he asks, already unimpressed.

You glance up from your table, brush a speck of dust from the Xhosa scrolls. “You’re looking at them.”

He scoffs. “You?”

You lift an eyebrow. “Yes. Me.”

He stares. You stare back.

A beat. A breath. A challenge.

“Fine,” he mutters, dropping into a seat. “Let’s get this over with.”

⸻

You try to keep the lessons clinical. Neutral.

But he keeps bleeding into everything.

His presence is oil in water, loud, slick, unignorable.

He stretches in his chair like he’s bored. Answers questions with a smirk. Dares you to snap.

He calls your pronunciation “cute.”

You call his Wakandan rusty and full of bullet holes.

You think he might actually like that.

“You think you’re better than me, huh?” he says one day, after you correct him for the third time. “Because you grew up here?”

“I think I’m better at grammar,” you reply, deadpan. “That’s why I’m the one teaching.”

That earns you a laugh.

You hate that it sounds like honey.

⸻

Still, he keeps showing up.

Once, he brings his own pen.

Another time, he repeats a proverb back to you, perfect tone, perfect structure.

You don’t praise him. He notices.

“You got somethin’ against me?” he asks after a particularly long pause.

You don’t answer.

Not because you don’t have one, God knows you do.

But because the problem isn’t that you don’t like him.

It’s that you’re starting to.

And you don’t know what the hell to do about that.

⸻

One night, it rains.

Thick, silver sheets against the palace windows. You’re late to the lesson, soaked to the bone. You expect him to mock you.

He doesn’t.

Just looks up from the table and frowns.

“You walk here?” he asks.

You shrug. “I live off the edge of the grounds. It’s not far.”

He looks at you like it is. Like he knows what far feels like.

He tosses you a clean cloth from the back of a chair. “You’re drippin’ all over the scrolls, [Name]. Dry off.”

You blink. It’s the first time he’s ever said your name without sarcasm.

It lands different.

Soft. Sincere. Like maybe you’re not just a means to an end.

“…Thanks,” you murmur.

He doesn’t reply. Just goes back to writing.

But when you glance down at his page, your breath catches.

It’s a proverb about home.

“A person without knowledge of their past is like a tree without roots.”

⸻

You don’t say anything the next day.

But you bring a book he hasn’t read yet.

You leave it on the desk without a word.

He pretends not to care.

(But the next time you enter, it’s bookmarked and underlined.)

⸻

It becomes routine.

Lessons, smirks, long silences.

Your fingers brush when you pass him ink.

He holds your gaze a little too long when you correct his cadence.

His accent softens. So do your walls.

Once, he calls you “uThandwa lwami.”

You flinch.

“You know what that means?” he asks, almost teasing.

You meet his eyes. “Don’t say things you don’t mean, N’Jadaka.”

He stiffens at the name. No one uses it.

No one dares.

But you do.

And he doesn’t tell you not to.

⸻

Then comes the garden.

It’s late. Past curfew. But you can’t sleep.

You find him under the moon, shirtless and scarred, sitting beneath the shade of a flowering baobab.

You mean to leave.

But he says your name again, quiet, like a song with no audience.

“…You ever hate this place?” he asks, not looking up. “Even a little?”

You sit beside him. The air hums with something thick and unspoken.

“No,” you say truthfully. “But sometimes I hate the way it forgets people.”

He exhales hard. Like you punched the wind out of him.

“My mama used to tell me stories about this place,” he says. “Said it was made of gold. Said it was ours.” He leans back, bitter. “Then she died in a shitty apartment in Oakland while the king of Wakanda looked the other way.”

You don’t apologize. He’s not looking for pity.

“I don’t know how to forgive that,” he whispers.

You reach out. Touch his hand, slow and trembling.

“Then don’t,” you say. “But don’t let it take the rest of you.”

He looks at your hand. Doesn’t pull away.

Just stares. Like maybe this is the first time someone touched him without trying to take something.

“…You soft,” he murmurs.

“You’re not.”

He smirks. “Not yet.”

⸻

After that, things change.

He brings you fruit from the kitchen before lessons.

You correct his tenses without flinching.

You argue about history, about kings, about legacy.

One day, you say “You could be a good one, you know.”

He goes still.

“…A good what?”

You smile, sad and secret. “A good king.”

He looks away.

“You think they’d let me?”

You don’t answer.

But the silence says it all.

⸻

You’re not supposed to fall in love.

He’s not supposed to stay.

But he kisses you anyway, on the last night before he’s due to speak in the council chamber.

It’s soft. Brief. Like a promise wrapped in regret.

“Don’t wait for me,” he says, voice ragged against your skin.

“..I know ” you whisper back.

⸻

Then he leaves.

Not a word. Not a letter. Just echoes in the study room and an empty seat where he used to sit.

⸻

A month passes. Then two. You try not to look for him in every shadow.

You fail. Often.

But one night, you return to your quarters to find a single sheet of parchment on your bed.

It’s a proverb.

Written in imperfect, familiar handwriting.

“The tree remembers. The axe forgets.”

And at the bottom -

“I remember everything. - E”

[insidekatmind]

Masterlist

Other series/movie

Bucky Barnes

Mission

Erik Killmonger

Mine

Brock Rumlow

HYDRA

Distraction

[fictioninmyblood]

I Meant That Shit

Summary: N’Jadaka gets tired of waiting for Y/N to forgive him and come home, so he decides to let Killmonger bring her back, kicking and screaming if necessary.

Warnings: 18+, noncon/con, smut, D/s themes, Entitled and pissed Erik being devious. Shouldthere be a warning for angst?

A/N: This was supposed to be short, but here we are. Enjoy my sexually starved thoughts.

A/N: Also, idk if this needs to be said, but I write for my demographic - black females. This has been my disclaimer/notice.

A/N: My work is not to be plagiarized or reposted (on any site other than this) without my explicit consent and recognition.

After his reluctant rehabilitation, there weren't many things that brought out his killer instinct anymore. However, it seemed that lately, despite all the sparring, therapy, and meditation sessions, Erik couldn’t shake the urge to knock some sense into his girl Y/N. 

A few weeks prior when she told him she needed space and couldn’t stay in Wakanda and ignore her life anymore, he said some things. She took it the wrong way and told him they were over, as if.

When she first left, Erik was sure she’d break down and FaceTime him or use the kimoyo beads he taught her to use. She was always more vocal about missing him, so he just assumed she’d break down and restart their communication. Imagine his surprise when a whole two weeks rolled by without so much as a text, call, or video chat. He was desperate for anything from her, even a verbal lashing, but by the time a month came and went, he felt like a fiend going through withdrawal.

During week six, his excitement to finally lay his eyes on Y/N was quickly cut short when he realized she was still talking to his family even though he had been getting the silent treatment. That displeasing information lit him like a powder keg when he saw another man in Y/N’s background, getting dressed no less. T’Challa dragged him from Shuri’s lab ready to bust a gasket when his babygirl asked Shuri to go into a different room and his little cousin actually listened! His whole family was against him again it would seem.

When T’Challa got him back to his room, all he did was pace. It was ten full minutes of the king warily watching his cousin stew when M’Baku walked right into the line of fire as Erik turned to beat the shit out of his cousin. T’Challa easily dodged the current threat on his life as the giant grabbed Erik’s hands in one of his, quickly disarming him and making the pouting man even more enraged. 

“You all have been talking to her this whole time?” N’Jadaka roared.

“Just Shuri and I. She made us promise to let you figure it out for yourself, but you’ve been failing miserably cousin! Absolutely clueless!” T’Challa replied.

Erik struggled against M’Baku’s vice grip to no avail.

“No shit Sherlock. I’m gonna whoop yawls asses. M’Baku let me go.”

“Not until you promise to have a conversation with your mouth instead of your hands. I am not prepared to get involved in another war between you two.”

Erik took a few deep breaths. “Fine, I’m good.”

Once M’Baku was sure there would be no immediate violence he let go.

“You better start explaining real fucking soon T,” Erik spat, pointing an accusatory finger at T’Challa.

“Okay! Okay! Y/N is struggling to accept that you actually want her around long term!” T’Challa word-vomited.

If the prince wasn’t already enraged, the king and tribal chief would’ve laid out in hysterics at how N’Jadaka’s face screwed up. “How sway! How?!”

“From what Shuri has explained and I’ve gathered in my eavesdropping is that she thinks you only want to claim her without actually growing with her. Everything is on your terms, your way, in  your time. She’s been far more  patient than most would be with you so I can’t say she’s wrong.”

Erik jumped at T’Challa, scaring him and the big gorilla chief. “I oughta beat you up for keeping your mouth shut.”

“She and Shuri threatened me within an inch of my life and they scare me more than you. Besides, according to them, you can’t keep relying on us to figure out what’s going on in your relationship and I couldn’t find a valid disagreement.”

Erik nearly did slap T’Challa at the last sentiment.

“Aye aye!” M’Baku shouted, getting between the two yet again, “He is being truthful now. That counts eh? And if I may interject, I think you’re aiming your anger at the wrong person.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Erik said, deflating under the weight of that truth, “but his ass still bout to pay me back and I know just how.”

————-

A few hours later…

“You know, when I told you that you could pay me back with The Royal Talon Fighter, I didn’t expect you to tag along.”

“Who else was going to keep an eye on our Wakandan technology or keep you from murdering anyone in the vicinity of Y/N, especially any man?”

Erik rolled his eyes and huffed. “I guess.”

“Or Y/N from killing you for just showing up jealous despite being radio silent since long before she left Wakanda.”

“Alright alright! You made your point. Damn! Just drive the fancy metal.”

—

Erik was all confidence until the second they landed in Atlanta. Yeah, Killmonger was out for blood and was ready to bring their girl back kicking and screaming if necessary, but Erik N’Jadaka Stevens? He was a nervous fucking wreck.

T’Challa and M’Baku’s words really struck a nerve and he had nothing but time to stew over them on the ride to your family’s hometown ranch. Before he met you, Killmonger made all the decisions, kept him alive and ahead of the game, whatever game he was surviving at the moment. He lived like that for well over a decade when he met you, but you didn’t bat an eyelash at his swift mood swings, his bloodthirst, or his possessiveness, often putting him in place. You handled him with love and care, showing him how to become the softer version of himself without sacrificing your boundaries too much. He was quickly realizing that he sometimes pushed too hard, took too much, neglected your requirements. It was your stern patience, however, that was enough to allow you to become the first person to get him the person instead of him the killer to come out and communicate, interact, and live rather than survive. 

You did it for him a second time around when he came out of cryo too. He hadn’t told you anything about how he would go about his goals, opting just to disappear and execute so it was a surprise of a lifetime to wake up to your beautiful Y/E/C. After getting over his initial anger over you seeing the worst of him, you were the first person he responded to or let touch him during his recovery. Even going so far as not allowing the medical staff to redress his wounds if he was awake.

Only your touch soothed him, only your voice gave him peace. You made him less of a killing machine and more human again, made him want to address the tsunami of emotions and trauma that he lugged around. He didn’t want to jeopardize your willingness to be that for him but he recognized how you were always giving all you had just to receive an inch of progress from him. If that.

Unfortunately, all of his introspection and nervousness flew right out of the truck T’Challa had them in when he saw you walking up to your personal guesthouse with a man in tow. Killmonger immediately took the reins pushing him and his feelings down into the abyss, and leaping out of the car before T’Challa could come to a complete stop with his cousin calling after him.

“Y/N!” Killmonger shouted from the end of the long-ass driveway, rage evident in his voice.

Y/N was haphazardly trying to get her drunk cousin up the stairs while nervously dropping her keys when she heard Killmonger. She’s only encountered him a few times since meeting Erik, after the first time she brought him back to himself, he did his best to keep that part from her. It didn’t always work since any repressed feeling or issue the man had was poured into his alter ego, feeding his desire to be wild and untamed in his decision-making. So she knew he was out for blood with just the sound of her name.

She got the key in just as Killmonger got to the beginning of her walkway up to the house. As quickly as she could, she pulled her cousin in, slamming and locking the door in her partner’s face, leaving the beast to bang on her door and demand entrance.

“I’m not dealing with your bulldozing tactics Kill! You can come back when Erik is ready to face his fucking feelings and have an adult conversation!”

“If you know what’s good for you and that nigga in there, you better open this ghatdamn door Y/N!” He roared in response.

Y/N’s cousin couldn’t stop laughing, no matter how much she waved him off. Getting trashed 3 nights in a row after a bad breakup and crashing with his favorite cousin after hearing how she was hiding from both the world and the love of her life as well didn’t prepare him for seeing her so out of character. One second she was fleeing from the man, the next she was big and bad from behind a locked door in all her 5’5” glory. It was comical as hell to him.

“You know you look constipated when you cuss? Like that stick in your ass is fighting every syllable.” He said, immediately dying in another fit of laughter at his analogy.

“Who the fuck is that in there with you, Y/N, and don’t fucking lie!”

“The next man. Nice to meet you. You must be the ex.” her cousin shouted out in a drunken slur to Y/N’s horror.

Yeah, she knew she wasn’t in the wrong, and there was no reason to defend herself against this man, but she knew not to press certain buttons once Kill made an appearance. Her cousin, unfortunately, had no discernment to see that he had just pressed the biggest red button Kill had when it came to her.

Y/N watched the myriad of emotions that crossed Erik’s face through the peephole, praying to every ancestor and display of the creator she could think of that this man wasn’t going to go full psycho-killer on them both. The last thing she needed was him taking several steps back in his healing just to unnecessarily add another scar, maybe 2 with how pissed he looked. 

Y/N turned back to her cousin, ready to kill him for putting her in even hotter water, only to find that nigga was sleep, leaving Y/N to deal with the consequences on her own. 

As soon as she had that thought her ears piqued, taking in how silent it had gotten. All she could hear was the crunch of gravel as T’Challa finally pulled in and got out. When she peeked outside the peephole again, she was met with a confused T’Challa looking for Erik.

A chill ran up her spine and her blood ran cold as she slowly turned to her current worst fear; Killmonger pissed as hell, staring her down with a knife to her cousin’s throat.

“Give me one good reason not to paint your brand new carpet with this nigga’s blood Y/F/N then fuck you on the new color.”

Putting her hands up in a placating manner, Y/N slowly inched towards Kill, stopping when he dug the knife just slightly deeper, exposing a thin line of blood, as her cousin slept unawares.

Donning a submissive voice as if she was talking to a wild animal, “Erik, baby calm down.”

“Don’t baby calm down me! You out here giving other niggas what’s mine? Mine Y/N!”

“That’s not–”

“Don’t tell me that’s not what’s going on when you’ve been M.I.Fucking.A. for weeks! And the first thing I see both on video chat and in person is you with some random?! I’ll murder every nigga to ever touch you, keep tryna play me.”

“Nobody’s playing you Daka, look closer, you know him. I promise I haven’t been stepping out on you.” Y/N continued on, internally rolling her eyes at the toddler temper tantrum she had to placate this nigga out of. “My stupidly in love, trying to escape his own heartache, and loves drama when drunk cousin that you have met several times was just egging you on.”

Kill looked closer to the man’s face and released the filter of rage clouding his judgment, upon closer inspection he realized they’d met at several of the many family gatherings he’d attended with Y/N/N. Slowly easing the knife from her cousin’s throat, Erik struggled to fight back tears at his behavior. He was proving he wasn’t good enough for her, he hadn’t actually changed all that much. Kill took the reins once again, unwilling to let him process his feelings of abandonment and betrayal just yet. Rushing towards Y/N, he laid the knife flat on the side of her face, taking up residence on the other side.

Biting a huge hickey along her jawline, before grasping her earlobe in between his teeth, Killmonger growled, “So if you ain’t been fucking him, who you been fucking?”

Although Y/N knew she logically had nothing to feel guilty about, how he was questioning her made her want to lie down and worship him as an apology regardless. She took a deep breath to center herself, understanding that any sign of nervousness would be taken as an omission of guilt.

Y/N ran her hands up his arms and over his shoulder blades to hold his face in her palms. He reluctantly released her earlobe to allow her to face him, naturally allowing the blade to rest against her neck ever so gently.

“N’Jadaka. Erik, baby? Look at me, I have been trying to live without you miserably for the last few weeks. I’ve only been going out since Y/C/N got here and I have to beg for breaks because I’m basically his chaperone. You believe me don’t you?”

Erik looked at her with suspicion clouding his eyes. He dropped the knife and held her throat in his hands, squeezing just tight enough to hint to either pleasure or pain, pushing her against the front door.

“Ion know. Why should I?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Y/N took a chance and palmed his face, caressing his cheekbone with her thumb. “Cause you know that no matter how much you stress me out, isolate yourself from me, or threaten anyone who seems to have more access to me than you, that I love your crazy ass.”

Erik squeezed a little tighter, not enough to hurt her but enough to reassert his dominance. Y/N put a hand over his, doing her best to ground herself in the feeling of his hands rather than how much she wanted to cum from the pressure of them.”

“Sorry,” Y/N squeaked out, “I love every version of you, no matter how threatening any of them may be and I physically can’t stand to have anyone else touch me the way I let you touch me.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you?”

“Nah, princess, the other part.”

“No matter how threatening-” she started, but was cut off by the growl emanating from Erik’s chest and the pulsing release and pressure of him allowing her small gasps of air. “You know what I mean Y/N, don’t test me lil mama.”

Erik held his squeeze on her neck, tilting it ever so slightly to lick the side of her face and hold her earlobe between his teeth, tugging.

Y/N couldn’t hold back the guttural moan if she tried. Just barely keeping her eyes from rolling back and donning her sweetest sub voice, she said, “I physically can’t stand to have anyone else touch me the way I let you touch me big daddy. It literally makes me nauseous.”

Erik released her ear with a wet snap against her face, “It does?”

Y/N hummed and nodded her head as best she could in her current predicament.

Killmonger covered the forgiving face Erik started to make, replacing it with one of his stern, unyielding looks. “Then why you leave me and give me the silent treatment for weeks?”

Y/N whined at the tightening of his hands, closing her eyes to savor the pleasure only he could illicit lighting her body on fire.

Erik bit her bottom lip roughly, nearly drawing blood. “That’s not an answer.”

Losing the battle against her libido and subspace, Y/N whined again.

In a faux sweet voice Erik said, “Awww, is little mama already too far gone in her head thinking about all the ways imma mark you.”

Y/N nodded again, lost in the many images she’d acquired from her sexual experiences with Erik and Kill over the years.

“Good.” And with those words, Y/N was suddenly looking at Erik’s ass and the floor as he stomped upstairs to her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

He tossed her on the bed and roughly stripped her of her clothes, halter top first, bottoms and panties all in one fell swoop last, leaving her heels on.

He positioned her over his knee and popped her cheeks until her bottom was flushed with his favorite shade of reddish purple and warmed his hands with the heat she emanated.

By the time he was done, Y/N wanted to be a ball of tears, but could only sniffle, her voice too shy to make an appearance when Kill took the reins of their scenes like this for fear of upsetting him further.

Erik used his knee to spread her legs open far enough to see her flower drenching her thighs in her nectar for him. He took two fingers to swipe some of it onto them for him to put in his mouth and savor, groaning at how much sweeter she seemed to have gotten since last he held her.

He laid her onto the bed and got up to undress himself, slapping her already sore ass when she didn’t move a muscle.

“You know what’s up. Face down, ass up lil mama.”

Y/N groaned but slowly inched her way into position. Already feeling like jello, she barely put an arch in her back, struggling not to lay back down and pass out.

Killmonger was not happy with that. After he’d removed everything except his grills and chain he let both his palms come down on her cheeks simultaneously.

Sounding more animal than human, “If you don’t assume the position like you got some sense, I swear to the gods Y/N.”

She was still lethargic, but was eager to experience less of his painful assaults and more of the pleasurable ones that she knew were around the corner. It took all of her strength but she was able to inch herself into position, deepening her arch just the way he demanded with her arms by her side and her cheek resting against the comforter.

“Good girl.”

With how pliant she was to his commands and the evidence of how much she trusted and wanted him dripping down her thighs, it took all of his restraint not to plunge himself into her until he felt her cervix try to push him back out.

Y/N smiled faintly at the praise, humming and wiggling her ass in response.

Killmonger grasped her wrists as he knelt to get up close and personal with his pussy. He spread her lips so he could get an eyeful of her throbbing clit and blew on it, eliciting a guttural moan from Y/N, before replacing his hand back on her wrist.

“Just you wait mamas, you gonna be screaming and crying by the time I’m done with you.”

