#marvel erik killmonger

[hoetachi]

PASSENGER PRINCESS — E. KILLMONGER

➠ erik killmonger x reader

➠ mulan’s input - i miss mbj in the mcu :( tumblr was a TIME with the killmonger fics happy belated valentine’s day

➠ c/w - black-coded reader (its bhm duh), pet names [mamas & baby], just eric getting roasted for his crocs

make a hood nigga put some jibbitz in his crocs.

ERIK STOOD by the front door, slipping on his black hoodie while checking his pockets for his keys— securing he had everything he needed before his departure. he wasn’t big on valentine’s day, but he did like spoiling the people he cared about, and he figured it wouldn’t kill him to pick up something nice for shuri and his auntie.

“where you goin’?” you asked from the couch, lazily stretching after indulging in your 3rd nap of day.

“‘bout to hit the stores, get some valentine’s stuff for auntie and lil’ cuz,” he said causally, pulling his hood up. he crouched down to tighten the laces on his timbs.

immediately your eyes lit up. “ohhh, I’m coming.”

he huffed, shaking his head with a smirk. “ you aint got nothin’ better to do?” he questioned because he knew damn well his quick trip to the mall was going to be 3 hours if you came with him

“nope!” you hopped up, already heading to grab your bag and your crocs. he sighed, knowing damn well he couldn’t say no to you and even if he did, you’ll be a crybaby for the rest of the day and he rather be off track for a couple of hours than deal with damage control with your feelings. “aight, let’s go.” he bounced up, opening the front door of your apartment for you to go through first. as you past him, he couldn’t help himself smacking your butt “2 hours, y/n. nothing more than” he warned, leaving behind you.

by the time you got in the car, you had already made yourself very comfortable. wrapped up in your pink fluffy blanket like royalty, you had one leg tucked under you while you touched up your makeup in the passenger mirror. erik was always in disbelief with your audacity to take over his car, but he knew deep down inside he found it cute to make it your personal vanity.

“oh, we playing this game again,” erik muttered as he pulled out of the driveway, shaking his head as you casually took over the music like it was your birth-given right.

“of course, baby” you sweetly said, swiping some more of your clear gloss over your lips. “this is my luxury experience.”

erik glanced at you, biting back a smile. “you do know i’m the one driving, right? and it’s my car?”

“and I’m the one making sure the vibes are right. you’re welcome.” you said sassily rolling your neck. the bass from your favorite playlist kicked through the speakers, and erik just shook his head again, chuckling as he switched lanes.

a couple of hours later, he was quite surprised that the both of you were doing well for time with this mall trip, you two were just about done shopping. you had picked out an elegant, diamond-custom necklace for queen ramonda and erik bought a switch for shuri that she was guaranteed to geek out over since he knows how much she wants to start playing animal crossing with you. erik was feeling pretty good about it—until you suddenly gasped and grabbed his arm harshly.

“BABY!”

his body tensed immediately, instincts kicking in. “what?! what happened, mamas?” his eyes immediately darted around to see if he could spot any threats he didn’t pick up on before

you dramatically pointed across the walkway. “the crocs store.”

he blinked, taking in what you just said. then he squinted at you with nothing but irritation. “man, i know you not about to—”

“please,” you cut him off, clutching his arm with both hands. “as a valentine’s gift to me, can we go in there?” you whined, tugging his arm towards the store but he didn’t budge a bit

he massaged his temple, letting out the longest sigh out of the many he expelled out today. “you want me to buy you crocs?”

“no, you some crocs,” you corrected. “I got a vision. I can make you look fly.” you grinned brightly; he was really thinking to himself that you might actually be the end of him. he stared at you for a long moment. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

his jaw clenched and unclenched— he looked at the store, then back at you again. the way your eyes were sparkling up at him, lips slightly pouted in that way you knew he couldn’t resist—

“tch,” he sucked his teeth, already knowing he’d lost this battle financially. “you lucky I like you.”

“correction: you love me.” you grinned, pecking him quickly on his lips before pulling him towards the store.

inside, you were on a mission. you walked around, thoughtfully analyzing the different crocs like you were styling an a-list celebrity. erik stood with his arms crossed, clearly feeling like a hostage, but you ignored his usual grumbling.

“okay,” you announced, holding up a pair in his size. “these black ones go crazy. you can rock ‘em with anything.” you hyped.

he gave you a skeptical look. “ain’t no way i’m walking out of here with crocs.”

“trust the process, baby.” you smirked, handing them to him. then, with a mischievous glint in your eye, you grabbed a tray of jibbitz. “now, let’s customize these bad boys.”

that’s when erik’s interest really piqued. his arms uncrossed as he peered at the selection, rubbing his chin.

“baby look at the wittle ears?!” you cooed

“yo… when did we get a collab with crocs?!” he murmured, observing the black panther jibbit you held

“see? It’s meant to be!”

a few minutes later, he wore proudly the finished product—sleek all black crocs adorned with a mix of jibbitz: the black panther logo, a jordan sneaker, a tiny gold crown, and a wakandan flag.

“okay,” erik admitted, nodding. “these kinda tough.”

you gasped. “so you like them?” you awed. usually when he gave you the opportunity to dress him, he’ll find something to nitpick about and always take it off.

he clicked his tongue, trying to play it cool. “i ain’t say all that…”

but you caught the tiny smirk playing at his lips. he was proud of them.

arriving at the palace, erik helped you out the car. you held shuri’s gift he got her while he held queen ramondas as well as the secret gift you bought for t’challa when erik was using the bathroom. you noticed his silence as you two got closer to the steps

“mamas, you sure we gotta go to the palace today?” erik exasperated, dragging his feet as you two made your way up the golden-lit steps. you knew why he was having doubt all of a sudden. “you can’t avoid your cousins forever, plus we promise to be here for valentine’s day.” you rolled your eyes, adjusting the bag on your shoulder. it’s been 2 months since erik had bought an apartment for you both bear the palace— you had no issue sharing the same bed with your beloved and getting into your morning side quests, but you knew how much shuri and the queen missed his present.

“i’m not avoiding shuri, actually. me and lil’ cuz got a great relationship. same with auntie.” he shrugged. he looked to shuri as a little sister despite what happened a couple years back; she really helped him understand the culture here in wakanda and was quite forgiving, same with queen ramonda

“you’re leaving out one person,” you sing-songed, casting him a knowing look.

there was a pause.

“you’re not over t’challa stabbin’ you—” you started.

erik scoffed at how plainly you were putting it. “it wasn’t just a stab, it was a betrayal.”

“you tried to overthrow the throne, erik.” you deadpanned at his antics

“details.”

you shook your head, sighing dramatically. “so what? you gonna mean-mug him all day?” you quipped

“I always mean-mug him. it’s nothin’ new.”

before you could argue back, the palace doors opened, and shuri practically launched herself at both you and erik. “cousins!” she grinned, throwing her arms around you both. for how petite she was, she had an iron grip on you both causing a chuckle to leave your slightly closing throat

erik, despite all his brooding, melted just a little. “wassup, lil’ cuz?”

she pulled back, smirking. “i thought you were too busy being a menace for y/n to visit.”

you snorted. “that’s what I said!”

“I do visit and i don’t be a menace towards my future wife!” erik defended.

shuri crossed her arms. “facetiming me to talk shit about t’challa does not count.”

as if on cue, t’challa himself appeared, regal as ever, a small smirk on his face as he approached. “dearest y/n, it’s always a pleasure to see you” he greeted, giving you an warm embrace knowing the man beside y’all was glaring daggers into his skull. he stepped back beside shuri and turned towards erik

“t’challa.” erik said curtly

you swore you could feel the tension thickening between them.

“welcome home, cousin,” t’challa added smoothly.

erik narrowed his eyes. “I live here.”

“ah, but you never visit the palace ever since you got y/n that adorable apartment of the east of wakanda.” t’challa tilted his head, his smirk widening.

you subtly elbowed erik before he could say something smart. he inhaled sharply, visibly restraining himself, then exhaled through his nose. “i’m here now, ain’t i?” he forced a smile, which looked like stuff from nightmares

t’challa placed a hand on his chest. “my heart is full.”

you choked back a laugh as erik glared.

before things could escalate, queen ramonda stepped into the room, a warm smile on her face. “ahh, my sons and my daughters,” she greeted, placing a hand on erik’s shoulder. “It’s good to see you both” she kissed both you and erik’s cheeks

erik’s demeanor softened immediately. “good to see you too, auntie.”

shuri clapped her hands. “since erik and y/n are finally here, let’s eat! I want to hear all about what foolishness he’s been up to, y/n”

“foolishness?” erik echoed.

shuri smirked. “you are foolish.”

t’challa hummed in agreement. “very.”

erik looked at you. “you just gonna let them gang up on me?”wondering where was the mama bear y/n who don’t play about her man. you shrugged, linking your arm through his. “see, my days are cold without you..” you sung ‘foolish’ by ashanti, causing him to kiss his teeth, “imma leave yo’ ass here” he threatened making you laugh at your grumpy man

erik groaned as you all made your way to dinner, his family—his people—surrounding him with laughter and light teasing.

the dining hall was alive with warmth and chatter, but erik was already over this family dinner. not even five minutes in, and he was already being attacked.

t’challa, ever observant, casually glanced under the table mid-conversation. His sharp eyes zeroed in on erik’s feet. silence followed.

then—

“are you… wearing crocs?” t’challa asked, his tone mixed with disgust and disbelief.

shuri, curious, immediately leaned over the table. the moment she saw them, she howled with laughter. “noooo, cousin! and—oh my bast, are those jibbitz?!”

you bit your lip, knowing exactly where this was going.

erik, completely unfazed, stuck his leg out like he was showing off the latest in designer fashion. “hell yeah, they got jibbitz. look at that—got the black panther logo right there, for the culture.” He pointed proudly at the charm. “and my baby got me the little jordan one. peep the detail.”

all eyes turned to you.

you just sipped your drink innocently. “what? I thought they were cute.”

t’challa blinked towards your direction now. “you’re enabling him.”

shuri nearly fell out of her seat. “not the jordan jibbitz! erik, you are finished!”

erik smirked, wiggling his toes. “y’all just mad ‘cause I got flavor.” he popped his imaginary collar and you jumped in, brushing dust off his shoulders with a stifled laugh.

t’challa stared at him like he wanted to call for security. “you are in the wakandan royal palace, dressed like an american tourist at disney world.”