He licked her juices on both thighs, leaving hickies all over them both before he finally put his whole face in her pussy and ate. If it wasn’t for the grasp he had on her wrists, she would have collapsed immediately.

Erik was a good kisser in general, but Killmonger was a master at french kissing, especially her pussy, until she was questioning whether or not she still wanted the pleasure. Those deep soul sucking kisses always made her question her sanity.

He slurped up and suctioned her clit into his mouth like that’s where it belonged, flicking it with the tip of his tongue until she came with a silent scream, without ever releasing her tiny bud. Then he released it with a pop only to hold her lips open and spit directly onto her hole, watching his saliva drip down onto her clit. He flattened his tongue and licked like the dog he could be until she was a whining, moaning mess, tears streaming down her face just as promised. 

Once the first sound hit his ears, she couldn’t stop the noises he was pulling from her if she was mute, let alone at the mercy of his insatiable thirst for her most animalistic responses.

Kill continued his assault with his tongue, moving through her folds in a rhythm only he knew. After he’d gotten two more orgasms from her that way, Y/N alternating between screaming and crying, he latched his plush lips back around her clit, assaulting the sensitive bundle of nerves, and plunged his two most trustworthy fingers into her, immediately finding her gspot and caressing it with an incessant ‘come hither’ motion until she was squirting and creaming uncontrollably. Not willing to let go just yet he dragged it out for what seemed like forever since she briefly lost consciousness and came to, lips still parted in the O of her silent screams, with his mouth still eagerly slurping up the waterfall his fingers were responsible for. All Y/N could do was turn her head the other way to watch what she could see of him, whining and moaning.

When she could barely release any more spurts he released her, licking his hand, fingers, and forearm clean as he slowly stroked his hard as steel member. 

In the great deep of her sex haze, Y/N mumbled, “He brought dick too? How are we gonna survive dick too when he almost killed us with just his mouth and fingers.”

Erik chuckled at her ramblings, proud that he was, as usual, responsible for her senseless words.

When his precum made an appearance, he swiped it up with his thumb and rubbed it into her pussy, almost immediately replacing his thumb with the tip of his dick. Wanting to savor this moment of finally being able to reconnect with his pussy, he played with her, just like that. Rubbing the tip of his dick in both of their juices, up and down her pussy lips, circling her clit, and coming to apply just enough pressure to her desperately clenching hole, only to rinse and repeat. On and on he went, teasing them both until his quietly whimpering babygirl was back to guttural whines.

He knew she was right where he wanted her mentally when she started begging.

“Please big daddy, I’m so sorry. Please baba E, please baba, please. Please please please please please pleaaaaaasssssseeeeee.”

When he was good and ready, he pulled her up by her throat until she was flush against him, licked her tears from her cheek, and forced her to look him in the eyes.

“You don’t do that disappearing and silent treatment shit ever again Y/N. You hear me?”

Y/N nodded and blinked at him with a puppy eyed look that damn near melted the ice caps of his attitude, but he was quick to remind her who’s big daddy in their relationship.

“When I told you, you were mine, I meant that shit mama.”

“Yes, baba,” Y/N squeaked out.

He tongued her down with one of his sloppy french kisses and as soon as he felt her body relax in his hold, he did exactly what his body had been begging for since the second he saw her. He pushed himself into her until he felt the tip of her cervix try to push him all the way back out, savoring the fucked out look she wore as her body spasmed with the unexpected orgasm, he held them there letting her ride it out. 

In this moment he was grateful for the years of curated discipline since the way her pussy clamped onto him almost triggered his own mind numbing orgasm. Although he successfully staved off his nut, he couldn’t stop the way all of his fight was knocked right out of him.  Finally rid of the aggression that his Killmonger personality oozed, Erik was able to finally take in his queen, his Y/N, in all her sex hazed glory.

When she finally came down from her high he started moving, giving her slow and deep strokes as he showered her face and neck with kisses, hoping his attempt at lovemaking showed her just how priceless she was to him, how desperate he’d been without her.

Kiss, “I’m sorry too mamas,” kiss “I know how much you love me and I don't understand why,” kiss, “you,” kiss, “insist,” kiss, “on pouring all of the best parts of yourself into me.” He couldn’t help but shed a tear at the relief he felt, having her in his arms again. “I promise to do better,” kiss, “to listen and pay attention more,” kiss, “to treat you like the empress you are,” kiss, “just say you’ll come home with me,” kiss, “promise you’ll take your rightful place by my side mamas,” kiss, “claim your right as my queen.”

Y/N was a moaning, whining mess, barely holding onto consciousness and shedding her favorite kind of tears, just as promised.

Erik tucked his face into her neck, struggling to keep himself from cumming too soon since her pussy was gripping him like a boa constrictor, indicating that yet another orgasm wasn’t too far.

He held himself in the deepest parts of her and put a little whine in his hips. “Please mama, come home with me.”

Just when he thought he could hold out no longer she arched into him and screamed yes over and over, overwhelmed with her orgasm, and squirted all over them both. Erik came in her almost at the exact same time, his orgasm nearly knocking him out with how it overcame him from head to toe. Both of them slumped into the bed.

—

By the time he finally started to get up, her screams had quieted back to whimpers.

Erik slowly and gently removed her heels from her feet, massaging the soles with just the right amount of pressure.

He cleaned both of them with a warm washcloth and ran the tub, placing some bubble bath soap, epsom salt, essential oils, and dried rose petals in the water. Wanting to balance out the intrusive way he barged back into her life, he lit some candles and incense as well, and placed his favorite body oil of hers on the counter.

When he came back to get her in the tub, she was silently staring into space in the same place and position he left her. After he got her to turn over and sit up, he scooped her into his arms bridal and brought her to the tub, gently placing her into the suds.

Once he saw her relax he went back to the bedroom to strip and change the sheets, wanting their transition back into the room to be seamless. When he came back into the bathroom her head was leaned against the edge of the tub, eyes closed, and tears were streaming down her face, alarming him to the fact that although he’d won the battle, he was still losing the war with treating his girl with the care she really was looking for from him.

Choking up himself, he kneeled next the tub and leaned over her face, kissing the droplets left behind.

“I’m so sorry mamas. You know that right?” His voice cracked at the end.

Although she started nodding yes, she ended up shaking her head no.

“Can you open your eyes for me please?”

Y/N shook her head no again.

“Pretty please?”

Again she shook her head no. She was too scared to look him in his eyes, anytime he touched her or they made eye contact she folded to his desires and needs, abandoning her own.

A little defeated, but determined to win all of her back, not just her body, Erik switched tactics.

“May I get into the tub with you and hold you?”

Y/N hesitated a few moments before she nodded yes. As soon as she heard the rustle of him standing back up she scooted forward allowing him to sit behind her.

Once he was seated, Erik gently pulled her into him, urging her body to use him as she did the edge of the tub. The moment she relaxed in his embrace, head lolling slightly to the left, he started kissing up and down her neck from where her ear met her face to her collarbone.

When he felt enough time had passed, he tried to get her to open up to him again.

“Lil mama?”

Y/N hummed.

“Tell me what’s on your mind please, I promise to listen.”

Y/N held up her pinky and asked, “Pinky promise?”

Erik locked his pinky with hers and brought her hand to his lips, softly talking against it, “Pinky Promise.”

She pulled her hand away, putting it back in her lap to join the other one, under the water.

Taking a deep breath she started.

“Am I a toy to be played with Daka?” Erik was ready to answer but kept silent, knowing she needed to get all of her thoughts out before he interrupted her. “To be taken out of storage to be used and then tossed aside when you’re not getting the desired result anymore?”

Rubbing the sides of her thighs and suddenly very scared, he said, “ no mamas.”

“Then why do you get to demand time and attention and energy from me, but when I ask for a sliver of honest communication, the smallest amount of all three resources you have to offer me, you shut me out? Why is it only okay for you to communicate what’s going on with you and us when you feel like it, when it's convenient? Why do I always have to beg for you to lean on me, to use me softly? Why do I have to beg you to let me hold you. Why don’t you ever just ask? Why do I have to grovel at your feet to be held by you? Why is the only time you make love to me when you’re trying to win me back? Why?” 

By the end of her list, Y/N was sobbing. Erik wrapped his arms around her body and tucked his chin in the curve of her neck and let a few tears drop himself before he answered.

“I don’t know mamas. I guess…,” he wiped the tears from his face and gulped down the rising tsunami of emotion that she so easily created with just a few sentences before he wrapped his arm back around her, “...I guess I’m just terrified.”

“Of what baby? Haven’t I been here? Haven’t I done the best to support you with all that I am, to remain honest with you and show you that I am loyal to our future?”

He kissed her shoulder and said, “you have. I just-”

Y/N pulled out of his arms to finally look him in the eye, “You just what? Aren’t my efforts to build a life with you enough?”

Erik palmed her face and gave her a deep kiss, hoping to transfer all of his emotion into it.

He put his forehead against hers and said, “I’m just so fucking terrified of losing you. To have the warmth of your love snatched away at a moment's notice. I’m terrified in a way I haven’t been in so fucking long that I just convince myself that its better to pull away and show you how unworthy I am of the full magnitude of your love.”

He pulled away and kissed her forehead, grateful she was finally looking him in the eyes again. “But this time of separation showed me I am nothing without you, just a hollow shell, no love to warm my soul and bones. Even the care and concern of my family isn’t enough to fill the abyss that’s created in your absence.”

Y/N swiped away the stray tears from his face, “that’s-”

“I know. Super intense.”

“Yes. But I was gonna say a relief to hear. You never really give me any verbal confirmation that you feel as deeply for me as I do for you unless I say I love you first.”

“I know mamas, but I promise to do better, be better, for you.”

Y/N pecked his lips. “No Baba. For you. You need to talk your feelings out loud so you can hear it too. You need to know that the only reason you’re able to love me so deeply is because you love yourself that deep, if not deeper, first. Understand?”

Erik smirked, yet again grateful that he had such a wise and loving partner who always held up the pieces of mirror he’d sworn he’d broken to pieces.

“Yea lil mama, I understand.”

“Good…,” Y/N kissed him again, deepening the kiss but teasing him slightly with how lightly she moved her lips against his. When she pulled away, she almost regretted bursting his bubble. “...cause I’m not going back with you until I’m ready.”

Erik’s face instantly fixed itself into a scowl. “But-”

Y/N held a finger to his lips. “I said when I’m ready, not never. I came home to get back to taking care of me, love me, and understanding what my needs are.”

His pout deepened.

“And I learned that I need to stop jumping when you say jump. So I go back when I feel that I’m ready, not because you showed up and demanded it of me. Okay?”

He was a little deflated, but still holding onto the hope of her eventually coming back with him.

“Okay, but I’m staying with you until you’re ready.”

“But-.” 

It was Erik’s turn to hush her with a finger. “I already know what you’re going to say and my duties will be waiting for me when we go back together. Now that you’re back in my arms I’m in no hurry to lose the privilege again.”

“You’re not!”

“You’re right, cause I’m staying.”

All Y/N could do was chuckle, understanding that she’d lost this battle and relishing in the fact that she won the war. It seemed he was finally starting to understand what she needed because although she was indeed going to complain about him having responsibilities to return to, she really did need him to stay. That abyss he had was mirrored in her heart and only time with him would close it back up.

Both satisfied that they worked through the root issue, they went back to enjoying the bath, Y/N comfortably resting her head against Erik.

When they were all pruney and the water was verging on cold, Erik stood them up to drain the tub and turned on the shower to rinse them both. After he dried them both, he quickly lotioned his body with shea butter, grabbed the body oil and guided Y/N hand in hand, back into the bedroom.

He laid her on her back first to moisturize and massage her front, kneading out all of the tension she held. When he was working his way back up from her feet, he couldn’t help but get stuck between her thighs, using his thumbs to massage circles up them until he reached her pussy again.

Y/N slightly parted her legs, letting one bend and fall open for easy access. He immediately used one hand to part her lips so he could see her clit clearly.

Erik leaned down to softly kiss her clit a few times before he pulled away and used the thumb on his other hand to rub slow circles. He admired her form as he brought her to orgasm leisurely. 

He went back to massaging her thighs until she returned from the heights of her pleasure.

His voice was more gruff than he wanted when he told her, “turn over.”

She easily compiled and continued his massage, paying extra attention to her sore ass.

When Y/N was 2 more seconds away from sleep and he was satisfied with his work he urged her under the covers and joined her. She tried to grab his hardened member to return the favor but he grabbed up her hands, kissing them to soften the blow.

“No, I needed to show you how softly I can treat you, I don’t need to cum right now. Sleep.”

Y/N pouted and whined, wanting to feel him connected to her again.

She lifted her leg over his as they faced each other and inched as close as she could with her hands in his, feeling his dick graze her pussy lips.

Putting a little more base in his voice, “Ay! What I just say lil mama?”

She whined out, “I don’t care, I just need to feel you in me Baba.”

Erik grunted. 

Y/N donned her best puppy dog pout and begged with her words and body, wiggling in his hold and being able to feel the lightest brush of his hot skin. “Pleeeeeeaaaaassssseeee?”

“Fine, but careful what you asked for…” he said, sheathing himself in one stroke and stilled her hips before she could start moving. “...you just might get it.”

He released her hands and tongued her down, palming her face.

“Sleep Y/N.”

“But,” she said, her face scrunching in confusion.

“You can keep me warm, but that’s it for now, okay?”

She started to whine again but was cut short when he wrapped the hand palming her face around her throat.

“Sleep mamas. You’re going to need all of your energy in the morning.”

She wasn’t necessarily happy, but she also wasn’t necessarily dissatisfied. She did get her wish after all.

“Ok.”

Y/N tucked her head under his chin and started to drift before she sleepily said, “thank you for showing me how much you care Baba E. I’m really happy you’re here.”

Erik kissed her forehead and squeezed his arms a little tighter around her.

“Thank you for letting me.”

He was answered with her cute snores and let the sound lull him into the best sleep he’d had in too long of a while.

[uzumaki-rebellion]

"Pot Liquor" Afropunk!Erik Killmonger

Pairing: Erik Killmonger x Black Plus-Sized OC

Warning(s): 18+, Smut, Angst, Romance, Drug Use, Bisexual Characters, Threesomes, Foursomes, Queer Characters, Cursing.

Summary:

Three women. One man.

Erik “Killmonger” Stevens is the guitar player for a female dominated Black alternative rock band fronted by the powerful larger-than-life lead singer, Oya Mason. About to perform in front of their largest audience ever on one of the most influential stages in the music world, Erik and Oya have to face band in-fighting, jealousy, drugs, sex, and the love of rock-and-roll.

Can they keep it together before their big night?

Word count: 14, 890

A..N.: Bringing this back for @blvcksundays !

"I said if I'm in luck I just might get picked up I said I'm fishin' trick and you can call it what you want then I said I'm wigglin' my fanny I want you dancing I'm a doin' it doin' it This is my night out

So all you lady haters don't be cruel to me Don't you crush my velvet don't you ruffle my feathers neither I said I'm crazy I'm Wild I said I'm nasty Say you will for a little while Say you will Say you will"

Betty Davis –"If I'm In Luck I Might Get Picked Up"

Begin at the beginning...

Eighteen-year-old Oya Mason stood in the middle of the stage of the National Poetry Slam Finals in Oakland, California ready to recite a three-minute free verse that took her two weeks to dream of and three days to write. It wasn't her best poem, but it was the most potent that she had ever written and would be reciting for the first time in public. She hated America and everything it stood for and the words swimming in her brain and marinating in cerebral spinal fluid were ready to erupt on stage.

Thick black leggings covered her dimply thick thighs that rubbed tightly together and the black Buckethead baseball t-shirt she had on accentuated her heavy breasts and generous stomach. Her toes were jammed into brand new black chucks and her nose septum piercing was a shiny silver like the frosted silver tips of her frohawk locs. She was a big beautiful Black woman with an even bigger first name to live up to. Her parents plucked the name from a book they had in their home. "Oya: In Praise of An African Goddess."

"We knew that if we had a little girl, we were going to name you that," her father, Teigen Mason, had told her.

Her Mama, Gia, squeezed out a big fat dark brown loud crying baby that grew up into a big beautiful teenager that could no longer be simply called full-figured or extra thick. No, those words were too small for her. She was a Goddess and a Goddess took up all the space she wanted. On that stage, Oya, the Goddess of the Hurricane winds, the warrior, and the protector of the dead looked out upon an eager audience of poetry spectators waiting for her to do linguistic tricks and over-enunciated theatrical emoting with her culled words.

Well...that didn't happen.

Oya Mason stood there with her Goddess frame and shrieked out every single word she had written in the depths of her gray matter and birthed her first metal song live onstage. The poem-turned-rage-clarion call was titled "To Sleep With Anger", an ode to the movie that was filmed in her grandparent's house in South Los Angeles way before she was born. She found the old Danny Glover movie online and watched it over and over until she fell asleep and dreamed of the actors walking in her family's kitchen, living room, bedrooms, and backyard, and the words to the poem came to her in the underworld of slumber and there was a burning there. A heated twisting of past and present that had her worried about her future as a big boisterous girl with a runaway mouth making it in society where Black women were expected to be quiet mules for the world.

Not her.

Oya dreamed about that old house for two weeks waking up enraged every morning and thought about what the movie meant and pondered why she was already hating a world that she was barely stepping into. It had to be ancestral rage. A fiery anger handed down like generational trauma and the unyielding hair texture on her head.

A three-day heat of writing on yellow legal pads and listening to Bad Brains and Mother's Finest while trippin' on shrooms in her bedroom while her parents were away, produced a piece of work that she could get down with.

Other poems in her extensive repertoire allowed her to advance in poetry slam rounds in local competitions and by the time she was on the National level, she was tired of the scene. The performative aspect of it seemed disingenuous. Many of the older poets she watched seemed to be interested in shocking people instead of sharing real evocative language that opened the heart and mind.

That was probably why Oya screamed her words and left the stage switching her meaty hips and not caring about her scores or if she won.

She did win that year.

The individual poet category. At her young age.

The previous winner, another full-figured Black woman with thick braids, full lips, and a body of work so blistering that she was named the Poet Laureate of her city approached her backstage.

"You don't belong here," the woman said.

Oya blinked. The fuck?

A sly smile creased the woman's glossy lips as she pointed at Oya with a commanding right index finger.

"You belong out there doing what you just did. This is too small for you," the former champion said.

Oya Mason bid adieu to poetry slams.

She returned to Los Angeles from Oakland and started a part-time job at Amoeba Records on Hollywood Boulevard. While selling records and sorting vinyl and CD bins, she met her best friend, Deidre who rocked short hair and a smooth undercut, Oya fell in love with Deidre's whole vibe instantly and they fell into creating their first band together.

To Sleep With Anger.

Oya named them that. Deidre played electric guitar just like Oya did and after work and university classes at USC, they shredded in Deidre's parent's garage in a sizeable house at the bottom of Baldwin Hills. The Black Beverly Hills. The house sat on forty-eighth and Crenshaw, so the upwardly mobile Black folks couldn't get too far away from the bustle of working class and working-poor negroes down the street. Oya's parents couldn't handle two loud Black metal chicks screaming about capitalism, death, and societal destruction right next door to the neighborhood church at their small home near Leimert Park. Deidre's house was ground zero for their start as a unit.

School. Work. Shredding.

That was life for three years until Oya had written a ton of songs that were good enough to put together a fuller and more serious band. They had both become better axe players. She and Deidre posted up an ad for a drummer and bass player at the Amoeba Community board and online, and that was how they met Shameika, a mean pocket queen originally from Long Beach who went to UCLA.

Deidre and Oya had to set aside their USC rivalry because Shameika was nasty on the skins. Their bass player, Jody, was discovered by accident when she came into Amoeba asking for Me'Shell N'degeocello vinyl. Anyone into Me'Shell had to be hip, and Oya asked the lithe light-brown beauty if she were a musician. The stars lined up. She was their missing link.

They were complete and of one accord by the time they began playing publicly at gigs around L.A. and making road trips to San Diego and also local music festivals. Shameika handled their webpage, Deidre handled booking, and Oya fell in love with Jody. Then broke up with her. Then got back together. Then broke up in one final blow-out that thankfully didn't tank the band. It did become a little awkward when Jody and Shameika became a couple, but Oya grew past it. They were picking up traction as a band. Getting better paid gigs. She was writing better songs. Blending genres. Learning to control her vocals better with a private coach. It took them awhile to be taken seriously as a band. People expected them to be an R & B singing quartet and did double takes when they walked into venues with their gear. They were tested a lot by the mainly white male audiences. Lots of booing at shows and sometimes beer bottles were thrown at them onstage. Oya was often brutally called names because of her size. She didn't know how many times she had climbed onstage to bring the noise with her girls, and there was laughter tossed her way.