“first off, crocs are universal,” erik stated, ready to defend his case to the grave. “second, i gotta stay comfortable in case i gotta throw hands at you.”

t’challa took a sip of wine, unimpressed. “you would throw hands in those?”

“absolutely.”

shuri wiped a tear from her eye. “i need a picture of this.” already working her hand over her kimoyo bead, which you had to hold erik back. “you send that to anybody, and I swear—” erik started.

“what? gonna run after me in your crocs?” she cackled. “i’ll hear you squeakin’ a mile away!” at this point, you had fully given up on trying to hold in your laughter. you reached for your drink, shaking your head. “baby, you do realize you’re only proving them right by getting worked up, right?”

erik scowled, leaning away from you slightly. “you supposed to be on my side.”

“i am.” you patted his thigh reassuring him. “but also… the jordan jibbitz is sending me.”

t’challa sighed dramatically, like the weight of being the responsible one in the room was too much to bear. “and to think, i once considered you a threat to the throne.”

erik pointed his fork, mashed potatoes dripping bit by bit on to his plate. “don’t get it twisted, I can still run this country better if I wanted to.”

“in crocs?”

“i swear to bast—”

“alright, enough,” ramonda interrupted with the practiced patience of a mother who had been listening to nonsense for far too long. “we are all gathered here for a peaceful family dinner.” she gave t’challa a pointed look.

the king, as ever, composed himself. “of course, mother.” shuri on the other end? not so much. she was still giggling.

you knew this was probably you’re last time for the next couple of months that you would accompany erik on a mall trip again. but, oh bast, was it worth it in the end

[manichewitz]

we gotta find that girl who saw black panther and clenched her jaw so hard at the sight of shirtless michael b jordan that she broke her retainer, i need her opinion on sinners (2025)

[bvrnesher]

❝ 𝒫ull 𝒪ut 𝒢ame ! ❞ ― marvel !

summary: just what I think of each of these characters when it comes to pull out 🗣

— 𝒮teve ℛogers ;; He likes to think he’s good at it. And honestly? He is. Respectful, controlled, painfully self-aware. The second he feels himself getting close, he speeds up, grits his teeth, and pulls out right on time—usually on your stomach or chest. Gentleman. HOWEVER—deep, deep down? He does have a breeding kink. He just won’t admit it. The day you whisper “it’s okay, I’m on the pill”? He hesitates just long enough to ruin his perfect record.

Rating: 10/10. Practically flawless. Just a little too responsible.

— 𝒯ony 𝒮tark ;; This man cums like he’s paying rent. He could pull out. He knows how. Won’t. He’s like, ���You knew the risk,” and just lets go. Finishes inside you with a smirk, kisses your temple like he didn’t just pump you full, and asks for another round like nothing happened.

Rating: 7/10. Could pull out. Ignores it. Still makes it hot.

— ℬucky ℬarnes ;; NO WAY this man is risking it, but for the sake of the game, let’s say he tries. He means to pull out. He really does. But the second you tighten around his cock when he’s close? Too late. He’s already twitching, already filling you up. Feels guilty after, mutters apologies, but ask him for another round and he forgets all about it.

Rating: 5/10. Tries. Fails. Feels bad. Does it again.

— 𝒯hor 𝒪dinson ;; Sweetheart himbo with the pull-out instincts of a golden retriever. You tell him “pull out,” and he’s like, “But why, beloved?” while thrusting deeper. His idea of affection is cumming in you until it’s leaking down your thighs and calling it “a gift from the gods.”

Rating: 0/10. He means well. That’s the problem.

— ℒoki ℒaufeyson ;; Oh, he can pull out. He just won’t—unless it’s to tease you. Otherwise? He stays buried until the very end, groaning in your ear about how good you feel while he fills you up. He wants to watch it drip out. It’s about power. Ownership. Ruin. You say “pull out”? He says “make me.”

Rating: 0/10. Wicked.

— 𝒫eter 𝒫arker ;; He’s studied the theory. He wants to pull out. He really does. But the second things start getting too good? He’s whimpering, cock twitching, finishing inside you before he even realizes it. Apologizes mid-orgasm and offers to run to the pharmacy still inside you.

Rating: 3/10. He tries. He panics. He fails.

— ℰrik 𝒦illmonger ;; Pull out? Babe, he hears you say it and smirks. Doesn’t even pretend to listen. Holds your hips down, grinds in deeper, and finishes inside like he means it. Tells you “You better take all that,” like it’s a challenge and a threat. Might pull out once—just to finish on your face and call it a reward. But most nights? He’s filling you up like it’s his personal mission.

Rating: -100/10. He’s doing it on purpose. You’re not walking right tomorrow.

[cherienymphe]

Kingdom Come

Erik Killmonger x Reader

Warnings: DUB-CON (bordering Non-Con), mentions of toxic relationship, stalking, implied kidnapping

➥ banner by @vase-of-lilies |

summary: You left Erik once, and he goes above and beyond to ensure that doesn't happen again.

𓇼

⠀

The sound of the ocean waves—something that took a lot of getting used to at first—were now the driving force behind your calm moods these days. Another nightmare had forced you to wake up drenched in sweat, and the only reason you’d been able to slow your breathing was because of the familiar whoosh of ocean water outside of your window.

You didn’t grow up by the water—wasn’t raised anywhere near it—and that sound quickly reminded you that you were far away from home, far away from anywhere familiar, and it filled you with relief. You now spent your days somewhere you would’ve once never considered living, and that was good because it meant no one from your former life would consider it a place for you to live either.

…and they wouldn’t come looking.

You watched the tea kettle heat up with your back pressed to the counter, arms crossed over your chest. Your satin robe stuck to your skin from the thin layer of sweat that still clung to it. Your heart had long stopped racing, but despite that, goosebumps still littered your arms, and you rubbed your hands up and down them. Despite how safe your mind assured you that you were, your body just refused to agree.

The low lighting in the kitchen was the only warm glow that filled the modest house, and you rubbed your head as you turned to get a mug. When you briefly closed your eyes, dark ones appeared in your mind, and you wondered when—after two years—you’d finally stop conjuring him up.

The face belonging to Erik Stevens was one you hadn’t seen in years, but that name was one you never not thought about. Not only had he been a part of your life for too long to just forget him, but the lasting impact he left made him impossible to ignore. You were literally hiding out in a foreign country under a different name surrounded by people you didn’t know because of that man.

There were days where you cursed yourself for ever getting involved with him—recalling your initial thoughts of him and how he looked like trouble—but Erik had a charm that was hard to resist. With a pretty face framed by locs and gold that winked at you whenever he smiled, he wasn’t the kind of man you’d ever be brave enough to bring home, and you had long reluctantly admitted the part that played in his appeal.

He was kind of dangerous…and you’d liked that.

Until it wasn’t random men on the street he was threatening…but you.

The whistle of the kettle pulled you from your thoughts, and you jumped at the sound. You ignored how your hands shook as you poured yourself a cup of tea, exhaling an uneven breath with thoughts of your ex boyfriend on the brain. You never thought that sleeping with the guy who was just way out of your league would change the trajectory of your life. You thought it’d make for a good story to tell to your friends and maybe even a niece or two one day.

You didn’t think that he’d keep coming back, knocking on your apartment door throughout all hours of the night, that plump bottom lip jutted out as you attempted to put your foot down—something something boundaries and respect and all that jazz. The brown-skinned man would slowly blink at you, silently telling you that he wasn’t hearing a word you were saying. The corner of his lips would quirk up into that haughty smirk—something only worn by a man who knew he was going to get what he wanted—and he’d push himself off of the wall, straightening to his full height.

“So you want me to leave?”

The question never sounded sincere, because it wasn’t, and Erik would look down his nose at you while you shuffled your feet, one hand still on the door as you fought with yourself over whether or not to close it in his face. It was useless though because you never not let him in.