"Look at this big bitch!" was a common jab along with a few expletives.

But the music shut them up. They could play fucking circles around many of the bands, even the headliners.

"It's here!" Deidre shrieked as they opened boxes for new stock.

Oya stared at the twelve-inch vinyl of a song she was hearing about on every streaming platform and alternative music chatroom. She knew the group.

Slippage.

An alternative band that she used to fuck with heavily until they started going a little too commercial and polished for her tastes. Oya did feel excitement about new music from them. She hoped they were returning to their roots of hard driving sounds and not the softened new-branding that recent major-label signed groups were morphing toward. Deidre was practically salivating, her copper brown skin glowing and matching the copper brown of her short fade.

"This dude right here...I swear, I would buss it wide open if he walked in here right now. You think the scars are real? I heard they weren't," Deidre said.

Oya picked up the album and stared at the four guys on the cover. One Mexican with long glossy raven hair. Two white guys with stringy pony tails and tats on their faces and arms. And the Black guy.

Erik Killmonger.

Gold grills. Perfect locs. Scars.

His upper body was covered in small shiny lumps of skin.

"That looks real," Oya said.

"That's hardcore. I get the tats and piercings...I mean I have that shit, but...cutting your skin like that. All over. You think he has scars on his dick?"

Oya burst out laughing.

"Only you would ask that!"

"That would be kinda sexy," Deidra whispered admiring the man's shirtless body as he held his guitar.

Deidra stroked the cover.

"He's so rude for biting his lips like that. Letting us see all that gold in his mouth," she quipped.

They stocked the store with all the new vinyl before heading to the registers to help customers purchase music. When they had a break, the assistant manager let them listen to the new Slippage single. Deidre loved it, but Oya turned her nose up at it. Killmonger sounded dope as always, but the song itself was weak. Defanged.

"We should make something like this," Deidre said bobbing her head and air playing guitar with her nimble fingers pretending to be Killmonger.

"I think the fuck not."

"This is good!"

"No it's not. It's just loud and...vanilla."

"You're buggin'. This is the best thing they've put out."

Oya stood behind the counter and watched Deidra, the assistant manager, and several customers nod their heads and give kudos to Slippage.

"Tasteless," Oya muttered as she grabbed a stack of country CDs from a young woman and began ringing up her purchases.

The music blared from their store speakers and Oya couldn't help but think about Killmonger's grill and the scars that went up and down his muscled arms, wide chest, and down his chiseled stomach...

Begin at the beginning one 'mo' 'gin...

They knew they had something special when Amoeba allowed them to play in their in-store mini-concerts when another group failed to show up because of a delayed flight from Phoenix. The four of them wore tattered jean skirts with leggings and old vintage bullet bras they found at a thrift store in Venice Beach. Oya had to add a bra extender for hers. Thick extra-large safety pins prevented the weak hooks from bending across her back and gave the right touch to the stylized look. She kept a t-shirt handy in case a titty or two broke free and slapped a customer unexpectedly, which would've been the most punk thing ever, but luckily that old 1950's find held on as she sweated her way through raw, screeching vocals that caught her boss by surprise. Hamp was forced into a bind with a store full of patrons waiting to see Desert Troll City, so he gave in when Oya said they had equipment in their cars ready to plug in and rock out. Instead of ambient new vanguard trip music, the customers were treated to ear-splitting altie sounds that tip-toed between experimental and...what? Oya and her bandmates hadn't quite found a true name for their sound, but the crowd there loved it. The music attracted spectators from off the street and it became their first viral performance online.

Hamp started acting like their musical godfather, allowing them to sell their CDs at the counter on consignment as part of their local indie musician sales program. It was a boost to their confidence watching people buy their homemade EP. Gigs followed. The new visibility started their small music festival appearances. Their biggest live performance before their second full album came out was the Joshua Tree Music Festival. The drive to the desert had been joyous. They performed before the closing night's headliner and killed it. They were so good that the headliners gave them a shoutout during their set making Oya feel like a Queen.

And like any great rock-and-roll story, it was where the first rift in the band appeared. All because Deidre felt the need to insert an unnecessary guitar adlib that threw Oya off their closing number. The audience, blitzed out on 'shrooms, weed, liquor, pills, and whatever choice narcotics they brought for fun, became mesmerized by Deidre doing Jimi Hendrix tricks on her axe. Oya could concede that Sis was in her bag at that moment, but they had always stayed in tune with one another by using eye contact and onstage whispers to let each other know if they were going to go off. Sometimes it was just a well-placed guttural sound from Oya's throat to clue the others in, or Deidre would swing her guitar a certain way with a slight chord change. J Tree organizers had the performers on a strict time allotment, and Oya knew they had to finish with a new song in just the right intro...but Deidre fucked it up by trying to upstage Oya with the ole razzle dazzle. The normal thunder growl that would erupt from Oya's diaphragm kicking in "Acid Babe Blues" was usurped by some random guitar wah wah licks from Deidre's foot pedal muting her guitar.

Oya felt the "Acid Babe Blues" lyrics dry up in her throat as her eyes cut to Deidre's. Sister girl was oozing with charismatic energy and the people ate it up. Rightfully so. Oya stood down for twenty seconds before she turned to Jody on bass with aPlease gather this bitch uplook.

Jody slapped her bass and snapped Deidre from her moment. Time ran short, so Oya had to improvise and just gave an improper snippet of the new song before their time ran out. That meant Deidre had to sing the bridge to start the song, and Oya had to fake her way into the second verse. The fierce tone she gave thrilled the music lovers, but Oya was full of piss and vinegar. "Acid Babe Blues" was their lead single from the new joint, and the audience didn't even hear the true beginning.

As the crowd switched their positions to watch the main stage for the closing act, Oya and the others packed up their gear. Her hackles were up.

"What the fuck were you doing?!" Oya snapped.

"Vibin'," Deidre said.

"You stole valuable time for 'Acid'."

"They heard you scream when you first started twenty-five minutes ago. It still sounded great without a closing field holler—"

"That's not the point, Deidre," Shameika interjected as she shoved her drumsticks into a case, "it threw us all off."

"Ohmigod, we murdered this gig. It's good to shake it up sometimes.Ididn't hear a mess up—"

"It would've been nice to know what you were going to do. I'm the lead singer. I wrote that song. We all agreed that 'Acid Babe Blues' was to bring it all home and we practiced the hell out of it and you fucked it up!" Oya said,

"They loved us. That's all that matters."

Deidre did her usual lip pout when she was done discussing anything.

"I know you're feeling yourself right now, but this is becoming a habit with you," Oya barked helping Shameika break down the rest of her drum kit.

"So I can't get no shine too?"

"We all get shine—"

"Only when you let us. Don't forget, I write a lot of the songs too. I'm on the cover of the EP too. So is Jody and Shameika—"

"Are you failing to understand what the problem is? Am I trippin'? I'm not talking about getting shine, I'm talking about you disrupting and switching up how we do things mid-performance without a cue or an okay from the rest of us."

Deidre pressed her lips tight. An irritated exhale followed with a roll of her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I was carried away by the energy of the crowd. I wanted to jam for a minute..."

Deidre clutched her guitar pedal to her chest.

"I wanted to be that bitch...okay? I mean, look at us. We look amazing in these little black latex dresses! We're serving hot and sexy and being all sweaty and nasty up here. Tell me you didn't feel that rush?"

"We felt it, but...teamwork," Shameika said with her soft-spoken voice.

"I'm tired," Jody said holding her bass case.

They were assisted by some J Tree staff as they loaded up their gear into Deidre's S.U.V, and Oya's Jeep Cherokee.

"Are we staying to watch the closer or what?" Shameika asked.

Jody stayed in Deidre's S.U.V. to sleep, and the rest of them sauntered back in their laced-up pit-stomping boots to watch Boredroom, a band on the brink, sing out To Sleep With Anger's praises. Deidre turned her head and smirked at Oya as the lead singer of Boredroom pointed to all their latex-wearing greatness and shouted them out on the mic.

"See?" Deidre said, "We are the shit."

"It's about the music, Deidre, not just showing off," Oya grumbled.

Oya new instinctively that Deidre wanted to be the main shit. She wrenched her eyes away from her friend and tried to engage with the rest of the festival, but there was a sour taste in her mouth. That taste would grow and root deep. Then it would spread, choking them all.

Begin at his beginning...

Oya knew how to hustle a job.

When Amoeba became less flexible for gigs, she took a job at KCRW assisting the COO. On Saturday nights she worked the cashier booth for a trashy West Hollywood dance club to supplement her income.

Those were rough days for To Sleep With Anger ever since Deidre left for a high-profile band's line-up switch the year before. It was right after a showcase with an East Coast label. They were all broke, still hungry to make their own music, and lucked out when an A & R rep from Sony Music Group caught their live show at the Austin Music Festival.

Hair cut into a short bob that she slicked up to look like a match flame, dramatic make-up, and low-cut tight dresses with oversized coats that doubled as capes became a signature look for Oya. Her shoe game grew sick, with custom thigh-high boots, and walking canes to match her seductive stroll onstage. Their band logo was a black flame with red highlights. Her signature do always matched the logo onstage, and it became an instant hook with their audience. Sophisticated Punk. Seductive Alternative. Oya leaned into the sensual side and the other women found their looks too. Deidre became pure femme fatale, Jody, the edgy stud, and Shameika was their darling Goth ingénue.

Oya's lush body became the center of think pieces in the music scene and she welcomed the coverage and even took the hits with some women musicians who questioned the overt sexuality of the band. Were they sex kittens, or hard rockers? Cock teases for a gimmicky come up? A flash in the pan for some future music history footnote? She ignored them and the other women did too. Her favorite moments were to stroll onstage after Jody plucked the bass like a beast sporting her flamboyant capes and big hats and do a twirl wielding her cane before dropping the cape to the floor revealing couture that accentuated breasts, flared hips, thick thighs, and a rump to die for. The more popular they became the more she found herself amazed at how people projected onto her. She rarely showed any explicit skin other than the tops of her breasts with dep cleavage, but the audacity of her being her bold self with tight clothing was a problem for so many people. But a revelation to others.

Especially men.

Often teased for not having a body that conformed to whatever was in fashion at the moment, that quickly changed when she sang. Her voice shifted the critiques. People had to listen to the music because it was fucking divine. Oya's talent made people notice she had a face. A gorgeous one. And that face was attached to a stunning big body. Online chatter brought out the lovers of her plus-size physique, especially when she catwalked up and down a stage and pointed her cane at the audience, then stuck it in front of her as she wiggled down and back up from the floor with it. There was a shift in the air. The thirst for her was just as great as her other bandmates.

They were on the cusp of reaching greatness and Oya was going damn near bankrupt funding her on stage style to create her visual greatness. They all were.

The Sony Rep schmoozed them and set up the showcase for the "Yes Men". Oya could taste victory, money, fame, freedom...

The showcase was a disaster.

Not because Oya didn't incinerate the Sony office with her talent or the girls didn't bring it with their playing. The Yes Men wanted Deidre to front the band and insisted on smoothing out their rough sound. Less edge. More mainstream puff rock. Less 90s Trent Reznor-esque proto Black Girl Rock/Metal and more old school Gwen Stefani cutesy kitsch.

Oya put her foot down. Get set aside because they found Deidre the more marketable? She didn't have the voice. She didn't have the vocal chops to strike people down from the stage like Oya did every time they performed. To Sleep With Anger laid out the roots of Betty Davis, Bad Brains, A Band Called Death, tastefully gave homage to Tina Bell, Mother's Finest, plus a smidgeon of early Prince with the heavy guitar opening of "Bambi" that Oya played herself, and all they could mention was Nine Inch Nails and No Doubt?

They weren't signed.

Deidre left them.

Six months later Deidre was on tour and became a media sensation by joining Ark Ten. They were top tier. Grammy winners. Global fanbase. English darlings credited with reviving the UK rock scene. Deidre joined them right when they went in to record a second studio album. An all-male band that fired their lead guitarist, Ark Ten recruited Deidre to become the new focal point of hyped publicity for the group's sophomore outing. She looked like a High Rock Glam Priestess on their magazine photo spreads. Their album went triple platinum within months as Oya took credit cards and damp dollar bills at a cashier's booth while listening to her ex-bandmate's overdone guitar flourishes in songs at her crappy club job.

Shameika and Jody moved in with her in an upstairs apartment near Slauson. They turned the small dining room into a second bedroom and pooled their resources to perform where they could. Oya wrote new songs and just as Deidre predicted, Shameika and Jody followed her lead without pushback.

After a long day in Santa Monica, Oya walked into their kitchen and made an announcement.

"We're going to audition a new guitar player. We need a fourth member. I'm better at singing and not playing at the same time."

Jody fried up some sliced potatoes and onions at the stove. Shameika washed dishes.

"Another woman?" Shameika asked.

"Black?" Jody added.

"Let's just put the call out and see who shows up. I have a hook up for a try-out space next week. There's a music studio moving to another location in Santa Monica. KCRW used it for live shows and one of my co-workers has access to it for a Saturday before they leave. We can sneak in and use it for four hours. Six to ten at night."

"But you're great on guitar," Shameika lamented.

"I can't do all my theatrics if I'm playing the whole time too. It's too difficult. Plus, it's part of our brand. Jody?"

Jody set down the spatula in her hand and turned down the fire under the food.

"I want another Black woman," Jody said.

"But if we can't find one?"

"Hold another audition?" Shameika suggested.

"In time for Afropunk?"

"We can do a stripped-down show. Jeans, tees, and chucks."

Oya put hands on her hips and closed her eyes.

"No, we go full out. We need this moment more than ever. We have to look ready-made."

Shameika stopped stacking plates in the drainer.

"You don't think we'll ever make it big, huh?" "It's not just making it big...it's our music... we could change the game. I'm tired of us struggling and trying to be creative. I'm tired of us eating potatoes and spaghetti all the time."

"We'll make it," Shameika said.

"I'm tired,"

Oya let her arms drop to her sides. Jody pulled her in for a hug and Oya buried her face in the woman's neck and wept.

"I'm tired of seeing her out there...winning," Oya huffed.

"We'll do the audition. We'll make it work," Jody said.

Her fingers trailed up Oya's face and wiped away her smeared eye make-up. Shameika joined them and threw her arms around Oya's waist.

"Look at me blubbering like some loser. We're not losers."

"No, we're not," Jody said.

Her lips touched Oya's cheek and the loving pats from Shameika made her feel tons better. She broke away from the two of them.

"Just a tiny woe-is-me moment and now we'll get this new axe. Right?"

Jody and Shameika nodded sharing gentle smiles with her.

"We're too talented," Oya said taking up the spatula and turning over the potatoes for Jody.

She kept that mantra up as they sat inside the borrowed music studio a week later watching woman after woman jam with them. Oya watched Jody's weary face as she cradled her bass and studied a new guitar player plug in and prepare to audition. Shameika twirled one of her drumsticks in her left hand and gave Oya an encouraging wink, but the sentiment didn't help. After two hours, they hadn't found one musician who felt right. Benji, Oya's co-worker, sat next to her on plush red couch. There was a small line of women taking up the sidewalk outside waiting to come in and it gave Oya a headache.

"Give me a minute," Oya said, "I have to pee."

In the restroom, she splashed water on her face to hide the tears that threatened to drop.

"Please..." she whispered as she rinsed her hands and dried them.

Oya stared at her face in the mirror.

"Go back out there with your game face. Our new guitarist is coming. She is going to walk in and wow everybody. The band will be whole once more. We'll go to Atlanta and the record deal will come. We'll bring the heat. We'll bring the bodacious Blackness. Deidre won't be the only success story."

Oya walked back into the studio and nearly shit in her cargo pants.

Benji stood chopping it up with Erik Killmonger.

Killmonger wore dark shades, but Oya recognized the braided locs, the scars on his skin shown by his sleeveless white t-shirt, and the gold slugs in his mouth. He was bigger in person than what she imagined. Her eyes glanced over to Jody and Shameika and they were equally starstruck along with the white woman with tattered dreads waiting to audition.

"Oya, this is my old buddy, Killmonger. Killmonger, Oya. Lead singer—"

Oya did a one-eighty and hot-footed back to the restroom. She pressed her back against the door. Her breath sped up and she couldn't stop hyperventilating. Leaning forward to lower her head to her knees, she squinted her eyes and blew out long streams of air.

"Fuck."

Clenching her fists, Oya patted her hands up her thighs until she stood upright.

"Fuck."

She went back out to the studio area and threw her shoulders back.

"I thought I left the water running in the sink," she lied.

Killmonger sat on the couch next to Benji. Oya avoided contact to help keep her voice steady and non-chalant.

"Oh. Well, I'm sure you know who Killmonger plays for—"

"Played for," Killmonger corrected.

Oya felt a tickle in her stomach. His scratchy voice had a rasp to it like he'd been smoking before he came in. He probably toked a good expensive strain that rich people smoked. They always had memes of him up every Four Twenty with kush sitting on his guitar. The shades were off and his bright brown eyes planted themselves on her face.

Played for?

"You're not with Slippage anymore?" the white woman asked.

Nosey.

Killmonger's eyes cut to her and the woman shrank into her guitar.

"How 'bout you play and mind ya business," he said.

Oya took her seat and stared at Jody. She mouthed the words "Play" to her homie, and Jody slid her index and middle finger down the neck of the bass to begin "Palo Alto", a song they liked using to test the guitarists. It had several difficult chord progressions and they wouldn't have to waste time seeing if a person could really play or not. The woman, Heather, got halfway through the song before they knew she wouldn't cut it. Deidre and Oya could slide through the song like butter. Even Jody could fake her way through it when she played around with Oya's guitar.

They allowed Heather to play another tune and jam for a minute before Oya took to the mic and sang a bit with the entire ensemble. They sent her away after asking a few personal questions about her background. When she left, Oya ran her hand over her hair. Jody adjusted the volume knob on her bass and Shameika tapped her sticks lightly on her ride cymbal. No words were needed to veto Heather. A statuesque Black woman came in next with a bright smile and high energy, and they all perked up, but she wasn't able to improvise all that well as they jammed together. Another no. They had an hour left and only two candidates had viable potential from the fifteen women they saw from the first three rounds. Oya was happy she pre-screened so many musicians online ahead of time. They were efficient and knew what they were looking for. The only problem was, no one fit.

They had a fifteen-minute break slotted before the last three candidates scheduled would come in. Benji gave Oya a supportive grin.

"Don't throw in the towel yet, Oya," he said shaking his ginger curls.

Killmonger stood up and walked over to their set up. He moved like king. She tamped down on the squeal in her throat fighting to come out.

"I can't believe Killmonger is in the same room with us!" Shameika blurted.

Thank God. Someone finally said it out loud. Jody and Oya laughed with relief.

"He ain't nobody," Benji said punching Killmonger in the arm.

"How do you know each other?" Oya asked keeping her eyes off of Killmonger.

"Before he was a big head star, Killmonger used to nag me to play his shit on KCRW years ago. We used to sweep up this place together as interns."

Killmonger glanced around.

"The place is a little different from when I worked here. Didn't last long though."

"Slippage?" Oya asked.

Dark orbs captured her gaze.

"Yeah."

"But you said something about not being with them earlier."

Benji stepped in.

"News is just now getting out," Benji said hitching his shoulders.

"Can I?" Killmonger asked pointing to Oya's guitar.

She stepped away from it and he lifted it off of the stand near her and draped the strap around his body hooking it to the instrument after adjusting the leather. It only took him two seconds to launch into "Acid Babe Blues" and Shameika brought in the drums automatically. Jody slapped her bass and they played for two minutes before Oya felt brave enough to jump in and sing.

Killmonger knew their song. By heart.

He stood in the middle of the recording studio slaying Oya's electric guitar and ripped into a blistering riff that made her jump and lose her shit in front of her desperate band.

"Give it to me from the top!" he yelled.

His fingers thrummed out the beginning again, and Oya gave a Black rebel yell,

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person!"*

They tore through the song with Killmonger's lips peeled back to show glints of gold as he howled encouragement with whoops and loud shouts to them.