You never not took a step back and watched him stride through your door like he owned the place and you with it. You never not watched him peel his jacket off, your own arms crossed over your chest as you committed to being angry for far longer than you actually were. It made you feel like less of a weak willed woman. That too was useless though because its not like you ever stopped him when he turned to you and pulled you closer.

It did no good pretending to be mad when the night always ended the same way.

Erik with his arms around your waist and you with your legs around his.

He was always gone in the morning, until the day he wasn’t, and you couldn’t find it in you to be upset about him sticking around. You actually kind of liked it, and that had scared you. He wasn’t supposed to be there in the mornings, and you weren’t supposed to be asking him if he wanted anything as you stood by the stove. Erik Stevens was not boyfriend material, and yet…

That’s what he became.

Even now, years later, you still weren’t quite sure how that even happened. You didn’t know how you ended up sharing an apartment and picking things up at the store for him and sinking into the warm scented bath water he’d draw for you. You didn’t know how you ended up obeying whenever he’d look at you with those dark eyes before softly demanding a kiss. You didn’t know how you’d started letting him circle his hand around your neck while he was fucking you, pulling words and promises out of you that you’d never say in any other circumstance.

It was something you still couldn’t make sense of, and you desperately needed to if you ever wanted to prevent it from happening again.

“Erik Stevens isn’t your average man off the street…”

That was what they told you when they sat you down in some room that was too bright only hours after showing up at your doorstep. All of it had been too much information to fully retain, but you’d processed the important parts. Erik was military���a SEAL to be more exact—and not just a SEAL but also the kind of man who occasionally dropped off the face of the earth to take out important people. It was a nice way of calling him an assassin, and you remembered how sick you’d felt sitting in that chair, recalling the feel of running your fingers over every raised abrasion along his skin whenever he had his hands on you.

“Is this some frat thing I just haven’t heard of?” you’d jokingly wondered one day.

Erik had simply turned to look at you, a hint of a smile on his lips and a hidden joke in his gaze.

“Nah,” he’d drawled. “They just represent something important to me. Milestones I guess you could say.”

Your determination to be open minded had you relaxing in the arms of a killer—a proud one who wore the name KIllmonger with no shame.

Even still, you hadn’t understood what any of that had to do with you. At that point, you and Erik had been broken up for months, something that hadn’t been easy for you to do. Not just because some part of you still wanted him at the end, but also because a huge part of you was terrified of him. You hadn’t realized that his anger and possessiveness were low on the list of reasons why you should be afraid of him.

“This man is dangerous…and the way you parted ways was…less than amicable to say the least…”

You still hadn’t put the pieces together.

“...and the U.S Government is unable to locate him.”

Winding up in something akin to witness protection because the U.S Government had lost one of their own best ‘assets’ had not been something you ever saw for yourself. To this day, you wondered why the one questionable guy you took a chance on turned out to be far more than just the average jealous asshole.

As you sipped your tea, you thought about the last time you were with him, the way your voice trembled as you stood up to him, telling him it was over. You rubbed your arm, recalling the tight grip he had on it, his voice cold and clipped as he asked you if you realized what you were saying.

“You wanna leave me?” he’d asked, head dipped and brows raised like he wanted to make sure you knew that was what you wanted to do.

You could see then that he’d wanted to fight you on it—probably wanted to do a whole lot more than that—but no one had been more shocked than you when he simply let you go with a soft “a’ight” before gesturing to the door. Everything you wanted to take had been removed while he was out, and you’d been surprised at how sad you weren’t to glance around at the apartment now empty of your stuff.

That was the last time you’d been face to face with Erik Stevens.

Until now.

When the cup that was once in your hands shattered against the floor, you paid no mind to the slight sting of hot tea and ceramic shards hitting your bare feet. Your attempt to turn and leave the kitchen had been thwarted, a tall and broad figure standing just before you in the entrance. The sight of the shadowy figure made your heart drop and your blood run cold. The only light from the kitchen wasn’t enough to reveal him completely, but you’d always been able to recognize him in the dark.

He enjoyed scaring you.

For the first time in your life, your mind went blank, finally understanding that phrase as your lips parted. No sound came out—from neither you or him—and you were sure that the sight of you two just standing in the dark and staring at each other would’ve been comical if you weren’t terrified out of your mind. The figure finally moved to tilt his head, his only movement as it leaned to the left just a tad, and the angle made the light glint off of his eyes in a way that made your stomach churn.

You were quick to search for the big light.

You sharply inhaled at the sight of him, confirming what you already knew. He looked the same and different all at once. He was still handsome and tall and wore that expression like you were just so silly to him. However, his hair was longer and the bands of muscle that were his arms were thicker, and he stood with an assuredness that you didn’t like, at all. The flashy gold tooth necklace resting on his collarbone caught the light, and your eyes were briefly drawn to it.

You traced it, a frown taking residence on your face as your gaze kept going. The casual clothes you were used to seeing him in were nowhere in sight, and you took note of the dark attire he was wearing and its patterns. He looked nice—regal one might say—and you swallowed, a very bad feeling festering deep in your stomach.

“What? You got nothing to say to me?”

Hearing his voice for the first time in years brought up a whole lot of emotions you’d tried and failed to bury. You were reminded of his voice in your ear as he woke you up in the mornings or even when he was whispering the filthiest of things against your skin as he kissed his way down it. But you also remembered the angry tone of it when he was interrogating you about some guy who’d waved at you or was questioning your feelings for him.

You remembered loving him and craving him…but you also remembered how terrified he made you feel.

At that, you took a step back—almost dazed—and the man before you kissed his teeth.

“You still on that bullshit, huh.”

Those words—filled with so much dismissal and arrogance—finally made you find your voice.

“What are you doing here?” you gasped, your question coming out choked. “How did…?”

When Erik finally moved, half of him was bathed in the shadows from the rest of the house, and the kitchen light hit his eye again in the way it did before. It glinted dangerously, almost like a feline if you didn’t know any better, and you took another step back. Erik followed your movements intensely, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.

“How…” he tested the word in his mouth, humming. “How is never as important as why.”

You weren’t amused by whatever he was playing at, and that crooked smile only grew.

“So serious,” he mocked, moving to fold his hands behind his back as he looked you up and down, and you hated the way he swiped his tongue between his lips as he did so. “You’re not glad to see me? Not even a little?”

When you said nothing, you watched him roll his eyes, shaking his head and his locs moved with the action. When his gaze met yours again, all humor had been wiped from his face. His dark eyes were intense as he stared at you, lips pressed together and chest heaving with the deep breath he took. You felt like an insolent child beneath his gaze.

“You know what I’m doing here.”

He was entirely serious, and you didn’t doubt him for a second.

“No…”

“You had to know I was never gone let you just walk away from me like that,” he continued, slowly pacing the kitchen and backing you further into a corner with every step he took.

His words brought tears to your eyes, and in this moment, you hated him. What was the point then? Why did he give you false hope that you were free from him? Was it just to fuck with you? Was it his idea of a sick joke? As if he could read your mind, he elaborated.

“I had some things to do,” he told you. “Some…business to take care of before I came back for you and …”

He shrugged like that explained everything you’d been put through because of him.

“...and now that I got my shit together…got everything I deserved, it’s only right that I come back and get you too.”

A noise of disgust left your throat before you could stop yourself, and Erik didn’t try to stop you as you hurried past him. You didn’t hear him behind you as you made your way to the door, too nervous and fearful to look over your shoulder. However, once you made it to the front door, you realized that you didn’t hear Erik after you because he wasn’t after you.

He felt no need to be…and with good reason.

The statuesque women on the other side of your door made you come up short, mouth falling open as you took them in. They were beautiful and straight-faced, heads smooth and wearing colorful attire that didn’t deviate all that much from what Erik was wearing. The long spears in their hands had you stumbling back, and so in shock, you didn’t even register that you’d stumbled right into Erik.

One of his arms snaked around you while the other gently closed the door, effectively trapping you once again.

The silence was loud, and finally, a few tears escaped.

“Earlier you started to ask how I found you…”

You felt Erik’s lips grazing your ear before moving down to brush along your neck. One hand was on your waist while the other had found a home on your arm, kneading the skin through the thin robe. He took a deep breath, inhaling your scent, and you swore that you felt him shudder against you.

The breath you let out was shaky, more tears collecting in your eyes.

“You’d be amazed at what you can do when you’re the king of Wakanda.”

Those damning words had your knees buckling, and when you attempted to throw yourself away from him, Erik’s hold tightened. One hand had a vice grip on your wrist while the other hand snaked around your neck.

“I like to tell myself that I did this because I deserve it, because I was wronged…but that ain’t all…”

When Erik leaned in to press his lips to yours, your mind was finally at war with your heart once again. You’d forgotten what it felt like to kiss him, forgotten what he tasted like, and you couldn’t stop the sharp breath you took as he moved his mouth against yours. The hand on your neck tightened just a tad, like a chain keeping you to him, and you felt him smile into the kiss.

“I like being somebody that you can’t ever leave.”

Those words whispered into your mouth made your heart sink, and your protest was lost as he kissed you again.

You shook in his hold for varying reasons, fear above all else. Erik had his hands on you again, and he had no intention of taking them off. They pulled you and pushed you where he wanted you to be, and it seemed that he decided the couch would suffice. He wasn’t bothered by your lack of consent, and somehow that didn’t surprise you.