"C'mon Jody, dig into that bottom!" he called out.

Jody let her thumb do the most as Oya felt the vibration of Shameika sitting in her pocket on the drums from behind as she followed Jody's dip into a groove that Killmonger supported with tasteful licks from his fingers. They jammed for twenty minutes until Oya noticed their next band candidate standing wide-eyed and mouth agape staring at Killmonger.

"Sorry," Killmonger said unhooking himself from Oya's guitar.

They finished seeing the last three women and sat down on the floor together in a circle to discuss what they liked and didn't like. There were three women they agreed to call back for another try out just to be sure.

"We have to lock one in fast. Get them set with our music and stage cues," Oya said picking at her nails.

"When's your next performance?" Killmonger asked.

The three women glanced over at him on the couch. Benji had his arms folded watching them too.

"End of the month. Atlanta," Oya said.

"Afropunk?" he asked.

"Yeah."

"Let me play for you."

Oya thought her lungs would implode in her chest right behind her heart.

"I'm not doing anything. I quit Slippage. I like your sound. Benji says you want more festival exposure. If I play with you, you'll get that."

"That would be a boss move...but..." Oya's brain grew dizzy.

"But what?"

"People would want you. Not us," Jody said.

"Then hire me. Let me join the band."

Benji chuckled but then he shut up when he realized Killmonger wasn't joking.

"Why?" Oya asked.

"I like your sound. Your style. I quit Slippage because it's tired. I outgrew it. Y'all got something fresh...different. Sticks to my ribs."

"People would just think it's your band," Oya said.

"How's that?"

"Your famous. You'd overshadow us."

"Did I overshadow Slippage?"

"You were Slippage," Jody mumbled under her breath.

Oya reached over and tugged on one of Jody's long straight backs. Jody slapped Oya's hand away from her hair. Killmonger chuckled.

"You have a strong personality," Oya said.

"Benji told me to come here to give you some tips. The best thing for you is to let me become part of To Sleep With Anger. You don't even have to pay me cuz you know I'm set. I just want to play pure music that's slowly becoming its own thing. I miss that."

"Will you dump us when you get bored?" Shameika asked.

Shameika tilted her head and the purple tips of her hair on the left side of her head touched her stomach. The right side was shaved with one long tuft left on the temple that was beaded with cowrie shells. When Killmonger's eyes landed on her, Shameika's top teeth tugged on her bottom lip making her lip ring more visible.

"Who would get bored with you, Princess?" he said.

Oya caught the territorial glare from Jody, but Killmonger's smoldering drag across Jody's lean athletic form made her flustered and forget the man was flirting with her woman. He flirted with Jody openly too. Dropping his body on the floor next to them all, he held out his hands.

"Let me come to Atlanta and play. Just as a featured guest. We can talk about permanent stuff after."

"You do sound good with us," Shameika said.

Killmonger pointed to her.

"See? Taste."

Oya's heart pounded in her chest from being next to him. She could smell his light cologne and the hair oil he used for his air. The scent of roses and pumpkin spice lingered near him. Moisture left her mouth and everything tasted like cotton. A miracle walked into their audition and served himself up for their use. Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika. They were just as gone as she was by what was being offered. She swallowed dust and thought of Deidre. Ark Ten was a smart move for her career, but what she would never have was the baddest guitarist around who left an exceptionally better band, and wanted to play for them. But knowing Deidre, she would be flattered to be replaced by someone like Killmonger. Oya ground her molars and pushed her fingers into her thighs. Her cargo pants pocket vibrated. The cell alarm went off. Their time in the studio was up. It was now or never.

"What do you think?" she asked the others.

Shameika held a thumb up and they all saw her sultry eyes turn gooey staring at Killmonger.

"He makes us hustle and I like that," Jody said. Her forehead creased.

Oya gave her a curious look when she took forever giving her answer.

"Me and Shameika are together," Jody finally said.

"That's not a yes or a no," Killmonger said.

"I see how you are and I want you to know the dynamics," Jody said pursing her lips.

"That's your lady, aight beautiful, cool...so am I in?"

Shameika lowered her eyes and Oya felt second-hand embarrassment watching the jockeying for the drummer's attention.

"What's your vote Oya?" Jody asked.

Those magnetic eyes of Killmonger's became daggers on her skin and Oya couldn't shake the arousal affecting her decision-making. He pushed them into excellence with just one jam session. Imagine what they could glean from him with full rehearsals?

She raised a thumb, and Shameika squealed. He wrenched his eyes away from Oya.

"Jody?" he asked. His voice was a raspy assertion. Answer him.

Oya saw the attraction Jody had for the man too. They all were drenched in it. Carnal danger oozed from his pores.

"Okay...yes," she said.

Killmonger clapped his hands and jumped up from their circle on the floor.

"We rehearse at our place in the mornings when our neighbors are at work," Oya said shifting her body to stand up. Her foot fell asleep and she shook out her leg to get the circulation moving.

He took out his phone and they all exchanged numbers.

"I'll bring my stuff at nine if that's cool," he said.

"Yeah," Oya said.

She was almost his height. There was a gleam in his eye as he flashed them all big white perfect teeth and four gold slugs. Two at the top and two at the bottom. His scars were real and if she didn't know him a little better from hanging with him that night, the man could come off menacing. He took up so much space.

Oya threw back her shoulders again.

So did she.

Begin at their beginning...

Afropunk brought two things to fruition.

To Sleep With Anger became that bitch and Deidre felt the heat.

They didn't announce that Killmonger was with them. Flying into Atlanta with hours of tight rehearsals behind them brought them to a different level of being. He was a task master, but he made sure they were in control. Over four weeks Oya saw how he could influence them without it being obvious manipulation. Helping them improve their songwriting, playing, and bolstering their confidence to challenge themselves was something she came to love about him. Oya fell for him quietly and in secret, and unlike his first time meeting them, all flirtations vanished. He was about the music twenty-four seven. She wrote several songs with him at his home studio in Silverlake, and he even helped Shameika compose her first solo creation. It was a cold ass song and Oya wanted them to open with it. Shameika burst into tears when Oya said that and Killmonger gave their sweet Goth girl a hug and encouraged her to write more and take chances with her lyrics.

They left the stage itself in shambles after their quick set. It was like they took a grenade, pulled the pin, tossed it, and made sure the destruction was complete before their exit. No one wanted to follow them after that performance. The shock of Killmonger leaving Slippage hadn't fully been processed before the world saw him on a smaller stage obliterating all competition around them in Atlanta.

Shameika beat out a master class of percussion before Jody sank her teeth into the bass ushering in the deadly claws of Killmonger's fingers making his guitar roar as Oya stalked out from behind him. The moment the audience saw him, shocked gasps rippled out and then she pounced on them all, lacing her voice around Shameika's lyrics throughout the soundscape they weaved for the audience. Her signature flame upswept do became the rage after their first performance as a re-grouped band. The biggest surprise was that Killmonger didn't steal their thunder. He harnessed it and threw it out for the world to accept as a class act worthy of recognition. They trended on social media. Deidre and Ark Ten had been number one for two hours because of their new Coachella line-up announcement. To Sleep With Anger knocked them out of the top ten trending topics soon after. Pictures of their Afropunk performance were shared all over. Oya couldn't help but float and feel hopeful.

The man made her feel reckless and powerful onstage. Their styles meshed and the thrill of prancing around and growling at him with throaty moans while he jerked that guitar around her shirtless like he was working his manhood made her invincible. He underplayed his position as mega star to allow them all the shine. He got off on it. Flirted heavily with all of them while he worked the stage. Oya threw him solos but he would bring in Jody, opening her up to the point where she was dancing around the stage which was something she rarely did that fiercely.

The fans loved Shameika's song and they played it again at the end for their encore. Their short set grew longer because of Killmonger and he pushed it. Shameika broke one of her sticks by the end and it was the omen of more good things to come.

Standing there with applause washing over them, Oya looked over at Killmonger. His eyes were slightly hooded. He was faded in a good way and she was too. They shared a joint before hitting the stage and she watched him make smoke offerings to someone named Bast. Oya gave a final bow and Killmonger leaned over covering her mouth with his lips. The crowd roared and she reached over with fresh acrylic black nails to scratch the scars on his nude shoulder. He bowed down to her like she was a queen and the audience lost it again.

"Let 'em see you, O," he crooned in her ear.

Oya swung her wide hips to the left and right of the stage with her black wolf's head cane in her hand. Her black laced combat boots matched the black mesh drawstring skirt and tank she wore with a short-waisted red bolero jacket. Their black flame logo was emblazoned on the back in satin emboidery. She sauntered over to Jody and Shameika who were shy about prancing around, but they basked in the sea of applause. Oya pulled them next to her so they could get their due.

Taking the mic from her hand, Killmonger stepped to the center edge of the stage.

"You're looking at three of the baddest musicians to come out of L.A. It's a privilege to play for them. Don't fuck around and miss out on this moment. Follow them. Support them. Snatch their EP at the merch table before it become a collector's item and you can't afford it. Take plenty of pictures so you can say you were there before they blow up. Give more love to Oya, Jody, and Shameika...To Sleep With Anger!"

Offstage they were mobbed by people trying to talk to them and get pictures. Killmonger was adamant that he took no solo pictures with fans. It was the group or nothing. That didn't stop people sneaking shots of him sipping on juice or talking to people. Security had to help them when the reality of his status went into warp drive. They had to have more security with them for the rest of the event.

Gracious, accommodating, protective, and a total fanboy, Killmonger acted as their professional handler. His personal bodyguard, Tyson, was a bruising giant that suffered no fools when it came to his boss. If Killmonger felt a fan was being rude to them, he sent Tyson after them. By the end of the festival night, Oya was exhausted by the lack of respect fans had for the personal space of huge stars. Oya wanted the same accolades, but the rudeness was astounding. So used to being ignored, or looked over, she adjusted to it quickly until a male onlooker reached out and squeezed her ass cheek near a speaker as she watched a headliner from Canada. She shoved the man and his weed-laced eyes narrowed. His lips became a snarl when he realized she wasn't interested in his tasteless unwanted sexual advances.

"You should feel lucky, bitch!" he spat.

A fist sliced across her peripheral and the next thing she knew, the man's face was punched in one direction while two of his teeth flew in the opposite. A crowd of male fans snatched him up and carried him off while Killmonger stalked after them cursing him out. Tyson pulled Killmonger back but he jerked away from his grasp. A random girl with long pink braids picked up the teeth with a napkin and ran after the owner of them.

"Shit!" Oya finally exclaimed. Killmonger only needed a bodyguard to protect fans from his fists.

Jody and Shameika were stunned and the crowd stood back from them when Killmonger returned.

"You alright, O?"

"Yeah."

He shook his head as Tyson made a wide berth for them to continue their evening.

"I've had my ass slapped, my dick grabbed, kisses placed on me without my consent..."

Killmonger's eyes looked them over before giving them a dimpled grin.

"See what you have to look forward to?" he told them with flashing gold teeth and drying blood on his fist.

On the way to Coachella and uneasy alliances...

Oya carried bags of Chinese food and soda to the apartment. She had to carry four bags carefully by herself because no one answered their cell to come help her. Climbing up the stairs and fumbling with keys, she entered the apartment hearing music, and smelling frankincense incense, weed, and burning vanilla-scented candles. The room divider from the living room to the dining room was up and Oya saw shapes moving behind the shadows of flickering light. Jody and Shameika were at it on their bed. They probably thought Oya was going to take a long time picking up food, however, she called ahead for once.

She ducked into the other doorway that led to the kitchen and placed the bags on the counter. Clearly there was no rush to eat. Oya needed time to shower. Turning her head, the flimsy curtain they used to separate the kitchen from the dining room was parted and Oya could see Shameika on her back with Killmonger on top of her.

The hell?

She froze.

This was the fucked up shit that killed bands throughout history. Illicit sexual liasons...

Wayment.

Jody's fingers slid down from behind Killmonger's back and pinched his nipples. He turned his head to the side and they shared tongue kisses. Oya watched the man pull out his dick from Shameika, and dear God, he threw Jody down onto her hands and knees and plunged his sheathed thickness into her from behind. She watched him turn Jody into a quivering mess on her bed while he pulled on her hair. Shameika bent down and licked her tongue from the middle of his chest up to the side of his neck.

"Bounce on it," he whispered to Jody and she threw her ass back on him while Killlmonger

slipped fingers inside of Shameika's pussy. Oya could hear the squelching wetness and the woman's whimpers twisted around Killmonger's groans.

"Oooh, fuck!" he roared as Jody gave it her all.

Jody pulled off of his length and flipped over allowing Shameika to fall against her with her legs up in the air. Killmonger sank into her as Jody played with her peach-sized breasts and anchored her girlfriend's body for him. Their eyes stayed on that man's dick as it plowed deep and hard.

"Fuck me...Killmonger...!" Shameika was losing it.

"Shit," he yelped biting his lip as he hunched over her.

He was deep in her guts now and the thrashing she did under him made Killmonger double down on the snaking of his hips. Her arms flew back and Jody cradled them, sucking on Shameika's fingers before Killmonger pulled out again. Both women scrambled to get at his mouth for kisses and he held them both close to him as he fondled both their asses with greedy hands.

Oya slipped out of the kitchen and heard more movement. She wondered what position they were in now before jealousy seeped into her heart. She closed her bedroom door and sat on her cold bed in the dark. It was sad to think of how long it had been since she had sex with anyone. She didn't count the clumsy attempts of a man trying to fingerfuck her the previous year at a party, or even the coat check girl at her job. They were unconsummated misadventures.

She had no clue the three of them were fuck bodies. Killmonger kept sexual energy on stage and in their real life he was a gentleman guitarist coaxing the best out of them for work only. It was obvious Shameika had a big crush on him, but they all just settled into a mentor Rock-God relationship with him. He was playful during downtime, bossy during rehearsals, and flirty for shows.

"Cum in my mouth!" he shouted

His voice roared through the door and Oya pulled a pillow over her face and screamed. They were getting all that sculpted body. All that dick. All that mouth. Kicking her feet, Oya threw her pillow across the bed. Fuck 'em.

She turned on the lights and prepared to take a shower, not even bothering to keep quiet. They kept being loud even as she went into the bathroom and took a long shower.

Twenty minutes later she could hear their bed still rocking and rolling. Bitches!

Hunger trumped all and she made a ton of noise going back into the kitchen to fix a plate for herself. Dumping fried shrimp rice and walnut chicken on a paper plate, she yanked open the fridge to get a can of Pepsi.

Jody tumbled into the kitchen and washed her hands at the sink. She was fully dressed in a t-shirt and shorts and Oya could tell she was pretending that nothing had went on in the next room. She also wouldn't look Oya in the eye. Whatever.

Oya padded into the living room with her plate and drink and found Killmonger on their couch watching TV.

"Sup?" he said ogling her plate.

The shower went on again and Oya assumed it was Shameika in the bathroom. Jody walked out of the kitchen with two plates. She handed one to Killmonger who took it with gratitude as he tucked in with a fork.

"I would've gotten some egg rolls had I known you were coming over," Oya said with a little bite in voice.

"No worries. I just popped over."

"Yeah. I heard."

Jody's eyes almost fell out of her head. Pressure began to build behind her neck and Oya tried to eat her food next to Killmonger on the couch, but she barely tasted it. When Shameika came into the room with a small plate, Oya couldn't hold back.

"Is this going to be a regular thing?"

"What?" Killmonger said.

"Nigga, don't play dumb. You're fucking two of my bandmates. I'm really not trying to have no bullshit when it blows up in your faces."

Shameika's lip trembled. Jody studied the paint on the wall.

"It's none of your business what we do," he said poking out his full lips.

Oya knocked his food out of his hand.

"Oya...fuck..." he grumbled picking up the mess all over the floor.

Shameika jumped up to clean it and Oya shoved her back.

"Let him pick it up since he's trying to create a mess."

Oya's jaws clenched and she stood up to tower over him while he cleaned. He jumped up to face her.

"If you want some dick too, just say so. We don't need all the dramatics to get my attention."

"You think I wanna fuck you?"

"Every time you see me you want to."

"You said you wanted to see us win. This threesome will interfere with the work."

"Yeah...you wanna fuck."

"Killmonger, stop," Shameika said.

"Kill-monger, stahpppp," Oya said mimicking Shameika's mousy voice.

"Don't do that," Jody said stepping to Oya.

"Whatchu do? Let her fuck him so you wouldn't lose her?"

"Fuck you, Oya!" Jody shouted pushing her in the chest.

Oya pushed back and Killmonger stood between them.

"You are such a weak little pussy!" Oya shouted as the rage surged through her body.

Shameika ran to her bedroom and Jody followed after her.

"Weak bitches," Oya shouted to them.

A shock of pain blasted up her arm as Killmonger grabbed it and pulled her toward her bedroom. He opened the door and shoved her inside flicking on the lights and slamming the door behind him.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"Why are you fucking them?"

"Why is it your business?"

"The band is my business. You fucking up my business."

"What I do with them is between me and them—" "How long has it been going on?"

Killmonger rolled his eyes and she couldn't help but stare at his teeth and the locs flopping in his eyes. His blood was up and the look on his face was mean and it turned her on. She wanted to punch him and kiss him, but if she did that, it would only prove that she did want to fuck him and was angry that her friends got to him first. Wasn't she good enough? He was always gassing her up as the Queen Bee but he settled for drones...

Oya closed her eyes.

That was cruel. Jody and Shameika were her girls. Her sisters. She was acting like Deidre. Thinking she was better than all the rest. Fuck. Maybe Deidre was.

Oya flopped down on her bed.

"I'm sorry," she said.

His eyes were still tight, but he uncrossed his arms.

"What's going on?"

"I don't like being left out."

"Left out of what?"

"Inner circles. I thought we were a team...I feel left out."

"Because of sex?"

"No...yeah...I dunno. I'm stressed...Coachella is coming..."

Killmonger sat next to her and threaded his fingers in hers.

"Coachella is big for you guys, but it's just a music festival. Like all the others you've played before."

"Easy for you to say. We only got there because of you."

"So."

"People are saying that's the only reason we were invited to play."

"So."

Oya shook her head and he squeezed her hand.

"If you're scared because Ark Ten is playing just say that."

"I'm not scared of Ark Ten."

"Deidre then."

"She's a star."

"You're a star. You, Shameika and Jody."

"This has to be the best performance of our life, and I want to show her up. I want her to regret leaving us—"

"She's living rent free in your head and not even thinking about you. We had three dudes jump ship on Slippage before we even signed with Warner. Shit, I wasn't even in the original line-up. People leave when opportunities open up for them. Deidre is where she's supposed to be. I'm where I'm supposed to be. So are you. This is your come up, O. Enjoy it. Stop worrying about Deidre and stop worrying about my dick."

She punched his arm and he kissed her cheek.

"You stink," she said wiping his kiss off of her skin.

"I smell like good pussy."

"Please don't play with them."

"We're having fun."

"You're having fun. They are in a serious relationship."

"I hear you, okay?"

Killmonger released her hand and left the room to shower and clean up. Oya meandered into the kitchen then knocked on the wall near the curtain divider.

"What?" Jody called out.

"It's me. I want to apologize. Can I come in?"

There was no answer.

"Jody? Shameika?"

Jody pulled the curtain aside. Her face was contorted with anger. Oya saw Shameika on the bed bundled up under the sheet, her eyes wet and puffy from crying.

"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to talk to you both like that. I don't want this thing you have with him to blow up in our faces. Shameika, sorry for teasing you...I was...jealous."

Shameika cut her eyes and Jody crawled onto the bed and put her arms around her. They both ignored her.

"Sorry," she said again and left them alone.

Oya went to her room and broke out her weed pipe and smoked alone on her bed. With her bedroom door open she saw Killmonger walk out wrapped in a towel brushing his teeth.

"I stole a toothbrush from the pack under the sink," he said.

Oya shrugged and he ducked back into the bathroom to rinse his mouth. He returned fully dressed and barefoot. He grabbed the pipe and lighter from her and took a few puffs and cooled out on her bed.

"They are pissed at me," she grumbled.

"You were foul."

"I know. I apologized."

They smoked and the high was easy. Languid. She fell back on her back and stared at the ceiling. Killmonger curled around her and threw an arm across her stomach.

"I wrote a new song," she said.

"Lemme hear it."

She giggled.

"I'm high and my lips are rubbery right now."

Killmonger licked her face and it felt like warm velour caressing her skin.

"Sing it to me."

He nuzzled his face in her neck and kissed her there.

"You ain't slick," she said moving her neck from him.

"What?"

"Tryna get in my panties too right now because I'm floatin'."

"I would never do that. My dick is tired anyway. They had my shit spittin',"

"Oh God, TMI."

"I couldn't get it up if I wanted too. Give me the song."

"Hmmm..."

"It sucks."

"Shut up!"

She slapped his cheek and he cradled her hand and kissed her palm. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his fingers.

"Sing," he said.

Oya closed her eyes and thought of the yellow legal pad she wrote the newest song on. The words floated above the paper as the melody danced around her ears.

"There is no place for a soft Black woman... there is no smile green enough or summertime words warm enough to allow my growth...and in my head...I see my history standing like a shy child...and I chant lullabies...as I ride my past on horseback...tasting the thirst of yesterday tribes..."*

The words flowed from her lips and Killmonger caressed her hip as he listened to her. He gave her suggestions for word changes when she was finished, and they moved from the bedroom to the living room to work out the song with her electric guitar. He played her instrument while she sang to him. Shameika and Jody emerged from their bedroom to listen and after a few more word changes they joined in on bass and drums that sat ready in the room all the time. They jammed, worked out a decent intro with the drums and Killmonger shoehorned a bass-heavy bridge that added a full body sound to the lyrics. Oya felt the sexual tension between the four of them. It was thick and undeniable. They were all drenched in sweat by the time they had a complete arrangement that worked well.

"We should close with this," Killmonger suggested.

Oya glanced over at Jody and Shameika.

"What do you think?" she asked them.

Jody shrugged and Shameika stared at Killmonger.

"You like it Shameika. I can hear it in your drums," Killmonger said.

Shameika's foot tapped on the floor. Killmonger stood Oya's guitar on a stand and he walked over to Shameika and pulled her up to her feet. He blocked their view of her as he talked softly with her. Oya left the room to grab a bottled water and when she returned, Killmonger had his lips on Shameika and she had her arms around his neck. Jody stood with her arms resting on her bass watching them.

"You good," Killmonger asked.

Shameika nodded her head and Killmonger went to Jody and gave her a hug.

"Team, right?" he asked Jody.

Jody twisted her lips and Killmonger grabbed her chin and tilted it up toward him.

"Jody?"

"Yeah. We're a team."

Killmonger pressed his mouth on Jody and she gave in. His hand squeezed her left butt cheek and she swatted his chest with a laugh in her throat. Fiery eyes raked over Oya's form as Killmonger strode over to her.

"I'm not leaving you out," he said.

His mouth devoured hers overwhelming her with the pressure of his large tongue sweeping around her teeth and making her own tongue submit to his will. A trembling in her thighs commenced, and she grew bolder as she pressed her body into his. Whatever he said about his dick not being able to rise to the occasion again was a blatant lie because the hardness she felt pressing against her mound had her panties damp. His arm slipped around her waist and he walked her backward a few inches before he let go of her lips. He reached for his shirt and took it off allowing the hard slick scars all over his chest excite her even more.

No words were spoken as he forced her back into her bedroom and undressed her. He groaned when her breasts were freed from her bra, and she moaned as his thick fingers pulled off her underwear revealing a glistening prize for his mouth. He ate her out on the edge of her bed, pushing her thighs back so that he could smear her juices all over his face. He licked her folds until she was clawing her bed. Sucking on her clit made her cry out and she knew Jody and Shameika heard her.

Killmonger stood up before she could release again and she watched him fetch a condom from his wallet and roll it down his turgid erection.

"You gon' play nice?"

"Huh?"

Breath was cut from her throat as he sank into her. He threaded his fingers in her hair and locked her body down good and tight. Hard thrusts made her pussy clench around his pipe. He brought his face close to hers and the gold in his teeth looked sharp and threatening.

"I'm giving you this dick, but you better place nice with the other girls from now on!" he growled in her ear.

Oya lifted up so she could see his dick beating up her walls. The aggression of his fucking made it hard to breathe. His hips swiveled and hit another part of her pussy that she wasn't expecting and she clawed his back. The scars on his body rubbed extra sensations into her needy skin and she whimpered into his shoulder to keep her bandmates from hearing, but the dick was so good that she was panting his name every time he sank back into her.

"Be a good girl, alright? Don't be jealous..."

"Killmonger!"

He palmed as much of her breasts as he could and forced her back to arch just to catch all the length he was throwing into her fast. She took the pounding gratefully.

"I'll be good! I'll be good...ooh shit! I'll be good...fuck!"

She went cockeyed trying to match his pace and gave up when he was balls deep and making her toes bunch up. His teeth tugged on her nipples and she took that moment to breathe deep and catch her bearings.

"Turn around!"

Killmonger stepped back from her and his heavy dick bobbed with her shiny slickness all over the condom. She dropped her legs down to the floor and shifted her body so that she faced the bed. Before she had a chance to position herself, he had his hand on the back of her neck pushing her down. Her ass jiggled as he thrust into her again, and she gripped the blanket on her bed to brace herself. Oya's ass clapped loud and she was unable to make a sound from her mouth. The shouting she had done made her voice hoarse, and she snapped her eyes shut and sucked on the blanket.

"Hold these ass cheeks open!"

Reaching behind her, she stroked her backside with her long nails and pulled her fleshy cheeks apart.

"Look at that pussy!" he choked out.

His groans rained down on her and once he started grunting and slapping her ass, she knew she would fall apart all over his dick soon.

"...being my good girl...pussy stretched all around me...fuck...Oya..."

She couldn't take it anymore. He was rooted in her way down deep until he bottomed out and gripped her hips.

"Right there! Right there!" he groaned.

"Fuckkk..."

Her orgasm exploded when he slipped demanding fingers across her clit and stroked her to completion. Bucking his hips, Killmonger's body went rigid and he cursed a stream of expletives until he collapsed over her.

Panting together, she felt kisses planted down her spine from his lush lips. He pulled out of her and bent down to kiss her pussy, licking the essence that flowed out of her. When she sat up, he left the room to go into the bathroom. Killmonger returned with a smile on his face.

"Let's record your song tomorrow at my place around nine—"

"I can't, I have to work at eight."

"Jody...Shameika..."

He padded out of her bedroom nude and went to the living room. Oya grabbed her t-shirt and pulled it on. She rummaged for a pair of sweatpants and sought out Killmonger. He stood in Jody and Shameika's bedroom talking quietly. She watched his shadow on the living room divider and felt a bit miffed that he didn't bother to dress before going to them. Her scent was all over him. The divider shook and she watched Killmonger pull it aside. Jody and Shameika stared at her. The smirk on Jody's face made Oya feel uncomfortable. Nothing like fucking a dude her ex had just rode hours before. Messy.

"We'll record before you go to work then. We need to lay it down fast. Skip rehearsal in the morning and just record. Cool?"

She nodded. The others seemed pleased with the idea.

"It's a great song, Oya," Shameika said.

Her eyes were still shiny and the lilt in her voice was relaxed. That man was working them all over. It worried her. Worried her for the next two weeks that they recorded tracks at his house and took promotional pictures for Coachella with a photographer he hired. The PR machine for Coachella was going into overdrive. Killmonger made them cancel all appearances until the festival. He paid them all out of his own pocket to make up for gigs they passed up.

"It's to build anticipation," he assured them.

Their streaming numbers jumped, especially when they posted the new pictures of Killmonger with them on their official website. He was part of the group now. The man drove them to play until their fingers swelled up and bled and their voices felt like they chewed chalk all day. Their bodies ached from working so hard. Killmonger's work ethic was stringent but worth all the effort. Oya's stamina improved. Musically and sexually.

They all shared him.

He was more discreet with their liaisons. The new polyamory created a push and pull that made their music racy. Electric.

The only foursome they indulged in was a weekend before Coachella. They tripped on 'shrooms with Killmonger in his house after swimming in his pool, and danced in their swim suits his den listening to all the new music they had created together.

"If you bring this fire to Coachella, it's a done deal," he said lying on his floor gazing up at his skylight that covered half of the ceiling.

"Done deal?" Oya said watching her fingers grow watery-looking as she allowed her body to trip with the high she felt.

"Yeah, Warner will sign us," he said like it was no big deal.

She screamed with Jody and Shameika as they peppered kisses all over his face. He stayed on his back as they sat around him like a harem.

"All this work you put in, it's all simmering on the stove. I gave y'all some extra seasoning and now we're all cooked down to the pot liquor now," he said.

His eyes were seductive, and his mouth was lax showing them his bottom slugs. Shameika stroked his cheek and he smiled. Oya bent down and kissed him and he accepted her ripe lips with a moan and wandering fingers. Stripping for him, they all took turns riding his face and going through condoms as they rode his dick too. Reconnecting with Jody intimately was a sweet reminder of how they used to be years before. Shameika and Jody sucked on his balls as she ran her tongue around the bulbous tip of his glans and she felt extra special when he came in her mouth. Jody and Shameika cleaned him with lusty licks and were rewarded with slow drips of extra semen that spilled all over their lips. They slept together in a warm heap of arms and legs on the floor and she woke up with his Killmonger's tongue sucking on her tits. She climbed on top of him and bounced on his dick with her heavy breasts teasing his face, letting him cum hot and raw inside of her. Jody and Shameika watched her make Killmonger holler her name like he had the holy ghost and they giggled when his eyes rolled back from his orgasm.

All was well.

Until it wasn't.

Carrying coffee containers from Starbuck's, Oya and Jody returned to a final mixing session in the home studio catching Killmonger fucking the shit out of Shameika on the sound board. Jody dropped the coffee she had for herself and Shameika and cursed a blue streak. Killmonger yanked off the condom and fastened his pants looking confused by the reaction. Oya was just as confused when Jody snapped and she pulled her back before it turned physical.

"Why you trippin'?" Killmonger yelled.

Tears welled in Jody's eyes.

"You promised!" Jody screamed.

Oya glanced between them. Shameika hung her head in shame.

Shit.

It became clear to Oya.

"I thought we were all good," Killmonger said still searching for understanding.

"This is why..." Oya mumbled.

"It just happened!" Shameika shrieked.

Jody stomped out of the studio and left the house.

"Jody!"

Oya grabbed Shameika's arm to stop her.

"Give her a minute, Shameika. Just go to the bathroom for now and –"

"What is going on?!" Killmonger said still out of the loop.

Shameika cradled her waist. Killmonger stepped to her and stroked her arm.

"Shameika?"

"We had a rule. I wasn't supposed to be with you by myself."

"Well damn, why didn't you tell me that?"

"Cuz I wanted to be alone with you like Oya is!"

"Shameika, bathroom, now!" Oya pushed.

Shameika left them alone.

"I told you," Oya hissed.

"I didn't know about their rule. I would've respected it."

"That was their fault for not cluing you in from the beginning."

"Shit. Jody won't quit will she?"

Oya pounded her fists on top of her head. The doorbell rang. Killmonger glanced at his security video screens near the sound board.

"It's Doug and Anderson from my management. I invited them to hear the final mix. Fuck."

Oya left Killmonger and hustled Shameika out of the bathroom.

"Get it together. Deal with your problem at home, you hear me?" Oya clucked like a mother hen.

Jody wandered back in with her lips set in a scowl and she sat away from Shameika as they heard the playback in the studio. Doug and Anderson loved it. It was a full album worthy of representation. Doug, balding, in his late forties, and deadly serious with his facial expressions kept squinting his eyes as he listened.

"What do we call this? Seriously? What is this sound?"

"Pot Liquor," Oya said.

Killmonger chuckled.

"What?" Doug asked.

"Inside thing," Killmonger said winking at Oya.

They played the album back again and the three men chatted with big plans for the band. But Oya could only watch the tension escalating with Jody and Shameika.

It was hell in a hand basket and Killmonger kicked it on its way by seducing them all into thinking they could handle open sex, drugs, and rock and roll.

Fuck.

The end of the beginning making way for new beginnings...

Oya stood behind the stage of the Mojave Stage tent with a nervous heart hammering in her chest.

The press, Killmonger's fans, and online pundits billed it the battle of the bands when Slippage was to perform after them, and Ark Ten before them. It bummed Oya when she watched smaller more talented bands get pushed aside for big name acts that didn't need the exposure that Coachella gave. A-Listers ruined the vibe for her. Everywhere she looked people were there to be seen. It had ceased to be about the music for many there. Influencers had some pull, and she was able to speak with a few before she dressed for their set. Shiny black dress. Blood red overcoat. Hair slicked down, titties propped up, she twisted all the silver rings that covered every finger on her hands. Two chunky silver chokers rested around her neck. They all agreed to dress their personality, and for Killmonger, that meant topless, black basketball shorts and black trainers.

Jody and Shameika were barely on speaking terms. Oya stayed at Killmonger's place because hanging around the apartment was brutal. Icy stares. Early morning cuss outs. Crying. She stayed out of the way as much as possible, but left after two days. All her time spent before Coachella was used to play her guitar, get her voice pampered and ready, and pray that the audience was receptive. They were part of the two Saturday weekend line-ups, and she prayed Jody and Shameika could keep it together for the following Saturday.

It felt like she and Killmonger had a lot to prove. Oya facing Deidre with Ark Ten, and Killmonger peeping Slippage without him.

"Is it mean to want the other band to suck?" Oya whispered to him.

"Nah. Slippage is a different animal without me now. They have new music. It's a new era for them."

"You miss them?"

"No."

"If people don't like this, you don't have to stay with us. We can say you were just—"

"Shut up," he said slapping her butt.

The thumping of music from a small monitor screen drew her eyes toward it where she watched Deidre shred. They hadn't spoken since she left them high and dry. Deidre had on a revealing black dress that showed a lot of breasts without nipples, and a thigh high split that Oya hoped had a g-string at the top. Killmonger bobbed his head as he listened to Deidre do a solo. She was a star. It showed.

Oya inhaled deep.

"You got this," Killmonger whispered in her ear. He kissed her and she felt her nerves move to her neck.

So many people. So many high expectations.

Oya shook her hands and glanced over at Jody who paced with her earbuds on listening to meditative sounds. Shameika stood still tapping her drumsticks against the top of her thigh, her eyes glassy and focused on some netherworld.

Tyson stood nearby keeping his eyes on the crowd and people backstage.

Martina, the stage manager walked over turning down her headset.

"Ready?" she said.

Oya nodded and the band circled up. She stood between Jody and Shameika.

"Go out there and be yourselves," Killmonger said.

The glint from his slugs made her tamper down her nerves.

"You don't look nervous at all," Jody said.

"I still get butterflies. I want to do my best for all of you."

They bowed their heads and Oya did a simple prayer and they all squeezed hands.

"Do it Shameika," Oya said.

Shameika shook her hair, tugged on her tiny black halter and shorts and pranced out to her drums. Colorful lights made her look glamourous and there was a smattering of applause as their logo lit up above her head. One twirl and she slammed on the skins and got right into her lane as their pocket queen. Oya saw a sly smile spread across Jody's face and she stomped out to where her bass waited for her and hooked in. When the lights struck her face, her head whipped toward Oya.

"What?" Oya mouthed.

Jody put stank on the bass as her thumb slapped hard. Killmonger hooked into his guitar backstage and when he heard his cue, he began to play and a roar shook the open tent. Strolling out like he had always been with them made Oya grip the mic in her hand tight. She was bigger than life. Bigger than the stage. Bigger than the biggest galaxy in the universe. Switching on the mic she called out,

"Buckle up Coachella, you ain't ready for this shit. I promise you. Hold onto to your edges..."

She stepped out and her eyes bugged. Holy fuck. The Mojave Stage tent they were under was packed. More than packed, the crowd extended far out of the tent and many people had to watch them on monitors outside.

Killmonger sidled up to her to help her regain her focus as she felt disoriented for a second. She looked down at his fingers working his chords and he bit his bottom lip giving her a flash of his face when he orgasmed and her clit thumped thinking about the way he handled her body. Oya shook her hips and he moved against her body.

"This bad boy right here is ready...are you ready Coachella?"

The roar of the crowd rattled the stage and instead of feeling like an indie band, they performed like they were on the main stage as the sun disappeared. Killmonger took over and scorched the guitar intro that Deidre ruined so long ago at Joshua Tree. When his eyes sought hers out and he suggestively wiggled his tongue at her the way he liked to work her clit, she growled deep in her throat then let pure rage flow out as she threw back her head.

"Show me someone not full of herself, and I'll show you a hungry person! Ahhhh, yeahhhhh!"

Everything poured out of her and Killmonger drove the rhythm hard, pushing her to dig deep and leave it all on the stage. Sweat made his scars shine like perfect little jewels just for her fingers to touch, which she did like always making people scream with delight.

She dropped to her knees and he placed his guitar close to her face to simulate fellatio. She spun herself toward Jody who did the same as she screeched out

"Give it to me!"

The first song raised the crowd into a tizzy, and it was easy to slip into the next song. She adjusted to the more than expected size of the audience under the tent and outside of it. Fifteen minutes in she took off her coat and slipped on her own guitar and joined Killmonger for a battle and by the time she caught her second wind mid show, her eyes caught a familiar face in the wings.

Deidre.

There was a smile on her face.

Feeling a way, Oya strummed her guitar and stepped to her mic stand.

"I want to introduce you all to the newest member of To Sleep With Anger...you may recognize him from some other band...who did you use to be with?" she asked Killmonger.

The crowd laughed.

"Everyone put your hands together once more for Erik Killmonger on lead guitar!"

Killmonger showed off a bit, and they went off script and jammed.

It felt like magic. Oya's heart swelled and she felt generous when Jody finally noticed Deidre on the side.

"Would you all mind if I bring out an unexpected guest?"

The audience clapped.

"All the way from the Outdoor Theater across the way, Deidre Peterson of Ark Ten!"

Deidre held her hands up, but Oya put a hand on her hip.

"Don't make me come over there and drag you out!"

Deidre walked out humbly, her face showing doubt about what was happening. Her eyes lit up when she saw Killmonger looking at her, giving her dimples and a wink.

"Use my guitar, Deidre," Oya whispered in her ear when she leaned in for a polite hug.

She glanced around at Jody and Shameika before she took in the crowd.

"Go ahead," Jody shouted.

Deidre picked up the guitar and Killmonger gave her space as she strummed it then broke into the very first song she and Oya ever wrote as teenagers.

"Bitch!" Oya teased before Jody stepped to her mic.

"I won't let you suffer all the way through it. We were just learning!" Deidre joked.

Oya faced the audience.

"We wanted to be heavy metal queens because metal, like all good American music started with Black people... you know it's true!" she catcalled the audience.

Deidre played one of their last songs they performed together and Jody joined her with Shameika rounding out the sound. Killmonger followed the rhythm adding his gentle flourishes.

"Can we give 'em a tiny taste?" Oya asked.

Jody held it down as Deidre shared the mic with Oya and they harmonized two verses before Deidre stopped playing. There was too much emotion on her face and she unhooked herself from the guitar and placed it back on the stand behind them. She blew kisses to the audience and hugged Oya before leaving the stage in a near run. Killmonger brought the music back up and forced Oya to let go of the past and look toward the future. There was pain still there, but they were both where they were supposed to be. They couldn't hate on the universe for being correct in the outcome.

They jumped back into kicking ass and taking names with Oya showing off her octave range and playing off of her bandmates. Killmonger tried to spit bars to one song and she covered his mouth with her hands making the audience cackle as she took over and showed him how it was done. Their songs ran the gamut of sexual politics, race, class, love, and the rage of Black women who were overlooked and forgotten. She sweated out her hair and rivulets of her exertion ran down her neck and breasts. Wrapping up with a strong closing, they all knew that the world was their oyster now. They carried sharp knives on the stage to cut the oysters open from now on. She waved for Shameika to come away from the drums and the four of them stood side by side. Jody threw an arm around Shameika and Killmonger held Oya's hand as they took in the applause and whistles, and shouts for more.

Deidre was absent from backstage but it was just as well. It was To Sleep With Anger's moment. Not hers.

Bigger acts sought them out to chat and they took some time to watch Slippage perform. They weren't as good anymore without Killmonger. She saw the smirk on his arrogant face when their reception without him was less than stellar.

Killmonger had hired a crew to break down and pack up their instruments and they were driven home in a large black S.U.V. to Killmonger's house at the end of their Coachella stay that first weekend. Jody and Shameika went off to one of his guest rooms to work out some things leaving Oya alone with Killmonger. They had talked all night after their performance. There was hope.