There’d been moments in the past when you expressed discomfort or you protested or you rejected him and for the briefest of moments, something had passed through his eyes that made you think he didn’t care. A glint in his gaze that made you think he was going to do what he wanted—take what he wanted—anyway. You’d always had a nagging feeling deep in your chest that Erik was just holding back, keeping himself in check with you because it was socially acceptable and not because he actually wanted to.

…but he was a king, now—something you believed without a doubt—and that title corrupted even the best of men…let alone a man who already wasn’t shit to begin with.

When his bare chest grazed against yours, a shudder traveled down your spine, and Erik reached under you to trace that path with his fingers. One hand was still carefully at home on your neck, and the gold fangs in his mouth winked at you in the nearly invisible lighting. When you felt those abrasions underneath your fingers—every one for a kill—it suddenly hit you that you were underneath him again and for good this time.

“You don’t know how much I missed this pussy,” he murmured into your skin, a hand tightening almost painfully on your waist just as he sank into you.

The feel of his cock stretching you out had your back arching, chest pushing up against his. It hadn’t been just years without sex with Erik but years without sex altogether. Part of it was because you still had some lingering loyalty to the man between your legs, telling yourself he’d somehow know and find you—despite the fact that you weren’t his anymore—and part of it was because he’d simply ruined you for any other man. Either way, it all came back to Erik.

You couldn’t stop the strained gasps that left your lips, the slight sting and dull ache from the stretch making you dig your nails into his skin. This was not what you wanted, but you swore that Erik was stronger now than he ever had been before. The feel of him thrusting himself into you reminded you of all the hours you’d spent wrapped up in each other when things were still good between you. Hell, even when they weren’t, it wasn’t uncommon for an argument to end in you bent over the kitchen counter with Erik’s pelvis pressing against you.

He had a way of controlling a situation, steering it in whatever direction he wanted it to go.

Like now.

How was it that you go into hiding to remain safe from this man only to wind up at his mercy yet again? It was unfair, and you couldn’t stop trembling as you pushed against his chest.

“Erik…”

Your words died on your lips when he shushed you, his locs brushing against your skin as he nipped at your neck and then your shoulder and finally your chest. The light moan you let out was involuntary, and you hated that smug chuckle that escaped his lips.

“You always try to act so tough and shit…but we both know once I get my hands on you…”

Anger bubbled up within you at his words, and you couldn’t resist slapping him. Before where that might’ve pissed him off, Erik only smiled in your face. Taking your hand, he held it tight before pinning it against your stomach, and he looked down, briefly distracted by the sight of his cock disappearing into you. He slowed his thrusts down, and the change in pace almost made you roll your eyes.

“You gone love Wakanda, baby,” he said to you, lips meeting your skin again. “The most beautiful sunsets…”

He nipped at your shoulder.

“...anything you could ever want…”

Another kiss to your lips.

“...and guards to watch your every move.”

His nose touched yours as he said that, and you felt him reach down to hook his arm under your leg. You hissed, feeling him even deeper into your gut as he bent your leg back. Erik didn’t take his eyes off of you as he fucked you, hips meeting yours and the wet sound of his cock dipping into you reaching your ears.

“I came back just for you,” he darkly told you, completely ignoring your hand pushing at his stomach. “...because what kind of king would I be with no queen at my side?”

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀

[logray]

MICHAEL B. JORDAN in movies by RYAN COOGLER

FRUITVALE STATION (2013) CREED (2015) BLACK PANTHER (2018) BLACK PANTHER: WAKANDA FOREVER (2022) SINNERS (2025)

[dreamivyisla]

⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐀𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐑 ⊹ ࣪ ˖

𝐅𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆 ➤ Killmonger (N’Jadaka)

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ after erik killmonger seizes the wakandan throne, a royal strategist loyal to t’challa is forced to remain in his inner circle.

𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ my sister wanted this, and this is my first Killmonger fic? LIKE HELLO??? definitely making more because why didn’t i think of this BEFORE? enjoy!

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ➤ 6.3k

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ dirty talk, hate sex, emotional and psychological manipulation, impact play, mild breath play, throne sex, black!thick!reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), use of african language (xhosa/zulu inspired), mentions of political violence. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!

✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡

the halls of the golden city no longer sounded like home. they echoed now. not with the ancient rhythms passed down by your foremothers. not with the low, ancestral chants that once settled over the palace like fog at dawn. no — they echoed with the weight of new boots on sacred stone. boots that did not belong to a king.

they belonged to a conqueror.

erik stevens — no, he called himself n’jadaka now — had taken the throne barely two weeks ago. the blood from the ritual combat had not yet fully dried in the sacred pool, and yet the council already bowed their heads to him, lips tight with fear. there had been no second trial. no challenge. the mountain tribe stood down. t’challa’s body had vanished with the river.

you’d known t’challa since you were children. you used to spar with him beneath the shade of the elder tree, both of you too proud to admit when you’d bruised. he trusted you to hold the long-view strategy for wakanda in your hands — one of the few civilians allowed in the high council chambers. strategist. advisor. loyalist. and now… traitor, by some mouths. prisoner, by others.

but erik hadn’t thrown you to the dungeons.

instead, he kept you close.

“a mind like yours shouldn’t rot in a cell,” he’d said, the day after the coronation. he’d spoken it low in your ear, like a secret only you were worthy of. “nah… i want you right where i can see you.”

and now here you were — standing in the war room, your thick frame wrapped in deep blue and gold robes, tension stiff across your shoulders. the rich fabric clung to the slope of your hips, accentuating the body that no uniform could hide. you could feel his gaze on you before you even turned around.

“what you think, strategist?” erik’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. deep, deliberate, heavy with that oakland-born bite. “we hit london first? or new york?”

you didn’t look at him right away. instead, you traced the holographic map glowing across the table with your fingers, watching the borders pulse with potential violence. cities were marked in red. colonizer capitals. your jaw tensed.

“wakanda does not conquer,” you said, carefully. not too soft. not too sharp. “that is not our way.”

“yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “and where that get y’all? watchin’ while your brothers and sisters got they necks stepped on. wakanda been hiding.”

he circled behind you like a panther. not quite touching. but close enough that your skin prickled where his heat brushed you. you refused to flinch. he wanted to see you rattle. it was the game, now. every day — the game.

“this ain’t about revenge,” he said, lowering his voice. “this about balance. and power.”

“power built on blood doesn’t last,” you replied, turning finally to face him. your eyes locked. his were molten — dark and unreadable, but sparking with something cruel and magnetic. “and what you’re building… it’s made of bones.”

he didn’t blink. just smiled slow, head tilting.

“so?” he asked, tongue dragging across the edge of his teeth. “that bother you?”

he was too close now. tall, broad, shirt open at the chest. gold fangs flashing beneath full lips. skin dusted in the faintest sheen of sweat and sun, each raised kill mark down his chest a monument to pain — and victory. you hated how magnetic he was. how his presence filled the air so fully it pushed everything else out. his scent was warm metal and cedar. his voice was gravity.

“you loyal to t’challa,” he said, voice dipped low again. “i know that. but you still here. still breathin’. still dressin’ like you got somewhere to be.”

his eyes dragged down your figure — from the tight fold of your waist wrap, across the swell of your hips, to where your thighs brushed under soft fabric. you shifted. not out of discomfort — but because you could feel how intently he watched you.

“you tryna prove somethin’?” he murmured. “or you just don’t know where else you fit now?”

you straightened, spine like steel.

“i serve wakanda,” you said. “not the man who sits on the throne.”

his laugh was soft, almost amused. but there was no kindness in it.

“sound like you tryna convince yourself.”

each day after that followed a pattern. you studied maps, advised on diplomatic approaches you didn’t believe in, and fed him half-truths through clenched teeth. still, he kept you near. always asking for your perspective, always testing your loyalty. his soldiers looked at you with suspicion, but they didn’t touch you. not without his permission.

he was possessive like that. even when he didn’t say it out loud.

and slowly — sickeningly — you started to understand him.

not agree. never that. but understand.

how anger had carved itself into him, root-deep. how power was the only language he’d ever been taught. he wielded it like a weapon, sharp and beautiful. and when he wasn’t using it to dominate a room, he used it on you — with whispers, glances, and challenges he knew you’d rise to.

he never tried to force you. he didn’t need to. erik killmonger was more dangerous than that — because he made you want to play his game.

he’d lean close during briefings, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured critiques. he’d stand at the top of the royal steps while you debated councilmen, watching your every word like a test. and when you succeeded — when your voice swayed the elders just enough — he’d nod, slow and proud, like he was claiming you for it.

“look at you,” he’d say, later, while passing you alone in the garden corridors. “still tryna save people who would’ve let you die with the old king.”

you hated how deep those words burrowed. hated how you still walked the halls after dark, pulse racing at the sound of his voice in the distance.

one night, weeks in, you found yourself summoned.

not by a guard. not by a formal scroll.

just a voice in the corridor. soft. direct. one word.

“come.”

when you stepped into the throne room, it was empty but for him. torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the black stone floor. the panther statue loomed silent behind the throne.

erik sat on it like he was born there. legs spread. arms relaxed. gaze dark and direct.

you didn’t bow.

you didn’t speak.

he studied you in silence for a long moment, then motioned you forward with two fingers.

“you believe i don’t deserve this,” he said, voice level. “say it.”

your throat tightened. but you forced yourself steady.

“i believe your rule is built on a lie,” you said. “wakanda’s legacy is not yours to twist.”

he didn’t move. didn’t blink. but his voice dropped, slow and rough.

“and yet here you stand.”

your lips parted — to argue, maybe. or to defend yourself. but no words came.

“i ain’t stupid,” he said, rising from the throne. “i know what this is.”

he stepped toward you again, each stride deliberate.

“you hate me,” he said, stopping just inches away. “but you watch me. every time. you listen. you fight back.”

his hand didn’t touch you. but it hovered just near your jaw. his heat was a weight. your breath quickened.

“ain’t no loyalty in that,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “that’s desire.”

you said nothing.

but you didn’t step back.

he smiled. slow. teeth sharp.

“loyal little queen’s dog,” he said, voice dripping heat. “you ever wonder how it’d feel to break?”

your pulse thudded between your thighs.

but your voice stayed even.

“never,” you whispered.

his eyes dropped — from your lips, to your chest, to the curve of your hips.

“we’ll see.”

his fingers ghosted along your jawline, calloused and hot, but still not touching. erik didn’t rush. no — he never did. dominance for him was earned in slow, suffocating inches. he wanted to watch you squirm under your own restraint. test the shape of your resistance until it shattered on him.

“ain’t gotta say yes,” he murmured, voice low and thick like honey-drenched smoke. “but you ain’t leavin’ either. so what that tell me, hm?”

his thumb dragged — barely — across the curve of your lower lip. your breath hitched. he felt it.

you hated him.

but you wanted him more.

you turned your head just enough to break the spell, stepping back one pace. but that inch was his permission — and he followed, advancing like he owned the ground beneath your feet. your back met the edge of the throne before you realized he’d corralled you there. trapped between carved stone and muscle-thick heat, your body buzzed like war drums. your thighs clenched without command.

“mm,” he laughed, low in his chest. “there she go. wakanda’s finest. thick as the land itself, still actin’ like she ain’t dyin’ to break for me.”

you didn’t respond.

not with words.

you reached for him instead — finally, with fingers curling into the front of his open vest. not a surrender. not exactly. just… the beginning of something too old for language.

his mouth met yours like fire. brutal, claiming. teeth clashing, lips hot. it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was a fight dressed in heat, breath on breath, until you moaned into his mouth and he groaned against your teeth. the taste of him was sweat, blood, and something darker — control.

his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, open slap.

you gasped, clinging harder.

“yeah,” he growled, sliding one thick thigh between yours, forcing them open. “you like that, huh? all that royal pride, but this fat lil pussy tryna talk to me different.”

you rocked against his leg before you even realized it — heat pooling deep between your thighs, clit desperate for friction. the throne room was silent but for your breath and the echo of his voice wrapping around your moans.

“what would t’challa say, huh?” he teased, hand curling around your hip as he pulled you harder against his leg. “his loyal strategist grindin’ on a nigga she swore to kill.”

you bit your lip, tried to turn your face — but he caught your chin in one hand and held you there.

“nah,” he said, low. “you look at me.”

his eyes pinned you in place, molten and unmoving. you couldn’t look away if you tried. not now. not when his fingers slipped beneath your wrap and found your bare skin, dragging slow up the inside of your thigh.

“this what you been hidin’ under all them robes?” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “this fat-ass pussy been waitin’ on me, huh?”

you whined — not in surrender, but need.

he chuckled deep.

“bend over.”

you hesitated.

his gaze sharpened. darkened.

“ngenze njalo.”

the words hit your core like a flame. do as i say.

you obeyed.

hands braced against the throne, you bent for him — thick ass high, legs wide. you heard the hitch in his breath as he stepped back to take in the sight.

then—

smack.

his palm cracked across your cheek again. not too hard. but enough.

“keep that arch,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your folds from behind. “mm… this shit wet as fuck. and i ain’t even fucked you yet.”

you moaned, low and shivering.

he knelt behind you, breathing hot over your inner thigh. his mouth pressed to your pussy — not kissing, tasting. tongue flat and deliberate, slapping your clit before sucking it with slow precision.

“fuck—!” you gasped, knuckles white on stone.

he didn’t rush. took his time. tongue moving like he owned the rhythm of your body. your thighs trembled, fat and soft against his jaw. he moaned into you like the taste alone was divine.

“you ridin’ me tonight,” he said, rising behind you again, voice thick with hunger. “on my throne. i want them pretty titties bouncin’ while i watch you fall apart.”

you turned as he shed the rest of his vest — then his pants.

his dick hung heavy, thick, the kind of size that made you pause. covered in veins, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow while he stared you down.

“come on, queen,” he murmured. “show me what loyalty look like now.”

you climbed onto the throne — his throne — hands braced on his chest, thick thighs spreading over him as you straddled his lap. his hands found your hips, pulling you down so the head of his cock teased your entrance. you both breathed ragged.

then — you sank down.

inch by inch.

his mouth dropped open, teeth grit.

“god damn,” he hissed. “this pussy heavy as fuck.”

you rode him slow at first — adjusting to his size, your walls clenching tight. his eyes never left your face. not once. his hands guided you, rhythm building with every bounce of your thick ass. you bounced harder. louder.

smack.

his palm slapped your ass again. then again. red prints bloomed.

“take that dick,” he growled. “look at you — thick lil loyalist, takin’ a real king’s cock.”

you whimpered, rolling your hips faster, sweat sliding down your throat. your tits bounced, full and heavy, catching his eyes with every thrust.

“say who this pussy belong to,” he demanded.

you moaned, too far gone to think, riding him like salvation. like war. like you hated him — and loved the way he destroyed you.

he grabbed your throat.

“say it.”

you whispered it.

“…you.”

his eyes lit with fire.

he flipped you in one swift motion — your back now against the cold stone of the throne, legs spread as he pounded into you, harder, deeper, cock hitting every spot like he knew you already.

you were nothing now. just gasps. heat. slick. sweat.

he grunted, one hand pressing on your lower belly as he fucked you deeper.

“you feel that?” he rasped. “i’m in there. ain’t no goin’ back now, mama.”

you clawed at him, body coiling tight.

your climax ripped through you like thunder — back arching, mouth open in a silent cry.

he followed seconds later, spilling deep inside you with a growl, hands fisting in your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.

you laid there afterward — still on the throne, legs sprawled, his breath heavy on your neck.

he kissed your shoulder once.

then again.

not gentle. not soft.

just… his.

✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡ ⋆｡˚ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ✧˚ ʚɞ˚ ༘✿ ♡

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐃𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐌𝐈𝐕𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐋𝐀.

(not my best work, but i promise the next killmonger one will have better smut)

[insidekatmind]

Mine-Erik Killmonger

Wearning: +18,smut

Request: yes!

The arena of Wakanda is a whirlwind of voices and tension. You’re in the front row, watching the fight that could change the fate of the nation. Erik Killmonger, with his powerful physique and the scars of his battles, stands tall like a titan against T’Challa, the Black Panther, a man you’ve always admired.

Your heart is pounding. The tension in the air is almost suffocating.

And then it happens. With a decisive move, Erik lifts T’Challa and hurls him off the waterfall. The king falls, his body swallowed by the waters below, and a chilling silence descends upon the arena.

Killmonger turns to face you, the people of Wakanda. His eyes burn with determination and defiance. He moves like a lion that has just claimed its territory. He points at the void left by T’Challa, the king’s body now out of sight.

“Is this your king? Huh? Is this your king?” he shouts, his voice echoing through the mountains. Every word strikes like a blow, every pause weighs heavily on your chest.

Your eyes fill with tears, but you don’t look away. You can’t. You’re frozen, your loyalty torn between the grief of loss and the fear of what’s to come.

“The Black Panther, who’s supposed to lead you into the future! He’s supposed to protect you!” he continues, his voice as sharp as a blade. You feel exposed under his gaze, as if he’s speaking directly to you.

Then he pounds his chest with his fist, his eyes locked onto each of you. “Nah, I’m your king.”

As the crowd remains divided between silence and murmurs, you clench your fists.

After the fight, Erik was sitting on the throne of the kingdom and you voices inside the room where he was. M'Baku tries to stop you but you ignore him. Erik looks at you with a smirk. He leans back on the throne, his smirk still in place, his eyes locking onto yours. M'Baku stands nearby, trying to hold you back.

“What’s this?” Eric says, amusement in his voice. “I have visitors already.”

M’Baku shoots you a warning look, but your eyes stay fixed on Erik as you approach.

“You killed T’Challa,” you blurt out angrily, moving closer to him. M'Baku's eyes widen and he tries to pull you back but you glare at him.Eric’s smirk deepens, almost as if your anger pleases him. He leans forward on the throne, his gaze intense.

“Killed T’Challa?” he repeats, his voice dripping with mockery. “That’s a strong way to put it. I defeated him. Fairly.”M’Baku clenches his jaw, but stays silent, his hand still on your arm, trying to keep you from getting too close.