"Think they'll make up all the way now?" Killmonger asked.

They sat inside his jacuzzi easing their weary bodies. It was early in the morning.

"They're in love. But we'll see what happens before next weekend."

Oya sat up on the edge when the water got too hot for her.

"What about you?" he asked.

"What about me?" she said flicking hair from her eyes.

Killmonger swam up to her and pressed his body in between her thighs and gripped her backside.

"You were letting the world know some things with how you were acting on stage with me."

"Know what?"

"We're feeling each other. More than just an occasional hook-up."

"We do have mad chemistry."

His eyes became dreamy looking up at her.

"You are amazing, Oya. Tonight...shit all three of you were just fucking raw. Coachella hasn't seen that in a long time. Fuck, music hasn't seen that in a long time. Period."

She stroked the top of his head fingering his locs and he closed his eyes and rested his head against her stomach. Rubbing gentle circles along his back, she touched his scars that had become so precious to her. He had become precious to her.

"Killmonger?"

He raised his head up and she lowered hers and kissed him. Their lips fought for leverage together and when their tongues sought heat and wet mouths, he stepped out of the water and held her hand. Her eyes felt heavy. Sleepy. She was still high from being onstage the night before.

"Where are we going?" she said.

"To make some music together."

"Oh, yeah?"

"All day, And the next day, and the next..."

He pulled her along and they took off their wet swimsuits and shared a shower together before he took her to bed. The man played hymns on her breasts with his calloused guitar fingers and hummed a sultry blues on her slick folds. Musical notes danced across her clit with the tip of his tongue and when he sucked sweet orgasms from her one after the other, she finally understood what Betty Davis meant by the lyrics in "Anti-Love Song" about a nigga making a woman "scrawl", because she was screaming and trying to crawl up the walls once he penetrated her, parting her folds like soft fleshy curtains. His short teasing thrusts had her begging him to fill her up with his entire length, stretch her wide open, and take her to the place where love rested easy.

They held hands as he went deeper and deeper and Killmonger made her lose all hope of ever letting him go.

The world made her a little less angry with him in it, and she was so grateful.

A.N. Song lyrics were from poems.

Nikki Giovanni poem ""Poem for a Lady Whose Voice I Like"

Sonya Sanchez poem "Present"

A.N.: This was originally published June 6, 2021. Brought it back for fun! I thought I would expand it as an indie book, but I'll wait on that!

[artsninspo]

「 ✦ mbj's character archive✦ 」

◘ LEGEND ◘ 🌪️ messy | 🧸 fluffy | ❤️‍🩹 angst | 🌶️ spicy |

◕ in progress | ◍ incomplete | ◉ complete

➠ back to library | ⟱ keep reading

ERIK KILLMONGER

shorts

➨ ◉ heartbreak one two three ❤️‍🩹 🌶️ 🌪️

oneshot

➨ ◉ bubblebath 🌶️

SINNERS

PENNAME: DELTA WISE ✧.* RECENTLY UPDATED *.✧

➨ one

➨ two

➨ three

➨ four

➨ five

ONE SHOT

➨ ◉ Sunrise & Ashes

-ˏˋ⋆ ᴡattpad ⋆ˊˎ- | ‎‧₊˚✧ tip jar ✧˚₊‧

: ̗̀➛ hey y'all! Your engagement means the world and helps me keep creating the stories you love. If a fic resonates with you—whether it made you laugh, cry, or swoon—don’t forget to:

❣ like the post to show some love.

❝ comment your thoughts, favorite moments, or even emojis that match the vibe.

↺ reblog to share the story with your friends and help it reach more readers.

[madameaug]

Updated Masterlist

Hello everyone! I guess you could say I am back. It feels good to write again! Just a little about me is that I am a nursing student. Nursing school is not for the weak, but I have completed another semester. Two done, two more to go! Anywayssss here's to the updated writing, lol.

Last Update: 5/19

BTS

Jeon Jungkook; fatherhood, fluff, girl dad, boxerkook, friends-lovers

Meet the Mod- Streamer Jungkook is curious about what his female modder looks like

Meet the Streamer- Streamer Jungkook and Mod Jennette meet face-to-face and hang out.

Leak?!- Jungkook and Jennette's sex tape gets leaked. Uh oh...

Mockingbird- Peanut is fussy and wants to be in her dad's arms.

40 weeks- Follow Jungkook and Jennette on their pregnancy journey and the birth of their daughter 'Peanut.'

To Our Daughter- Peanut's birth story

Teaser- The uncomfortable question arises, and the answer may hurt more than it heals.

Teaser Con- Jennette and Jungkook break up for good

3D- Jungkook is filming for his latest single with rapper Jack Harlow. When Jack Harlow takes a flirtatious approach to Jungkook's girl

My Mommy Said No- Peanut says no to a lollipop.

Piercings- Story of Peanut getting her ears pierced.

Work Wife- Jungkook's self-appointed "work-wife" oversteps boundaries.

What is it the Braids?- Jennette starts feeling herself with her new summer hairdo.

Request #1- Jungkook has an obsession with his girl's butt.

MARVEL

Erik "Killmonger" Stevens; fame, drama, protective, secrets, music

Good Kisser - Lola gives a performance to remember.

First Verse- Continuation of 'Good Kisser'

Scott Summers; mutant-rights, angst, love triangle, forbidden romance

Remember the Dream- It's been 10 years since the death of Charles Xavier. Where are the X-Men?

Uncanny- Continuation of 'Remember the Dream'

James "Bucky" Barnes; divorce/established relationship, angst, Captain America civil war, mental health

Promise Me- This occurs maybe about a year after the events of Captain America: Civil War. Reader and Bucky are getting a divorce.

Moments He Realized He Fell For You- As the title suggests

Johnny Storm; superhero, coming of age, university, opposites-attract

Finals Week, Or My Final Week- Johnny helps reader study for her organic chemistry final.

Office Hours- Johnny is getting tutoring and runs into you.

ONE-SHOTS/SPIN OFFS

BTS With Short Reader

Scandal- Their chemistry on screen is just undeniable

One of Your Girls- Reader is delusional, she needs to stand up

Turkey Turkey- Insight into Jungkook and Jennette's Thanksgiving

Woman Crush Wednesday- A time in which Jennette was jealous and does not hide it well

Matcha Tea- Jimin is on a matcha date with Althea (OC)

Jimin x Althea- Headcannons

Reunion- Hobi x Nala (black plus size fem)

Constant Bullshit- Yoongi x Music artists (OC)

Daycare Moments- Jungkook and Jennette dropping Peanut off at daycare

Wash Day- Jimin experiences reader's wash day routine

BTS Imagine- inspired off a TikTok

Creep- A Peter Parker drabble to 'Creep' by Radiohead

Knocked Out- Adonis Creed x Black Stallion Reader

[starcrossedxwriter]

Unbreakable Part 2 (Erik Killmonger x Black OC

Warnings: none, just some angst featuring your two favorite neighborhood assassins lol

She knew it was wrong but every night, Naja counted down the days until she could leave. However, with only one week behind her and seven more in front, she quickly found that practice more disheartening than helpful. 

She had kept her word to T’Challa thus far, no outward complaints nor did she sequester herself from the family just because he was around. She actually found it fairly easy to simply pretend he was not there. At every meal and family gathering, she talked to everyone but him and he did not speak to her. They just orbited around each other like two planets forcing themselves not to collide. 

Was it childish? Perhaps. But was it the best she could do? Yes. And T’Challa and Nakia seemed grateful for it even if it was a bit awkward for everyone.

She missed the days when Erik was kept securely out of sight and out of mind. He and the memories only resurfaced when she was here, which is why she avoided Wakanda. She knew it was foolish to avoid an entire country because of one man. But when you saw and felt that man in everything, his barking laugh in the wind, his youthful smile in the sunset, his passion in the roaring of the falls; and when the dull but still painful edges of heartache accompanied all those memories… It was difficult to find beauty in it. Erik was wrapped up in so much she loved about Wakanda. And when he left, everything felt tainted. 

When she was not in these borders, she rarely thought of him at all. Her missions, those in need in Nigada, had always been better occupants of her time. Pretending to be someone else meant that she could lay Naja and her feelings about Erik and her life overall at the border until she returned. Of course, that meant that Naja herself had no time or energy to deal with the insecurities, heartaches, and trials life placed upon her. She just did not think of any of it. But she realized now, confronted every day with a pile of her unresolved feelings, that time did not diminish them. It only made it worse. 

She did not think of love either, had yet to find a man worth her time for more than a single night. And she knew she never would. She rarely trusted anyone, occupational hazard, but she could never trust her heart with someone again. At least not in the way she did with him. She had no proof her heart even functioned like that anymore. 

She could not stop herself from stealing glances at him every once in a while, studying the ways in which the time had changed him. And it had and not just physically. Like her, he was a different person. Though it seemed as if the teenager she knew and loved, one full of light and laughter was still in there somewhere, beneath everything else. Every once in a while, he would say or do something that reminded her of the old him and she would have to stop herself from smiling or laughing or reminiscing on the memories it would spark. And then she would remember their last conversation, remember what he truly thought of her and their time together, and that little flame died out immediately.

During the day, she spent most of her time with Nakia, only stepping away for the rest of the day to practice her training. It was her favorite stress reliever and helped clear her mind. After which, she would retreat to her room until dinner to pour over her notes once again, praying a clue or lead would jump out at her. 

The couple that did were dead ends when she relayed them back to Dayo. But she kept trying. She supposed she was grateful that no child had gone missing since she left but she knew that by the time she returned, that would not be the case. Despite being in another country, she still felt responsible and that she needed to do her part to find them. 

“Malika, calm down. We will find them, I promise.” 

“I know, I know. I just wish I was there to help you.” 

She could practically see Dayo shaking his head. “You are caring for your ill sister. That is hardly unimportant. You’ll be back in two months and we will bring all of them home. For the liberation of Niganda.” 

“The liberation of Niganda,” she muttered back before ending the call. She bundled up her notebook and slid it back in her bag before heading down to breakfast. 

She greeted the entire family, excluding Erik before sitting down next to TJ. He all but demanded his aunt sit next to him at every meal. 

“So what do you have planned for the day, Naja?” Nakia asked as Naja filled her plate with food. 

She could already tell she was putting on weight, even in a week. The hard lines of her muscles and body rounded out ever so slightly. She was not complaining though, she looked good. 

She sat her glass down and shrugged. “It is the first day of training for the new year of War Dogs so T’Challa requested I spend some time in the training center, meet them, share my ‘more tamed’ experiences in the field.” 

Shuri chuckled. “His attempts to lure you into staying are not even subtle anymore.” 

Erik’s head jerked up, Naja choosing to ignore it. She could feel his eyes boring into hers as if he was waiting for her answer. 

“Well, his attempts are in vain. I am more than happy to visit and see the other War Dogs but once the baby is here and you two are settled, I need to go home.” 

She threw Erik a glance and watched as the tension seemed to leave his body but not his face. His face still looked angry for some reason that she could not place. 

Shuri groaned, her face twisted up in disgust. “Hearing you refer to Niganda of all places as home is too much to handle.”

“I’m sorry,” Naja offered with a smile as she swiped a piece of fruit off her nephew’s plate, causing the young man to laugh and try to take something off hers. Before she knew it, they were in a play battle with their forks, her prince winning handsomely. “It is a shame my sister can’t join me on the training mat this time around. I miss our sparring sessions,” she winked at her. 

Nakia smiled, patting her belly. “I know. But the closer we are to my due date, the less often T’Challa is ok with me even leaving our quarters. I think he’d have a heart attack if he saw me within 100 feet of the training center.” 

Shuri shook her head. “He’s going crazy. He was always overprotective but he basically wants to wrap her in bubble wrap.” 

“You know I love to rag on the king just like the next girl,” Naja teased. “But you can hardly blame him, missing most of the pregnancy and Prince T’Challa’s birth. It must weigh heavily on him. He has earned the right to bubblewrap you and I’m inclined to agree.” 

Nakia scoffed. “I may have been out of the field for some years now but let’s not forget who taught you everything you know. I may not be able to beat you in combat anymore but I am still the older sister who protects you, not the other way around. 

Naja offered her a soft smile. “My first and fiercest protector. I know. Just trying to return the favor,” she winked at her.  

“I… um… gotta go meet T for meetings. I’ll catch up with y’all later,” Erik mumbled, getting up from the table awkwardly, leaving his breakfast half uneaten. 

It was not odd to anyone in the room. Each of them often were the first to leave the table during meals, only able to sit in the same room with their emotions for so long. Naja merely read it as him not wanting to be around her, which she did not mind. It made avoiding him significantly easier if he was also avoiding her. 

Naja watched as his back retreated before Shuri’s voice caught her ear.

“So you really aren’t ever going to tell me what really happened between you and N’Jadaka? Have you two really not seen or spoken since you were 17?” 

Naja used her fork to stab a piece of fruit on her plate before popping it into her mouth. 

“Nope. Not a single word. Neither of us even knew where the other was since he left Wakanda. I knew of his moniker, Killmonger, but other than that, nothing. I don’t even know if he survived the Blip.” 

“He didn’t,” Shuri supplied. “So I guess it was more like 10 years for him. Still a long time.” 

Naja felt a wave of sadness hit her. He was the sole person she tried to look for during that period. Even with the entire world in shambles, she called in every favor, poured over everything she could get her hands on to find out whether he survived. She never breathed a word of it to anyone, hating herself for even caring what happened to him. But she had never gotten an answer, his whereabouts and life a complete ghost with no discernable trail. So she convinced herself that he survived, that he was somewhere still happy without her. It was easier than thinking of him flaking away as dust in the wind. 

Naja cleared her throat, a sorry attempt to lighten the conversation again. “Well, long time or not, you seem to know every other secret around here, Princess. Am I expected to believe no one has told you that one yet?”  

Shuri shrugged. “What can I say? I am inquisitive. But I was so young when N’Jadaka left. I remember the engagement,” Naja stiffened uncomfortably. “And then he was gone. But even he doesn’t speak of what happened between the two of you. Why you decided to end things?” 

The memories flooded Naja’s mind but she shook them off. She caught eyes with her sister, only holding them for a second before she glanced away. She could not take the pity that floated around in them, as if Nakia would always see her as the emotionally broken girl she found that night. 

“Well, it seems as though you have the full story, Princess. He left and naturally, it only made sense to end the engagement.”

“Yes but that doesn’t ex-” 

Naja stood up abruptly, unable to start her day rehashing how the love of her life abandoned her without a thought.. “My apologies, Princess. I really should be heading to the training. I can give you all the details on Erik and I another time. I shall see you both later.”

She knew it was wrong just to abandon the conversation like that but she had never even really discussed that night with anyone. It did not feel like breakfast conversation as if she were relaying her latest tryst with a one-night stand. 

She hated being in her own head, her own thoughts and feelings. She wished she could be Malika again, a woman who thought of nothing beyond her job at a bar and liberating a country from a tyrant. Those were actionable steps, things she could actually do, problems she could fix, plans and thoughts that consumed every waking moment. Her job was her escape from everything else, from her life. She had been running from Naja and her mess for 15 years. And with the chains T’Challa had placed on her, the bitch was finally catching up.    

Naja took a deep breath as she entered the training center beneath the palace. It was vast, home to both the Dora and War Dogs’ training programs. Her eyes twinkled as she took in the upgrades they had made since she was last there. It was advanced when she attended her first session. But now? The tech, the weapons available to them were truly a sight to see.

“Naja!” Eshe, the leader of the War Dog Initiative, waved her over. “Welcome home.”

They shared a salute as she gestured for Naja to follow her. She glanced over at the young women all practicing with spears. They were focused, moved as one body as if they shared one singular breath. It did not matter how often she saw the Dora train, they were mesmerizing every single time.  

“Why did you not take the Dora route?” Eshe’s voice pulled her out of her thoughts.

“Oh…” she shrugged. “Wanted adventure, wanted to see the world outside our borders, and I wanted to do the thing that would be the hardest. That would challenge me the most.” 

Eshe nodded as they walked to the War Dog portion of the center, the students sitting in neat rows waiting for their session to begin. 

“Don’t let a Dora hear you say such a thing,” Esha warned, causing Naja to laugh. 

“Our General would certainly have an opinion on that,” she admitted. 

Eshe took her around to each of the new recruits, each one introducing themselves individually as they asked Naja questions. She was more than happy to share her experiences, or at least the ones that aligned with the War Dogs’ new purpose. 

Watch and report, she kept having to remind herself as thrilling tales came to mind. She knew those would be far more interesting and entertaining but T’Challa wanted to keep that aspect of the initiative quiet for as long as he could. And that meant that, even within the program, most were not privy to what their fellow spies once did in the field. She was the old guard now, at the ripe age of 32. She had so much she wanted to tell them about the world and the trouble they would see. But then she would have to tell them to ignore it and she could not. Because she was not able to ignore it either, not anymore.

“Perhaps you would like to show them the type of combat skills they will learn during their training?” Eshe tilted her head toward the training mat. 

Naja groaned. “Eshe…” It was not that she could not do it. But Naja did not enjoy being on display, having a group analyze every movement while she trained. 

“Please? Who would like to volunteer to test out their skills with Naja?” 

“Me!” N’Jadaka’s American accent filled the training center, Naja having to force her face to remain neutral. 

This fucking bastard, she thought to herself. 

“Oh Prince N’Jadaka! Bless Bast you were able to join us for our first day of training.” She glanced at Naja. “The prince is the Panther’s Tribe’s liaison with the WDI, all requests from the palace and briefs go through him and Princess Shuri for now. But soon they will transition to him fully.” 

I am going to fuckin’ kill T’Challa. 

“Is that right?” She offered through gritted teeth. “Well, I’d hate to harm a member of our royal family. I suspect I’d be thrown in Fort Hahn for such a crime.” 

Erik grinned slyly. “I can handle it.” 

But first, I’m going to kill him.

Eshe ushered them to the training floor. “No weapons. I want to show the recruits what you can do with just yourselves.” 

They both nodded. She rolled her eyes as he stripped his shirt off, forcing her eyes not to follow the trails of scars across his chest and abdomen, all of them leading to a deep V that poked out of his joggers. She might despise him but she did not have to like him to recognize that he was still the most gorgeous man she had ever seen. She knew it was pure lust and nothing more but it made her uncomfortable. To feel anything toward him that was not indifference and dislike.  

Everyone watched intently as the pair sunk down into their fighting stances. They circled each other, Naja sizing him up. Time outside of Wakanda had done much for his physique. His body was a brute weapon, carved over time and experience. 

And she could practically smell his arrogance from across the room, the arrogance of a man who never lost a fight. Amusement danced in his eyes as he watched her studying him. Because she was not the strongest person in the room, Naja had to attack first and fast. She benefited from her short stature and lean body, years of dance lessons that she hated parlayed well into hand to hand combat.

She took a deep breath, clearing her mind of all else, even thoughts of the man in front of her, before she pounced. That was her strategy. Every person across from her in a fight was the same: her opponent. And her personal feelings, positive or otherwise, did not play a part. 

Erik’s arrogance quickly faded as he took in the ferocity of her attacks, making him question his choice to get into the ring in the first place. He had been trying to find his in all week, a soft spot to just speak to her. But they were rarely in private and she did not even glance his way any time. After hearing her intentions to attend training, he convinced T’Challa that he also needed to be there. He thought, perhaps, if he let her use him as a punching bag at training, it would give them a chance to speak if nothing else. But now he wondered if he would even live to get the chance to speak with her. His lack of consistent training and refined skills showed. And the only thing that made him a match for her was the heart-shaped herb that coursed through his veins. Otherwise? She would have had him on his ass in no time. 

Naja ignored the ache in her limbs as they both threw blow after blow. Moves and countermoves back and forth across the mat. 

A hard push sent Naja tumbling to the ground, the young woman immediately able to catch her footing and bounce back to her feet. She chuckled as she approached him again, faking him out with a punch before delivering a swift but powerful kick to his abdomen, the man also falling down. 

“I see someone got some Bast-ordained enhancements. It’s a shame we both know you would not win in a fight without them. Not so weak now, am I?” 

Her chest heaved slightly, the young woman slightly out of breath but that did not deter her. She would win, her pride would not allow anything else. 

He chose to ignore her last statement, his own voice from their last conversation ringing the shame bell loudly in his ears. Around her, it was deafening. “You know I can take you with or without ‘em.”

“You sure about that? Our King would’ve had me on my ass minutes ago. I guess all those blessed by Bast are not… created equal.”