You glare at Erik as you try to pull away from M'Baku. Eric watches you struggle against M'Baku’s grip, the smirk never leaving his face. He stands up from the throne and slowly approaches you, each step deliberate and filled with authority.

"Seems like you have something to say," he says, his voice taunting yet commanding. "Go on. Speak your mind."You glare at him and were about to speak but M'Baku interrupts you.

“I'm sorry my king, but Y/n is just upset, she doesn't know what she's talking about” he says putting his hand over your mouth warning you not to do anything stupid.You, M'Baku and T'Challa have always been great friends.

Erik smirks, his gaze flicking between you and M'Baku. He moves closer, towering over both of you.

“Upset, huh? I don’t blame her,” he says, his tone slightly mocking, but with a hint of understanding. He turns to M’Baku. “And you think you need to silence her? That’s not very friendly of you, M’Baku.”

M'Baku stiffens, his eyes narrowing at Eric. "I'm not trying to silence her, my king. I'm just trying to prevent her from doing something foolish." You squirm trying to get his hand away from your mouth.

Erik’s smirk broadens as he watches you struggle against M’Baku’s grip. He raises an eyebrow at M’Baku. "Looks like she’s quite feisty. I like my woman feisty."

You look at him in disgust. You were betrothed to T'Challa and since she is now dead and Erik is the king, you were betrothed to him. Erik chuckles at your look of disgust, clearly amused by your reaction. He knows full well the implications of being betrothed to a king.

"Ah, I see you've already realized the situation you're in," he says, his voice filled with a hint of mockery. "As a future queen, you should show me a bit more respect, don’t you think?"

You manage to lift M'baku's hand. "Respect? You are a murderer and I will not be your queen" you blurt out glaring at him. Erik's smirk vanishes. His eyes flash with annoyance as he steps closer to you, his presence suddenly menacing.

"Watch your tongue, princess." His voice is low and dangerous, a clear warning not to push his buttons. "I am your king now whether you like it or not. You would do well to show me some respect."

M'Baku's grip tightens on your arm as he tries to pull you back again, but you stand your ground, your defiance clear in your eyes. "I will never show you respect," you retort, a mix of anger and sadness in your voice. "You killed T'Challa. You betrayed Wakanda. I will never bow to you, you monster!"

Erik's face hardens at your words, his eyes narrowing. He takes a step closer, towering over you. "Monster?" he repeats, his voice laced with irritation. "You think you can lecture me on morality? You have no idea what I've been through. No idea what I've had to do in order to survive. To fight for my people." He takes another step, getting right in your face. "You've lived a privileged life in this golden city. I've lived a life of struggle and pain. Don’t judge me unless you know what I've endured."

You look at him without saying anything. Erik watches you the whole time. “Leave me alone with my future queen,” Erik says to M'Baku without stopping to look at you. M'Baku looks between you and Erik, hesitating for a moment, then he reluctantly lets go of you and leaves the throne room, closing the door behind him.

Now you're alone with Erik, the tension in the room palpable. He studies you intently. He circles you like a predator, his gaze locked onto yours. For a moment, he says nothing, his eyes roaming over your face, your body. Finally, he breaks the silence. "You have a lot of fire in you," he says, his voice low and quiet. "I find that... intriguing."

He stops directly in front of you, his presence overwhelming. "But you need to learn your place. You are mine now. My future queen, like it or not." He reaches out and gently brushes a strand of hair away from your face, his touch surprising in its tenderness.

"You can fight it all you want, but it won’t change a damn thing," he continues, his hand now cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his gaze. "You will be my queen. And you will bow to me. Whether you do it out of love or fear, it doesn’t matter. You will bow." He leans even closer, his voice barely above a whisper now. "And I have every intention of earning your submission," he purrs, his eyes flickering down to your lips. "One way or another."

As he leans even closer, his face mere inches from yours, your heart begins to race. You're both angry and flustered by his presence, his words, his touch. His face is so close that you can feel his warm breath on your skin. He’s so tall that you have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.

"You're a very beautiful woman, you know that?" he whispers, his thumb gently caressing your chin. "I can understand why T'Challa valued you so highly." He leans in even closer, his lips almost brushing against your ear. "But he's gone," he murmurs. "And I’m here. You’re mine now." His words send a strange shiver down your spine, a confusing mix of fear and something else, harder to define.

He pulls away slightly, his eyes searching yours. "You may hate me. You may despise me. But you will be my queen. And you will serve Wakanda as my partner."Erik runs his fingers down your arm, his touch sending another shiver coursing through your body. "And if you don’t... I have ways of making you cooperate."

His words hang in the air, a clear warning. His eyes soften for a brief moment, and a hint of vulnerability sneaks into his gaze. “You’re strong,” he says, his voice almost… sincere? “I respect that. But you can’t win this. You might as well accept it and make the best of it.”

You look at him vulnerable. Erik notices your softening expression, your vulnerability. It throws him off for a moment, he wasn't expecting that reaction. He studies you intently, his eyes searching yours, trying to decipher your thoughts. He can feel a change in you, a chink in your armor of anger and defiance. Erik steps closer, his hand moving to your cheek, his touch gentle.

"You're still angry," he says softly, his thumb tracing the contour of your cheekbone. "I can see it in your eyes. But there's something else. A hint of... resignation?" Erik watches you closely, waiting for a response, the room silent except for his heavy breathing.

You close your eyes for a moment holding back the tears of anger and losing T'Challa. “You killed T’challa,” you whisper weakly. Erik’s eyes soften even more, noticing the pain and weakness in your voice. He takes another step closer, his body now almost pressing against yours.

He places his other hand on your other cheek, gently cupping your face, forcing you to look at him. “Yes,” he whispers back, his voice almost tender. “I did. I had to.”

Tears fall from your eyes and Erik pulls you closer as you try to hit his chest and he lets you do it as he strokes your hair. He lets you push and shove against him, silently taking the blows without resisting. He just holds you closer, his hand soothingly caressing the back of your head as you hit his chest. A strange gentleness is in his eyes, a hint of empathy. He understands your pain and your anger, he sympathizes with you.

"Shh," he whispers quietly, holding you close, letting you cry. "I know it's hard. I understand your pain." Erik rests his chin on the top of your head, his hands rubbing your back in slow, gentle circles. He stays like that for a moment, holding you, letting you cry against his chest, the sound of your sobs filling the room. As your tears slowly subside, he pulls back slightly, tilting your face up to look at him again.

"I know you hate me," he says, his voice filled with more vulnerability than you've ever heard from him. "But I'm not the heartless monster you think I am. I do have a heart, though it's been buried deep for a long time." His eyes roam over your face, taking in your tear-streaked cheeks, your quivering lips. "I didn’t want to take T'Challa from you, but I had no choice. The throne belongs to me. And you..." he pauses, his hand gently tracing your chin. "... You belong to me now too."

He leans closer, his lips hovering just millimeters from yours, so close you can feel his warm breath on your skin. "And maybe, in time, you'll learn to accept that. Maybe even more..." His face is so close to yours that you can barely think straight. His body is almost pressed against yours, the heat of his skin radiating through his clothes.

He's waiting for a reaction, but you don't know what to do. You're still angry, you're still grieving, but there's something else there too, something he's awakening within you... His lips find yours in a surprisingly gentle, almost tentative kiss. It's a stark contrast to his usual rough demeanor. His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer to him.The kiss deepens, his tongue demanding access to your mouth. He kisses you with a hunger and desperation, as if he's been waiting for this moment for a long time.

You kiss him back, holding on to him. He responds to your kiss enthusiastically, his hands roaming over your body, his tongue exploring your mouth with a primal lust. Erik backs you up against the nearest wall, pressing his body against yours, trapping you in his grasp. His hands move from your waist to your hips, pulling you even closer, his fingers digging into your skin. His mouth leaves yours, moving along your jawline, down to your neck, where he nips and kisses the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake. He presses his body into you, his hard muscles rubbing against your soft curves, the heat between you building with every second.

Erik kisses you again and walks back up to his throne, sitting on it making you straddle him as the two of you continue kissing. He sits down on the throne, pulling you onto his lap, your legs on either side of him. He captures your lips in another intense kiss, his hands roaming up and down your body. Erik lifts you slightly, positioning you better on his lap, his body pressed closely against yours. You can feel the heat radiating from him, the desire coursing through his veins, matching your own.

Erik unbuttons your dress, taking it off you without ever taking his lips away from yours. He kisses your chin, your neck, your collarbone, his lips blazing a trail down your body, his fingers roaming across your skin as if he can't get enough of you. His mouth is hot and insistent, his hands desperate as they explore your body. He lifts you again, bringing your chest level with his face, his lips trailing down your neck to your chest, his breath hot on your skin.

You moan softly and cling to him as you move on his lap to be closer. You moan a little louder feeling his erection between your legs. He growls at the sound of your moans, the vibration sending a shiver down your spine. As you grind against him, feeling the hardness between your legs, he grips your hips tightly, holding you in place. Erik looks into your eyes, a dangerous mixture of desire and possessiveness gleaming in his gaze. "You're mine now," he whispers, his voice deep and hoarse. "All mine."

He captures your lips again, silencing you with a deep, urgent kiss. His hands roam over your body, fingers digging into your flesh, leaving behind a trail of fire where they touch. He nips and kisses your neck, your collarbone, his hot breath sending waves of pleasure through you.

“Erik” you groan.

He responds to the sound of his name, his hands gripping you tighter. He leans forward, his mouth moving towards your ear. "I love the sound of you saying my name," he whispers huskily. "Say it again."

“Erik” you repeat. He growls again at the sound of his name on your lips, a low, primal sound. He pulls you closer, his body molding against yours, every inch of him pressed against you.

"Good girl," he purrs, his voice a deep rumble. "Moan my name again. Let me hear how much you want me." You moan as you move your hips making you grind on his erection.

He groans loudly at the feeling of your hips grinding against his erection. He tightens his grip on your hips, almost to the point of pain, trying to control himself. Erik lifts his head from your neck, his eyes dark with desire. “Do you feel what you’re doing to me?” he murmurs, his voice thick with lust. “You're driving me crazy."

You moan feeling Erik slap your ass and move your hips onto him. “Erik” you moan again resting your head in the crook of his neck as he continues to move your hips. He loves the way you moan his name, the way you surrender to the pleasure. Your head in the crook of his neck, your body willingly allowing him to control your move your hips, it’s more than he ever dreamed. Each time you say his name, it spurs him on, his desire burning hotter and hotter with each passing second.

With his left hand he plays with your little thong that you are still wearing while with his right hand he continues to move making you ride him. His left hand slides over you, his fingers slipping beneath the thin material of your thong, caressing your skin. It's so intimate, so possessive, it makes your head spin. Erik continues to control your movements with his hands, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, the friction and heat between you increasing with every motion.

With your head still on his shoulder, he moves his lips to your ear, his breath hot and uneven as he whispers. "You like that don't you? You like how I make you feel. You like being controlled by me."

“Yes,” you moan, moving your hips with the help of his hand. He grins darkly, loving the way you respond to his touch, his control. His hand on your hip tightens, guiding you in the motions.

Erik moves his lips from your ear, down to your neck, his tongue tracing a path across your skin, the heat between you building to almost unbearable heights. He bites down gently on your collarbone, his teeth leaving behind a mark on your skin. A mark that proclaims you as his. He pulls back to admire the mark, a look of satisfaction in his eyes.

“I'm going to come” you whisper as Erik moves his hips again. You had made his jeans wet with your arousal. He groans as you say you're close, the sound sending a shiver through him. He picks up the pace, moving with you, his breath ragged in your ear.

"I can feel you," he growls, his fingers digging into your hip. "You're so close. I can feel it." He adjusts his movements slightly, applying more pressure to your core, his own body clenching in anticipation.

“Erik” you moan feeling close. He smiled looking at you with lust as he slapped your ass. "Who is your king?" he whispers to you with authority. Your eyes meet his, the demand in his voice sending a shiver through you. You reply, your voice breathless. "Y-you are, my king."

His smile widens as you call him your king, a possessive gleam in his eyes. He pulls you closer, his chest against yours, his lips right next to your ear. "And who do you belong to?" He asks, his tone dark and commanding.

"You," you breathe, "I belong to you, my king." You surrender entirely, willingly giving yourself to him, body and soul. He growls again, the sound filled with approval and satisfaction. He kisses you fiercely, his tongue invading your mouth as the two of you continue to move against each other.

"Good girl," he murmurs between kisses, "You'll be a perfect queen."

You moan and come on his jeans. He feels you come on his jeans, the wetness seeping through the fabric and onto his skin. He groans, the primal sound reverberating through his chest. Erik slaps your ass, stopping your movements and then gently caresses your ass while he holds you against him as you bury your face in his neck, his hands now gentler, caressing your ass and soothing you. The moment is intense, intimate, and it solidifies your connection even further.

After a moment, he lifts your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are dark with desire, but there's a hint of softness there too, a vulnerability that he usually hides. "You're mine now," he says, his voice firm, but also tender. "No one else will have you. You understand that, don't you?"

You nod, your gaze locked with his. You understand what he's demanding of you, the commitment he's asking for. It's not a small thing, but it's what he wants, and deep down, it's what you want too. "I understand," you whisper, your voice a soft admission. "I'm yours."

A satisfied smile plays on his lips as you speak the words he's wanted to hear. "Good," he murmurs, his hand still on your chin, keeping you close. "You're mine, and I'll do anything to protect what's mine."

[phoenixyfriend]

Somewhere out there is an essay about superhero movies where villains co-opt, misuse, or even just misunderstand the language of the left to push methods and goals that are incompatible with the actual theory of the left, but that sound Right And Good to viewers who aren't thinking it through entirely. And the essay is not just about how they compare to each other, but how they are a litmus test for viewers to know how susceptible they are to propaganda.

Co-opt: Most obvious example and the inspiration for this post is the Riddler in Batman (2020, the one with RPatt). The Riddler recites leftist rhetoric about corruption, wealth hoarding, and redistribution, but his actual actions and goals are unrelated. He's an accelerationist who's more interested in tearing down a system that didn't benefit HIM than in actually rectifying the problems, and who cares if a few kids get traumatized or even killed along the way?

Misuse: Easy mode, this one's Thanos. He talks about ensuring there's enough for everyone to eat, but like. Bro.

Misunderstand: Erik Killmonger, who has the benefit of both some incredibly legitimate grievances and a pretty face, but also kind of fails at the idea of intersectionality, proportionality, or Start With Words Before You Escalate. He's the easiest to sympathize with, because he has some really good points and ultimately does appear to be legitimately pursuing those goals... but he's also a misogynist, jumped to international terrorism before "call up my cousin who doesn't know I exist," and there's something in there about the role played by his time in the US military, which gave him emotional trauma, head trauma, and a sincere belief in the validity of US-style insurgency operations based on hostile takeovers of inconvenient countries. He's charming and pretty and sincere... he's just also, in many ways, wrong. And the parts where he's right makes it easy to try to ignore the bits where he's wrong if you're predisposed to like him and prefer some absolutism.

Anyway, yeah, there are definitely other examples, but the ones that were suggested to me didn't quite vibe with the base idea (Mysterio and Vulture both had disgruntled union moments in the MCU, but they left those roots so quickly that I don't think the concept of using leftist rhetoric as cover/justification for the crimes really applies since, they very quickly shift gears into revenge and greed respectively).

Someone's probably done this better orz.

[mcuchallenge]

Happy birthday, Michael B. Jordan! (February 9th, 1987) 🎈

MCUCHALLENGE YEAR OF CELEBRATIONS

[jbbmylove]

How I love tragic men

[kawaiigirly21]

Just some guys I'm delusional about 🥰🥰🥰

I'm totally normal about them. 100% Might write about them? Lemme know if y'all want a story about any of them. Gonna focus on my marvel mens rn

[why-i-love-comics]

Ultimate Black Panther #13 (2025)

written by Bryan Hill art by Stefano Caselli & David Curiel

[thebaronsilver]

Thunderbolts* vs Brave New World

I've been seeing posts that say that the reason people adore Thunderbolts* but dislike Brave New World despite the later earning more in the box office than the former, is racism.

That it was because the lead was a black man carrying a shield, that people seem to hate on it.

What I would like to say to that is this.

Not everything is about Racism.

Case in point, the Black Panther. A film where the cast in nearly entirely black, especially compared to the Brave New World. Plus, 95% of that character list was introduced for the first time in that movie too. And yet, no body says that it was a flop. T'Challa and Killmonger fought and debated their way into our hearts and we know it. That movie did not dumb down the villain to make the hero better. The Villain actually beat up the hero so badly that he needed to regroup repeatedly. Killmonger was not a caricature of evil. He had a very good reason why he did what he did. His actions might have crossed the line but in the end, at least half the theatre walked out of that movie thinking "he wasn't wrong though", including the hero of the movie. There was mutual respect, however grudging it might have been between the two and it showed. Black Panther was a masterpiece.

Then let's come to Brave New World. It's a decent movie, but does it match up to the Black Panther or the Thunderbolts*. In my opinion, NO.

Why?

The Villain, Ross. Why did he do what he did? What are his deeper motivations? Just wanting power isn't a true motivation. It's superficial. What motivated him to walk the path that ultimately led to the Red Hulk? As long as we cannot answer this question from a single watch of the movie, Ross remains a caricature of evil. That's where both the other movies won. We know why, when and how Erik and Bob got where they ended up. It doesn't matter whether we agree with them or not. But the fact remains that they had actual depth to their characters while Ross did not.

All three movies end with "talk no jitsu" as the people call it. But in Black Panther, they talk as Erik is dieing, with T'Challa acknowledging that Erik had a point but he could not let him do what he wanted because more violence was never the answer. But also promises to do what he can to correct the mistakes of his elders that led them both to this point. Erik thinks T'Challa is soft but honorable. Ultimately he has no choice but to trust T'Challa because he's literally dieing. So the talk between them makes sense. In the Thunderbolts* we meet Bob first. Then, Sentry. Then, the Void. And Void is essentially a manifestation of Bob's crippling mental issues. A bunch of grey shade wackos did not defeat a near god with guns. They couldn't have. What they did do is let Bob know he isn't alone. That he doesn't have to face his monsters alone. That's why the "talk no jitsu" works here. Because it's Bob that defeats the Void, Bob that defeats his depression because he finally got the support he needed. Because he didn't have to do it alone and that's a form of strength on its own. Then we get to Brave New World where Ross and Sam are somewhere between mutual disdain and hatred almost the entirety of the film and suddenly just because Sam said so, he turns himself in and agrees to go to prison quietly. If it had been his daughter instead of Sam, then I would have seen the beauty of that scene. But Ross had nothing to gain by listening to Sam. Sam wasn't someone he begrudgingly respected like Erik did T'Challa. Ross had the power in the situation and he just threw it all away because, why? The question remains unanswered.