He let out a vicious growl before pouncing again. Their skillful movements were more like a piece of art than combat, everyone mesmerized by their dance as they responded to each other as if they shared one mind. Everyone, including the Dora, stopped to watch them. One could have heard a pin drop in that room, only their grunts and the sounds of their blows filling the room. 

Erik found it hard to keep up with her the longer they went. He did not even recognize her now, not really. On that mat, he saw everything T’Challa had warned him about. The woman he knew was still in there, he had seen glimpses when they were around the family. The soft, caring, and gentle girl he loved beyond reason. But the woman who battled him as if he were a sworn enemy? She was lethal, she was unforgiving, and she would not stop until he was on the ground begging for mercy. 

And a moment of weakness on his part would give her her moment to shine and remind everyone why she was Wakanda’s fiercest warrior. His mind was not fully on the battle at hand as he examined her for the first time. Even in just a week, her body had started to fill out a bit compared to when she arrived. It looked good on her. She still had the same body shape as he remembered, her hips a bit fuller as she grew older. But she was still as beautiful as he remembered, perhaps even more so. In the heat of the battle, she had shed her tank top, fighting in only a matching sports bra and leggings set, that showed off her hourglass shape. 

He could not help but study her smooth skin, it was flawless. Well, all except for one scar that caught his attention. He could only see half of it, part of it poking out of her leggings on her left side. He imagined it covered the entire length of her torso. In his curiosity and concern of how she got it, he gave her an opening for a punch and kick combination that knocked the wind out of him and sent him flailing to the floor. 

One minute, his eyes were trying to memorize her form and the next, he was seeing stars against the ceiling. Naja straddled his hips, her forearm pressing into his neck with slight pressure.

Her long braids shielded both of their faces from the crowd as they laid on the mat for a moment. Both of their chests rose and fell quickly, their heavy labored breaths loud against the silence. His hands moved to her hips, anchoring her against him even as her arm partially crushed his windpipe. 

It was the first time Naja had made eye contact with him, expecting to find nothing there for her. But instead, she saw a look of adoration, pride, and love. A look that sparked something in her that had been long buried, something that thawed the frigid ice surrounding her heart and soul, even if just a bit. It was warm and comforting, like hot tea when you’re sick, and her soul begged her to bask in it. She allowed herself to feel so little, it was a necessity for her survival. But her heart begged her to linger in this feeling, to remember how it felt to have someone look at her like he was right now. However, the moment was fleeting. Her brain could not stand it, quickly reminding her who he was, convincing her she and what she saw were wrong. 

You don’t know him. You never really did, a bitter voice reminded her, the voice snapping her out of that trance and reminded her that she hated him.

“Yield,” she muttered, increasing the pressure on his neck. Her eyes remained on his, though the glare she usually had returned with a vengeance.  

She only released him when she heard the three distinct pats against the mat and his voice call out, “Damn, aight. I yield.”

She removed her arm and sat up. Neither of them moved immediately, both of them paralyzed on the floor as they stared at each other, his grip tightening on her hips. It was not painful but it reminded Naja that he was there, his touch strong but still gentle in a way she remembered from their youth. Her brain immediately began to wander down dangerous pathways, ones that she knew would lead her nowhere good. That ironclad facade she held to so tightly? It was now splintering, hairline fractures stemming out like a web from one single blow. 

She immediately shimmed out of his grasp, overwhelmed by how uncomfortable the last 2 minutes had made her. 

It seems their moment was lost on everyone else as thunderous applause filled the center. She merely smiled and thanked Eshe as she quickly put her shirt back on. She made quick work of her goodbyes after vowing to return the next day for a lesson, desperate to put as much distance between her and Erik as quickly as possible.

What the fuck was that? She thought to herself as she rushed down the hall to return to her quarters.

She knew what that feeling was. It was not hatred, it was not lust, it was not indifference. It was something much worse… longing. It had felt so foreign and odd that it scared her. A feeling she had not felt in 15 years, a feeling she had sworn off with all other notions of love. But she had felt it, even if it was just a short burst for a mere moment. And she felt it for him. In that moment, she found herself wanting to give into that feeling. She longed for, not just him, but the things he once provided: love, comfort, safety. It was not until she was in his arms again, even in a fight, that she realized how desperately her soul had missed receiving those things from someone. 

She shook her head quietly to herself. You can’t do it, that bitter voice screamed at her, drowning out every other positive feeling with a tsunami of rage and pain. You’d be the weak idiot everyone thought you were if you ever give into that again, ever let him or anyone else break you again. You don’t need him or anyone else, it reminded her. Love is nothing but heartache and misery. 

It hurt but she knew that voice was right. That was how she survived this long. 

“Naja! Yo! Wait up!” 

She tried to keep walking and ignoring his voice but her short legs were no match for the heart-shaped herb. She reminded herself to ask T’Challa how his cousin even came to take the herb, a shocking turn of events she had not been expecting. She was not surprised, but fairly annoyed, to find him standing in front of her blocking her way moments later. 

“Good fight. Where’d you learn all that shit?” 

“Training.” She offered him nothing else before trying to turn and continue down the hallway.  

“Hold up, hold up. Just give me 2 minutes, aight?” He asked. 

As much as she wanted to deny him even that courtesy, she found herself wanting to hear what he had to say. 

“One.” 

She watched as he rolled his eyes and sucked his teeth for a brief moment before he recovered. 

“I just… we ain’t talked since you got back and I wanna clear the air. Make sure we good? Since we both gonna be around for a while, we should be cool, at least. I’m sorry, you know… for what happened between us. It wasn’t my- ” 

Naja shook her head, raising a hand to stop him. She should’ve followed her initial instinct because she could not listen to this. And then she felt it. Those fissures may have let in a bit of light, a positive feeling that she had suppressed for years. But it also let in the ache she had built the facade to keep out. She could not have one without the other so she decided long ago to feel neither.

“Stop. I do not want your apology nor do I need it. We both know you aren’t actually sorry.” 

He scoffed. “How you know that? You don’t me.”

“The sad thing is I do know you. And you don’t say shit you don’t mean. So you might be sorry but it is to ease your own guilt and shame, not because you actually think you did something wrong. Because if you did,” she raised her voice as he tried to interrupt. “You would’ve found a way to apologize before 15 years passed. And don’t act as if you and T’Challa did not keep in contact during those years. It insults both of us. If you were truly sorry, all this time wouldn’t have passed before you decided to do something about it. This,” she gestured at him. “Is merely a sad and unnecessary attempt to assuage your own guilt so you don’t have to feel like the villain anymore.”

She closed the space between them and looked up at him. “And I do not care how many good deeds you perform in service of Wakanda. In our story,” she pointed between the two of them. “You’ll always be the villain. And I’m not required to forgive you simply because you’re tired of living with what you did.”

He bowed his head. He did not argue or fight back, even though his pride made him want to. Her words, her anger, were justified even all these years later and he knew this was his punishment for taking the coward’s way out back then.

“I broke your heart, I know that shit. And I fuckin’ hate myself for it. But if you just let me explain w-” 

She let out a mirthless laugh. “You didn’t just…” she took a deep breath to steady herself. She hated how he still had this effect on her, how angry she still was after all this time. “You didn’t just break my heart, Erik. Y-You… took pleasure in toying with it before you crushed it. But hey,” she shrugged. “I get it. I made it easy for you. I’m weak, right? A pathetic liability that was forced on you? A hindrance to your goals and plans… Seems like you did well for yourself without the weight of a weak, unloveable thing like me holding you back.” 

He flinched at the venom in her tone and the words she chose: weak, pathetic, unloveable. They were words designed to deliver the sharpest of blows. But they weren’t her words. They were his own, daggers he had thrown once because he knew they would cut the deepest. He had not meant them and he regretted them the moment they left his lips. And her reaction in that moment still haunted him. But there was no way for Naja to ever know that. 

“The shit I said was inexcusable… I know that. But -” 

“And yet here you stand… full of excuses. My life would be better served if I never had to see you again. But since our King does not see it fit to allow that, I will only say this one time to you. If all you can offer me is excuses for what you did, we need not speak again. You did what you did, you said what you said. We can coexist in this palace for my sister and T’Challa’s sake but I will sooner join our ancestors and Bast in the fucking Ancestral Plane before I ever forgive you for it.” She started to walk away but stopped turning back to him.. “Oh and don’t think I didn’t know what that little game was. Your shallow attempt to break the ice? Didn’t even make a dent.” She knew that part was not true but he did not need to know that. “Learn to live with your guilt as I’ve learned to live with the pain you caused. And perhaps, I can get through the next seven Bast-forsaken weeks without wanting to stab you as I do right now.” 

This time, she was truly finished, turning away from him and walking down the hallway to the elevator that would take her back to the main portion of the palace. 

However, as the doors slid open, his voice called out behind her. 

“What did you do with it?”

She clenched her eyes shut. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She stepped into the elevator, holding the door so it would not close. 

“The night before my first mission, I went to our spot on Warrior Falls and I threw it off. And I walked away from you and that life forever. Any more questions?” Hurt flashed across his face but he covered it quickly. At his silence, she nodded. “Good. Goodbye, Erik.” 

***

“These are amazing, Shuri. Thank you.” Naja’s finger ran over the sharp blade of a set of four knives, her eyes drinking in all the new gadgets Shuri showed her. 

When she saw the message to meet Shuri at her lab at 3 am, she knew she was in for a real treat. And the young scientist did not disappoint. 

“Figured you'd like them. They’re yours to test in the field. Just… keep it to yourself.” 

Naja’s face lit up with a sly smile.. “Ah so these are not standard issue for all us leashed war dogs?” 

Shuri did not look up from her computer as she responded. “My brother is the only gullible idiot here who believes you are merely watching and reporting. If you’re gonna break the rules, which I wholly support, you should be safe while you do it.”. 

She walked around and kissed the young woman on the forehead. “You know you’re my favorite one here, yes?” 

“I’m everyone’s favorite,” she muttered nonchalantly. 

Naja did not argue with her, she was not wrong. She gestured toward a few mannequins across the room. “May I?” 

“Of course. It’ll be good to see them in the hands of someone actually skilled. I almost took my assistant’s eye out last week.” 

At that, Shuri finally stopped working to watch Naja. She picked up two of them and twirled them in her hands, getting a feel for them and their weight for a moment. They were perfect as if Shuri had created them with her hands in mind. 

With perfect precision, she hurled each one across the room at rapid fire, Shuri not even noticing her pick up the other ones before they were lodged directly in the heart of each mannequin.

“I see why Nakia said you prefer a knife,” Shuri muttered, letting out a low whistle. 

Naja laughed. “Guns and knives both are highly effective. But knives are quicker, stealthier, quieter. And in interrogation, more intimidating than a gun could ever be. But it’s a poor marksman who pretends the tool matters at the end of the day. Regardless, I hit my mark every time.”

She plopped down in the seat across from Shuri, continuing to examine the less lethal tech the young woman offered her. Advanced listening devices, updated kimoyo beads, bullet proof clothing, computerized glasses for in the field. They sat in silence for the most part, Shuri only speaking up to offer directions or side notes on each device. However, most were merely upgrades of what Naja already had so she knew her way around most of it. 

“I’m sorry for the other day,” Shuri offered, ending a particularly long stretch of silence. At Naja’s confused expression, she added. “For bugging you about you and N’Jadaka. We just haven’t had a minute alone for me to apologize. I shouldn’t have pushed. T’Challa says I’m too inquisitive sometimes.” 

Naja waved her hand. “Long forgotten, Princess. Your inquisitiveness is why you are our greatest scientist. And my attitude toward him doesn’t necessarily dampen curiosity,” she admitted. “I thought just ignoring him would be easy but even his breathing vexes me,” she muttered. 

“You two were in love?” 

Naja bowed her head, her restless energy forcing her to walk over to pull the knives out of the foam statues across the room. Her mind recalled her friendship and relationship with Erik, one that took up all the formative years of her youth. She had not been able to stop thinking about him since the training center, her emotions far more complex and jumbled than the first time she saw him. At first, all she felt was rage at being blindsided. But being back here in such close proximity to him made her feel so much more, all the good and all the bad. But that voice in her head still yelled above them all. Anytime she lingered in the good memories for more than a moment, it reared its ugly head, reminding her that those moments were a fantasy and a lie.

Though she loathed talking about her feelings, about as much as she loathed acknowledging her feelings at all, she wondered if Shuri was the only person in the entire palace she could actually talk to without judgment. T’Challa and her sister would merely offer her pity and sympathy, which she did not want. Okoye would offer her nothing except a reminder to get over herself, which would not be unfair, but she also did not need. Her parents… well, that was a foolish notion to even consider. But Shuri, she was the only one who did not remember the broken Naja, the person she tried to erase from all their minds. And perhaps that meant, she was the only person Naja was safe to peel back the curtain with even just a little, the only person for whom vulnerability would not confirm Naja’s weakness. 

“Well… I thought we were,” she admitted. “I mean we were 17 so love is an odd concept for that age, I suppose. But yea, for all I believed and still believe love to be, I thought we had it.” She spun one of the blades in her hand as she walked back to Shuri’s desk. “He did not agree. Rather foolish now that I think about it. Girl loves the boy and the boy does not love her back. Tale as old as time. Not even an original one, I’m afraid.” 

“But you two were close before you dated?” 

Naja chuckled. “Yea we were… I was the forgotten younger sibling. You know I adore my sister but when we were young… She was the eldest, heir to the River Tribe, and she had caught the eye of the future king. My parents knew, at worst, she would be on the tribal council one day and, at best, she would be Queen of Wakanda. Nakia was the Sun and I was Pluto or one of Jupiter’s moons floating in her solar system. Insignificant. She never made me feel that way but my parents took every opportunity to remind me that I wasn’t as talented or strong as she was, that I couldn’t do the things Nakia could. ‘A beauty to gaze upon,’ my father used to always say. ‘And nothing more.’” She sighed. “When Erik moved here, we were like 12. He was the only outsider and didn’t quite fit in so he was always running after T’Challa. I was always running after Nakia. One day we realized that we had more fun running after each other.”

Naja smiled, picking up one of the sonic guns Shuri showed her. She shot a few rounds into the target before turning back to her. “You know we used to sneak to the Falls and find caves? We did it for the last couple years. Became a competition on who could find the best ones with the best view of the sunset. I won in the end, I suppose. The last one I found, the night of our graduation, gave a perfect look at all of Bast’s glory.” Her eyes stared off into the distance for a moment as if she were back in that perfect moment. “But we’d just sit in those caves or by the river for hours and hours and listen to the falls and talk. About our parents, about the future. The adventures we wanted to have and the places we wanted to go. He’s the one that inspired me to be a War Dog, we were gonna join together after graduation. We even submitted the application together in our final year of school. He was the first person, outside of Nakia, to make me feel like I was worth something more. That I could do more than serve as Nakia’s right hand and marry the son of the merchant leader or whatever second-best option my parents had designed for me. And he proposed in that last cave I found… a month before training was to start.” 

“That sounds beautiful. And then he just left?”

Naja nodded, the happy memory that was floating around her eyes immediately souring. “Yep. Three days later? He called me, ended things, and was on a plane out of Wakanda an hour later. No phone, no way to contact him, and a vow that he’d never come back.” 

“And you never found out why?” 

“Why he left?” She shook her head. “Nope. You’d have to ask him. Or T’Challa. I tried to press T’Challa for it but he would never say. And eventually, the reason stopped mattering. Our time together, the promises we made, they meant nothing to him. So I just decided it would be the great mystery of my life and another person to add to the list of people who believe I’m not good enough… worthy enough...” 

“Is that why you prefer to be in Niganda as Malika?” 

Naja laughed, her head tilting as her eyes found her reflection in the pristine metal of the blade in her hand. “Well there’s not much joy in being me. But Malika… she has a purpose, people need her… Wakanda needs her. She’s the best version of me. The only version of me that is worth being.” She stopped herself, realizing she was being far more vulnerable than she intended, more vulnerable than she had been in as many years. She cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, my princess. I didn’t mean to drown on and on about my issues. You wanted to know what happened and that’s it. Not that interesting of a story. I should head to bed. They are inducing Nakia tomorrow, will be a long and exciting day for us all. You’ll be ok in here by yourself?” 

“Of course. And yea, Ayo’s on shift tonight. But before you go, I don’t mean to speak out of turn and you can tell me to shut up if you want but I see the way N’Jadaka looks at you, Naja. And the way you look at him. That is not nothing.” 

“I wish that were true. Then my memories would feel more like memories and not like fantasies I was too foolish to realize weren’t real.” 

With that, she turned to leave. When she made it back to the palace, she returned to her room and slid into bed. She groaned loudly, frustrated at her emotions. They felt like an avalanche barreling down on her and she did not want it. She had let a weakness she thought was long buried show tonight, let her guard down when she should not have. A week and some change in his presence and she was already turning back into that pathetic girl again, so weak and emotional and soft. And all it had taken was one conversation and a couple stray looks down the dining room table. 

You’re pathetic… were back then and still are. Some things never change. 

But she had changed. She stared up at the ceiling, closing her eyes and breathing deeply. She tried to force him out of her mind, tried to feel rage… at least that felt good. But even that was hard to conjure up. She just felt lost. 

She reached into her side table and pulled out her notebook and grabbed her phone. 

She hit the callback button, waiting patiently until she heard Dayo’s voice on the phone. 

“No new news yet, Malika.” 

She nodded. “I know, I know. But I thought we could go over the evidence one more time? Figured you were just sitting in the back, tonight’s always a slow night anyway.” 

She could almost hear his smile through the phone. “You really never rest, do you?” 

Naja scoffed. “Not when there’s work to be done.” 

Dayo’s deep laugh filled her ears before he nodded, going over the latest details with her again. 

She took meticulous notes, every brain cell devoted to his words and this task. If she could not avoid the avalanche of feelings barreling toward herself, Naja could press pause on it to escape behind a wall that even Erik could not breach. Even if it could only last a few hours, she could retreat to Malika whose life was an entire lie but still somehow easier to deal with than her own.  

***

Naja worked on her footwork as she moved across the mat alone. She was not surprised to find no one willing to practice with her when she took a break from sitting with Nakia to train. Labor was moving slowly and Nakia was asleep, which meant everyone could go off and do what they needed to do until she woke up again. 

She had returned to the training center several times, sparring with the new War Dogs as practice. However, after accidentally injuring one of them, most were not willing to risk bodily harm to get on the mat with her. In her defense, the woman had asked her to push her but Naja did not realize she had pushed a bit too far. Thankfully, her injury was fixed within minutes. Now they all still enjoyed watching and taking pointers from Naja but no one volunteered to fight her. 

She had been working for a while, only stopping to check her beads for an alert from T’Challa to return to their quarters. However, her concentration was quickly broken by Erik standing on the mat watching her. 

She glanced down at her beads, figuring T’Challa had sent for her, though she did not appreciate the messenger. “Is it time?” 

“Nah, no change. Docs said it could be a couple more hours.” 

“Ok so why are you here?” She knew her tone was rude but she could not hope to care. 

“Heard you scared all the puppies,” he remarked. His hands waved down at his workout clothes. “Figured you needed a sparring partner.” 

All she could do was scoff. “I’m good. Besides, nothing I said in our last conversation should’ve given the impression I wanted to speak to you again.” 

He chuckled, stepping onto the mat as he kicked off his shoes. “You ain’t gotta speak to me. You were right. Last time was a sorry ass attempt to break the ice. My bad. But that fight was the best training I’ve ever seen. So I figured if we train together, we both get what we want. You get to use me as a punching bag every day, which I figured would make you happy and I get more chances to break that ice between us. Worst case, I’m the only nigga who loses here.”

Naja eyed him, searching for an ulterior motive or some other plan she was missing. But she did not see anything. He did have a point, he was a far better opponent for her than any of the students and it would be nice to use his face as a punching bag. However, she knew it was dangerous waters. However, as much as every fiber in her being wanted to scream no, demand she stay the course of avoidance where he was concerned, she found herself doing the exact opposite. 

“Fine. But just know, you’re gonna lose. I can use you as a punching bag but you can't break the ice if I don't talk to you.” 

He merely smirked and sunk down into his fighting stance. “I think you forgot how much I like a challenge, baby girl.” 

And at the sound of those two words, Naja realized that maintaining her hatred for him would be a far harder challenge for her than breaking the ice would be for him.  

Simply put? She was fucked. 

Tag list: @miyuhpapayuh @pipsqueak-98 @injerafiend @themakingsofdion @lishabaybee @certifiedlesbianbaddie @prettyisasprettydoes1306 @dangerous-history @roguekiki @mysteryuz

***

A/N: Ok so some of the tags aren't working (so sorry friends!) I'm gonna see if I can fix it asap cause that's so annoying! Alright so, I actually LOL'ed that everyone's comments on part 1 were just "well wtf did that nigga do??" hahaha y'all really wanted sis to like get her life together and that made me cackle. But I really wanted to focus on Naja this chapter and how she handles (or rather wholly avoids) her emotions, which is why she is still BIG mad 15 years later lol

So we got some insight this chapter, bits and pieces of the puzzle to answer the "wtf did this nigga do" question, but we have miles to go :)

Drop a comment and let me know what you thought! Thanks for reading!

[faestunna]

requests & rules

under the cut are the rules to my writing and requests. this is an 18+ blog that has sexual and dark content. minors are not permitted to send requests.

requests are: temporarily closed

rules

this is an 18+ blog (mdni)

i use a fem!reader insert unless specified otherwise

i will not write non-con; message or reach out to me about dub-con or other dark content.

while i am a woc, i will not write a specified race for reader inserts unless upon further discussion.

it may take me a few days to a week to complete a request.

i have the right to refuse a request if i’m not comfortable with it.

requests must follow these guidelines. if i receive a request that does not, i will not reply to it.

⭑ send a request here ⭑

what i write

type: one shots, two shots, blurbs, headcanons, series

genre: smut, fluff, angst

check out my request timeline where i explain how long a request will take!

who is write for

don’t be afraid to ask for someone i haven’t mentioned!

jack o’connell & characters

remmick, oliver mellors, lion kaminski, roy goode, james cook, patrick sumner

michael b jordan & characters

elijah (smoke) moore, elias (stack) moore, adonis creed, erik killmonger

chris evans & characters

steve rogers, andy barber, ransom drysdale

sebastian stan & characters

bucky barnes

pedro pascal & characters

oberyn martell, agent whiskey, din djarin, joel miller

© faestunna 2025.

[telomeke]

POLL TAG – FIVE FAVORITE CHARACTERS

I was tagged by @lurkingshan (at this post linked here) and @pickletrip (at this post linked here). Thanks dearies! 🥰

‌

Challenge: make a poll with five of your all time favorite characters, and then tag five people to do the same. See which character is everyone's favorite.

‌

I'm sticking to BLs as well, because the field would be far too wide otherwise (can you imagine a poll with Dolly Levi, Buffy Summers, Joe Rossi from Lou Grant, Lady Deathstrike from X-Men 2, any one of the Golden Girls, Erik Killmonger from Black Panther the movie, the Beastmaster and cartoon Aladdin? 🤣).

Anyway, I don't watch all that much BL (not compared to the majority of people here on BL Tumblr, who have watchlists longer than Babe's wig when he was Wansarat in The Sign). So that narrows the field considerably for me – and my list has some likely suspects, including an unbreakable pairing, and also one highly unusual choice. But I'll explain my choices after the poll itself:

Why these characters? Here's my spiel:

PatPran (Bad Buddy)  I've combined these two as a single choice, because obviously they go together (and so well too). But really, I would have loved to have listed them separately, because I have different reasons for loving them. Pat is just an all-round good guy, hopelessly optimistic, generous and so giving; he thinks of others before himself (and if both partners in a couple do that, well, you then have a mutually-reinforcing relationship). Pran I love because I can see so much of myself in him, from his tics and foibles, his interests, to his struggles finding his courage and growing into his own identity.

Li Ming (Moonlight Chicken)  In a lot of ways, what Li Ming was going through in MLC paralleled some of my own experiences when I was a teen his age. If only they'd had MLC or something similar for teenage me to have watched growing up! Li Ming was somehow able to navigate the pressures of becoming someone true to himself (something that Pran, and I too in my teens, struggled with) while dealing with real world issues at the same time (economic hardship in Li Ming's case, while in mine it was general teen angst and family stress). He didn't let life get to him, and he stayed the course, knowing his own self-worth even when others were telling him to scale back his expectations (Uncle Jim and Heart's parents). Lessons in there for all LGBTQ+ teens, and Khun Noppharnach's socially-conscious BLs should be given more credit for the positive role models they portray and how they help the younger set. Plus Fourth did an excellent job bringing Li Ming to life (thanks in part I think to Director Aof's guidance; Fourth's Atom in My Love Mix-Up Thailand is a lot less grounded and authentic, at least from what I've seen in the first couple of episodes).

Porsche (KinnPorsche)  This entry is just for fun. KinnPorsche was a wild ride, whacking us with whiplash at every turn, and Porsche was emblematic of that experience. Cool, sexy martial arts fighter in one episode, total buffoon at the mercy of sprinklers, piss-allergic carp and mermaid costumes in others. Apo gamely played along, and he can do both slick action and slapstick comedy well, so watching Porsche always brought a smile to my face. Whether it was seducing Kinn with pappy supermarket bread, or warding off ghosts with a penis amulet, you never knew what craziness was in store next with this character. Pure entertainment.

Adachi (Cherry Magic)  Adachi charmed the briefs off me the moment the lift doors went CLANG!!! on him while he was distracted with whatever it was that was speedrunning through his head again. Such a lovable doofus, always surprised by whatever situation he managed to stumble into. Eiji Akaso is really good-looking, but he didn't care about image and happily took all the pratfalls in his stride. He somehow managed to imbue Adachi's clumsy clownery with a strange sense of dignity (helped along, I suppose, by the fact that we could also hear Adachi's inner monologue, allowing us to see the innocent good-heartedness within).

Dissaya (Bad Buddy)  This is the odd one out. Pran's mom was hated by so many fans during Bad Buddy's run, who blamed her for ruining Pran's life in many ways. And it's true her own hang-ups wrought havoc on Pran's relationship with the world outside. But for someone with so few scenes, I think she's actually one of the more complex characters in Bad Buddy, with a turbulent backstory that explains how her own relationship with the world got so warped. My read is that everything she did, including sending Pran away in high school, was done out of love for her beloved only son and motivated by a desire to protect him at all costs. She was a smothering, over-protective mother to be sure, but I think the lady just didn't know any better, and the last two episodes of Bad Buddy really do invite us to rethink our earlier appraisals of her. It wasn't easy doing Dissaya's character study based on the fairly scant details we got (write-ups linked here and here), but they were enough for me to glean an understanding of who I think she is. And I think in the end she is someone worthy of respect, so I do tip my hat out of respect for her. It's also obvious Pran loves her dearly, as much as she loves him back. And I think I trust Pran's judgement of character on this one. 😍

‌

Onward tagging:

@neuroticbookworm, @colourme-feral, @airenyah, @wen-kexing-apologist, @solitaryandwandering

I really want to tag more, but this game limits us to five so these are just five people tagged at random. If I haven't tagged you but you'd like to play, please do so (knowing that I want to tag everyone and then some)! And please tag me if you play, so that I can read and vote on your poll too. 😍

‌

[iasmelaion]

Fic authors self rec! When you get this, reply with your favorite five fics that you've written, then pass on to at least five other writers. Spread the self-love ❤

I've been out of town since Friday for a wedding, and now I'm battling jet lag, so I declare tumblr dashboard backread bankruptcy, and I have no idea who's already done this or not! So I will pass it on to anyone who feels like being excited about and proud of their fics!

My list, split between my account that's actually clearly linked to this username, and the side account that's not (it isn't, like, secret at this point, I just don't really want to make the link super obvious for easily-overwhelmed-by-too-much-social-media interaction reasons.) Also these are just my favorites right now.

only a full house gonna have a prayer (17776): I had a ton of fun writing this Yuletide treat, and I'm still really proud of nailing the voice and general vibe of 17776 here. Also very pleased with my title choice, even so many years later!

the pleasure principle (The Good Place, Eleanor/Tahani): god, I had so so much fun with Eleanor's voice in this Yuletide fic. I think this fic is pretty damn funny--I made myself lol multiple times while writing it!--and sexy too, and I just really enjoyed playing around with The Good Place's style of humor, and Eleanor's dirtbag-with-a-heart-of-gold nature.

god loves everybody, don't remind me (MCU/Black Panther, Erik Killmonger fix-it fic): I worked SO HARD on this one for SO LONG, lol. I'm very proud of it, and while I wish I could have done it even better justice, particularly prose and voice-wise, I'm still 100% satisfied with the structure and arc. It was my first time writing time loop fic too, and oof, it was hard, but I stuck with it and I'm still proud of it! Also Erik is absolutely my poor little meow meow and I knew my ideal version of this fic and/or a redemption/restoration arc for him would not exist unless I wrote it, so I'm proud of myself for following through despite how long it took.

you're already home and you don't even know it (MCU, Sam/Bucky): With a lot of my writing, I set out with a particular thing I want to try or improve or play around with, and with this fic, it was trying to cram in as many ways for these two to say or show "I love you" without ever saying the actual words to each other. I think I was really successful at that, and at showing tenderness and intimacy, while also totally indulging myself on the h/c and "they're so IN LOVE" fronts.

if I'm gonna get back to you someday (MCU, Steve/Bucky): I was so pleased to finally find a home for the punchline of a "clusterfuck of Steves" here, lol. But also, I just really enjoyed writing this and playing around with AU versions of Steve, while also wallowing in some angst with Bucky. Also, I went ALL IN on the water imagery here, and I'm still really pleased with the continuity of that throughout the fic.

[themculibrary]

70k Masterlist 2

part one

accepting the tides (ao3) - Emma_Anacortes T, 78k

Summary: Tony had dragged Peter from the depths of despair after May’s death. It was normal that he’d grown to care a little about him, right?

Yeah, okay. He freaking loved the kid.

So naturally he would feel a little weird when Richard Parker randomly shows up in Peter’s life. Naturally he’d feel protective, nervous, and confused because where has Richard been all this time? And why does Tony feel sick every time he sees him around Peter?

All he knows is if Richard hurts his kid, Tony’s gonna give him hell.

A Few Tricks Up My Sleeve (ao3) - notapepper leo/jemma T, 70k

Summary: Take two competing performers on the birthday party circuit in a small town. Add a pinch of false assumptions, a dash of miscommunication, and a smidge of sexual tension, and presto! One hot, fresh, snarky, fluffy Kids' Entertainers AU, comin' right up!

Carry The Ocean Back To Me (ao3) - EclecticMuse leo/jemma M, 71k

Summary: Leo Fitz is a poor shipyard worker from Glasgow, looking for a fresh start. Jemma Simmons is a daughter of the British nobility being forced into a marriage she doesn't want. When the two of them cross paths on the world's greatest ocean liner, they both feel like they've finally found a kindred spirit in each other. But with the ship sailing toward its infamous destiny, things are bound to get complicated. AU of the 1997 film "Titanic".

Cosmic Love (ao3) - emquin steve/tony N/R, 74k

Summary: Set after the events of Captain America: Civil War, Tony and Steve have been broken and torn apart by the Accords and the choices they've made. But those that are meant to be have a way of making their way back to each other specially since it won't just be the two of them any longer.

First, Do No Harm (ao3) - BarqueBatch, SkyisGray steve/bucky E, 77k

Summary: James Barnes should be just like any other patient Steve sees in his Brooklyn clinic, but the mob enforcer bleeding all over his waiting room chair apparently didn’t get the memo.

god loves everybody, don't remind me (ao3) - napricot M, 70k

Summary: N’Jadaka didn’t believe in the gods of his people. But belief was not a prerequisite of the gods’ attention, and the blood of the Panther tribe ran in N’Jadaka’s veins. Bast took hold of his soul in her mighty jaws and lifted it free of his body. She gave him a warning shake, just as she would a misbehaving kitten, and set him back. With one careful claw, she tweaked his path through time into a twisting loop. Wayward and abandoned though he was, N’Jadaka was still of her tribe. He could set things right, if given the chance.

Erik gets a do-over. Erik gets a lot of do-overs. Or: Erik Killmonger's own personal version of Groundhog Day, only with a lot more murder, dying, trips to the ancestral plane, awkward family conversations, and divine intervention.

Holiday Spending (ao3) - isfan bucky/tony T, 70k

Summary: Winteriron collage au w/fake relationship; Tony asks Bucky to be his fake boyfriend, either to shake off some matchmaking friends or to piss off Howard. Turns out Bucky is all Tony ever wanted in a boyfriend. Too bad it’s not real (extra angst if Tony paid for Bucky to act as his boyfriend, now Tony wonders if it was all for the money). Happy ending?

James Barnes, Agent of SHIELD (ao3) - Kala_Sathinee steve/bucky E, 75k

Summary: Bucky never fell from the train. When they storm the final HYDRA base, he’s there at Steve’s side. But Steve still goes into the ice, and Bucky is left to deal with a world without him. A world in which he tries to find a purpose.

Love Alight Like Electric Touch (ao3) - dioncchusmic steve/natasha, steve/wanda G, 71k

Summary: Liberal lawyer Natasha Romanoff is doing everything that she can to prevent the community ballet center from it's destruction, wherein the said ballet center is bought by SHIELD Industries, aka Steve Rogers' company.

They come into an agreement that he won't destroy the community ballet center as long as she works for him as his Chief Counsel, what happens when Natasha agrees and finds out more than what she's bargained for?

Oh, Hey There, Mister Blue (ao3) - iguessyouregonnamissthepantyraid T, 75k

Summary: There are certain things one learns to expect when dealing with the Mad Titan. Ending up on an unfamiliar ship surrounded by a bunch of aliens is one thing. Loki can handle that.

Ending up on an unfamiliar ship surrounded by a bunch of aliens who are actually on his side is quite another.

Re-Engineered (ao3) - Opy3332 bucky/tony M, 73k

Summary: “Tony blinks. He blinks and his entire world changes.”

Tony is sent back in time from mid-Infinity War to just after returning from Afghanistan.

How different is Tony Stark, and the MCU, with all that knowledge of the future?

Haunted by the guilt of Rhodey’s injury, the betrayal and pain of Steve, the fear of Wanda, the loss of Jarvis, and the foreknowledge of Thanos, this Tony is one the universe hasn’t contended with before. And he is more than ready to re-claim his title of genius, billionaire, and philanthropist in ways unexpected.

Reverse Games (ao3) - MsMoonstar G, 75k

Summary: Thor and Loki have been arguing since they arrived back on Earth and the Avengers are tired of it. Tony Stark comes up with a brilliant plan to make the two Agardian gods get along.

Second Time Around (ao3) - BeneficialAddiction clint/phil T, 74k

Summary: Upon learning that Phil Coulson is still alive, something breaks in Clint, maybe permanently. Leaving behind his team, his home, and his identity as Hawkeye, he falls back on an old name, living separately from the Avengers until SHIELD demands they begin looking for someone to take the missing archer's place and their sights turn to the rogue assassin Ronin.

What are the chances of being recruited by a shady government division of superheroes twice?

The First Avenger (ao3) - shestepsintotheriver steve/bucky M, 73k

Summary: "Steve Rogers neither begins nor ends with Captain America. Before all that, before the fame and the horror and the loss, Steve is just another hungry kid from Brooklyn. Braver than most—or more bull-headed, depending on who you ask—but pretty average. Discounting the bad heart, the bad lungs, the bad temper, or at least that’s what Bucky always says when Steve does something really stupid, but he'll always add ‘the best guy I ever known’ at the end of the list."

The story of the First Avenger with almost all the bits from the movie, then several additions to canon.

The Many Doors of Níu Heimar (ao3) - nixajane loki/steve M, 77k

Summary: In the weeks before Thor's coronation, Loki almost dies, not once, but twice. (An AU in which events conspire to keep Loki from the choices he made in Thor, a war is on the horizon and the chosen battlefield is Earth, and the Avengers assemble with an extra teammate and one less villain to fight).

Time Falls Away (ao3) - NotEvenCloseToStraight bucky/tony, steve/peggy M, 79k

Summary: The Battle of New York: Tony flies himself and the nuke through the wormhole and when his suit shuts down and he starts to fall, he knows he's going to die. But then he wakes up in an alley in Brooklyn, two strangers staring down at him in confusion and Tony is sure he is dreaming when he shakes hands first with pre-serum Steve Rogers, and then Bucky Barnes. Trapped in 1942, Tony befriends Steve, and falls in love with Bucky but America is at war, and Bucky and Steve ship out to join the cause. Tony knows all the stories about the Howling Commandos and knows what’s coming for the soldiers, and has to live through history as first Bucky falls, and then Steve disappears. Tony is left alone in the 40's, crying himself to sleep in the house he had shared with his best friend and his lover. But then he wakes up on the pavement in New York, the Hulk roaring in his face, Steve staring down at him, and he has to wonder if it was all a hallucination. When Tony fell through the sky, did he fall through time as well? Why does Steve act so cold towards him? Were he and Bucky really that happy together?

Did it all really happen, or is Tony in love with a life he can only have in his dreams?

Under My Skin (ao3) - Poetgirl925 skye/grant E, 70k

Summary: AU Skyeward. As a specialist, Grant Ward values control and order in his missions. But when he's paired for a long term undercover op with Skye, a former Rising Tide hacker he previously butted heads with, his infamous control is tested. Posing as a newly engaged couple, they're wary partners in a mission that could prove fatal if they can't learn to trust each other.

Unwanted Celebrity (ao3) - Kryptaria, zooeyscigar steve/bucky T, 72k

Summary: Fifteen years ago, a skinny kid from Brooklyn went to an arts summer camp, where he met child movie star Jimmy Barnes. Their unlikely friendship faded as the years passed. But now, a threat to Barnes' career brings Steve back into his life, in the most unexpected of ways. Or, the one where Bucky is a smooth celebrity, right up until Steve the snarky photographer shows up, and Bucky's whole world gets blown to pieces.

Walls Come Tumbling Down (ao3) - lambchop33 steve/bucky E, 74k

Summary: Bucky Barnes is a successful contractor with an unsuccessful dating history. His boyfriend of many years cheated on him, and he's determined not to repeat that mistake. Enter Steve Rogers, the gorgeous neighbor he discovers in his new apartment building. Companion piece to The Match Game, told from Bucky's point of view, from the beginning. And in the beginning, the thoughts inside Bucky's head are radically different from those inside Steve's head, save for one thing. Bucky thinks Steve is hot, so he's got that going for him. But at this stage, that's all he's got.

Who Has Known Heights (ao3) - MountainRose, szzzt steve/tony E, 72k

Summary: Before his injury, Tony had been a fast, intuitive flier: agile in the air, as those of his wingshape usually were, able to tumble and swoop and then trade back the speed for lift, and always get the best of the bargain.

That was how he referred to it; not 'abduction' or 'captivity' or 'maiming' but injury, the most neutral word possible. Though Steve had never, not once heard him call it an accident.

[cauru]

about: where i write a collection of headcanons, oneshots and smut for black panther.

pairings: t'challa/oc, t'challa/reader, namor/oc, namor/reader, shuri/oc, erik killmonger/oc.

content warnings: smut, angst, fluff, timejump, mainly oc x canon content, major character death, alternative universe: t'challa lives, erik killmonger lives, no use of y/n or rarely main character names.

request status: closed

[ao3feed-peterparker]

Sedated

by sciencebroz The threat of Thanos is over, but the Avengers will never again be whole. Brenna Banner feels lucky to still have her father, Bruce, while many of her friends are struggling with crushing losses: namely Tony's son, Caden Carrera-Stark. When Stephen Strange brings troubling news about the Stones, they have their work cut out for them. Old and new enemies surface, taking advantage of a world without the Avengers. At least, until Brenna forms a new team. (Peter Parker really wants to be on it). Words: 1243, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English Fandoms: Marvel Cinematic Universe Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Categories: F/F, F/M, M/M Characters: Peter Parker, Bruce Banner, Betty Ross, Natasha Romanov (Marvel), Thor (Marvel), Loki (Marvel), Erik Killmonger, Sergei Kravinoff, Sasha Alexander, Peter Quill, Gamora (Marvel), Sif (Marvel), Fandral (Marvel), Phil Coulson, Melinda May, Vision (Marvel), Thaddeus Ross Relationships: Peter Parker/Original Female Character(s), Original Female Character(s)/Original Male Character(s), Original Female Character - Relationship Additional Tags: Post-Endgame, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Found Family, Angst, Older Gen Z Ass Kids via https://ift.tt/LYFTug6