Killmonger and Void were active threats that had actual power, that the heroes needed to struggle against. But the Red Hulk barely showed up in the last 10 minutes and voluntarily imprisoned himself. Red Hulk was not the threat he could have been, that he is in the comics. He got powered down so that Sam could talk him down.

The CGI in the Brave New World makes me cry. Especially in those last scenes. It kind of looks like somebody stuck a picture of Sam into the background.

And of course, Brave New World made more money than the Thunderbolts*. It's been out longer and is a marvel movie. That label alone would convince a lot of people to watch the movie atleast once.

Brave New World couldn't decide if it was a spy movie, a political thriller, an action movie or a superhero movie. It tried to do lot of things at the same time but failed. Thunderbolts* meanwhile is about a bunch of not so good guys that got together unintentionally and helped a friend fight his crippling depression. It tried to do one thing and did it well.

TLDR; Not everything is about racism. Brave New World is genuinely mediocre compared to the Thunderbolts*.

[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.

[erikftglitter]

Sorry [e.k]

Erik being a little inconsiderate of your feelings & makes it up to you. [part two]

//

You and Erik got into an argument last night. Instead of you two talking in person like two adults, you ended up making things worst with a phone call. Instead of Erik listening to your concerns and apologizing for his inconsiderate behavior, he attempted to justify his actions.

You couldn’t deal with his lack of self reflection so you hung up on him. He gave it a few minutes before he realized that it was purposeful. You really hung up on him. You two rarely argued so he gave you a couple hours before reaching back out.

1 missed call from Baby🥰

Baby🥰: Soo you just gone hang up? Very mature.

Baby🥰: Man call me back

You seen the notifications and ignored all of them. You even turned your read receipts off before going to sleep. You’ll deal with him when he learns how to apologize.

//

Realization hit you when you woke up the next morning without warm arms around you. You checked your phone and rolled your eyes.

Baby🥰: You turned your read receipts off too?? Fuck are you even on

Baby🥰: So you done with me now? That’s really how you finna solve this shit

You: Don’t you have friends to bother? Leave me alone.

His friends are the reason for this whole thing. You don’t mind him leaving and spending time with his friends because you aren’t controlling. However, instead of communicating that he’d be drunk with his friends on the opposite side of the city he just didn’t say anything.

For thirteen hours, he didn’t reply to any of your messages. You weren’t excessive but you were concerned. Erik doesn’t exactly have a regular 9-5 job so him disappearing for thirteen hours definitely concerned you. When he finally called you back, drunk as can be, he said his boys picked him up and he simply forgot.

You wouldn’t be as pissed if he said he was sorry and that it’d never happen again. Erik was strict on communication because he was extremely protective over you. He usually knows your location and your schedule and it doesn’t bother you because you usually can say the same thing. But that wasn’t the case last night. He had no location available and no one heard from him.

You had every right to be upset is what you kept telling yourself as you got dressed for the day. He was wrong in this situation and you weren’t giving in until he provided a better answer than “I forgot.”

Baby🥰: Leave you alone? what are you even onnnn

You ignored the message and threw your phone across the bed. You were probably being stubborn but he had you really concerned without any explanation. Since the beginning, Erik has told you that anything can happen to him and because you fell in love with him you hid that in the back of your mind.

After getting some household chores done and watching a few hours of Netflix, you drifted off to a deep sleep.

//

You tossed and turned most of night and you know it’s because of Erik. Although you two didn’t live together, it felt like it. You were always together and he was usually the one who comforted you. You thought about giving in but brushed the idea off as quickly as it came.

Baby🥰: I’m not doing this shit no more. You’re mine and I’m not just letting you ignore me or our relationship. I’m coming over

Reading the message several time, you hurried up and got dressed. You weren’t ready to give in that fast and you know you weren’t strong enough to ignore Erik once he’s in your presence.

You brushed your teeth and washed your face while group face timing your friends.

“Ite can one of you hoes come get me before Erik gets here? I’m still mad at him.” You say as your friends laugh.

“Yeah I’m on my way.” Sandra says from her place in the right corner.

“Pack some hoe clothes cause we’re going to the club later.” Jamie adds as you brush your hair into a loose bun.

//

Afrer explaning how you felt to your friends they immediately argreed with you.

“Yeah, he’s in the wrong. A relationship is built off trust and communication and he has to address your concerns.” Sandra says as she zips the back of your dress up.

“100 percent.” Jamie adds. They’d both pick you up around noon and urged you to keep ignoring him to make him “feel” the consequences of his actions. You listened even though the voice in the back of your head told you to hear him out.

You showered at Sandra’s house once you told them everything and got dressed. There was a club not too far from Sandra’s house and your friends convinced you it would make you feel better.

So here you were in a fitted dress and heels with your face beat and your man no where near. You did like to hang out with your friends and get dressed up, but since you’ve been going out with Erik you’ve enjoyed being in the house more.

So as your friends grinded on the dance floor with some random guys, you quietly made your way to the patio to get some air. It was only a few people out there so you felt at ease.

You selected a small table facing the skyline to sit and recollect your thoughts as the server came with your margarita.

“Beautiful, aint it?” You turned your head so fast you almost spilled the margarita. Instant recognition of his voice made your body shudder.

There he was, dressed in all black and his hair pulled up just like you like it.

“What are you doing here?” you finally say once you’ve admired his full attire.

“To say I’m sorry,” He says. His hand softly touching your thigh as he pauses. “I didn’t mean to make you upset or be inconsiderate to your feelings,” his hand aching higher to your heat. “I had to take care of some business downtown then once I handled that I ended up having too much to drink.” This was the first time y’all made eye contact.

“I’m sorry.” His eyes full of genuineness. “I really am.” He adds while hand manages to snake your panties to the side.

“I-Erik!” You whisper-shout. He looks at you cheekily.

“I just wanna show you how sorry I am.” He smiles as he begins to rub in circular emotions. “You may wanna keep it down.”

Your thights jerked as his fingers never slowed their pace. You attempted to drink the margarita to look normal by the scattered people around but Erik knew you too well.

“Ain’t nobody looking, you may as well and cream on these fingers why you still got the chance.” He says lowly. You nod and he picks up the pace.

“I-ugh, fuck!” you breathe out as you feel your orgasm approaching. He speeds his fingers up to the sound of your breathing and bits his lip as he feels you cum around his fingers.

“Let me take you home and fuck you the right way.” He whispers in your ear once your breathing begins to regulate. You nod and allow him to lead you down the patio stairs and into his car, your pussy just aching to have him inside.

//

[part two]

[madameaug]

Whose Better Than Me?

Erik "Killmonger" Stevens x Black Fem Reader

WARNING: Erik is extremely toxic. Threats of homicide and suicide. If these subjects matters upset you please scroll :)

The chapel smelled like roses and old wood.

It had seen better days — faded pews, chipped altar, dust tucked into the corners of its stained-glass windows. But the church still stood with pride, rooted in generations of Black love and tradition. Your paternal grandmother was baptized here, as were her parents before her. It was also the same place your mother and father exchanged vows.

There was a lot of history here.

You stood behind the heavy double doors, heart beating hard against your ribcage. You fiddled with the lace at your waist, trying to keep your hands from shaking. The vintage-style dress hugged your upper body with a sweetheart neckline that perfectly framed the sapphire pendant your mother wore on her wedding day. From the waist down, it flared into a voluminous ball gown. Your natural curls were slicked back into a neat, low bun, woven with tiny white crystals like fallen stars.

You felt silly for being this nervous — not cold feet, just emotion bubbling too close to the surface. You blinked fast to keep your makeup from smudging. Your fiancé was a good man—no, a great one. Alvin Freeman. Dentist. Soft-spoken. Generous. A man with a honey complexion, calloused hands from years of working in underserved communities, and a smile that could warm the bitterest room. He proposed just one year after meeting you at a public health conference, and not once had he made you feel like you were too much or not enough.

Regulating your heart rate you blew out a heavy breath. Your father stood on your right. Years of hard work etched into his skin, calluses that could only be grown from thirty years in manual labor. Yet in your arms they felt like pillows. A man of few words, you didn't bring to his attention the red glaze in his eyes. Tears threatening to fall. You were the last of his 'baby girls' to wed.

The doors opened. The soft piano cover of Beyoncé’s "1+1" floated through the air. You took your first step, and it suddenly felt like everyone in the room was watching just you. Their eyes were heavy with joy, memories, expectation.

Your gaze stayed straight ahead. Not daring to glance at your sister, who you could hear sniffling, or your mother, who you knew was mouthing a prayer.

Alvin stood at the altar, eyes already brimming with tears. His seafoam-gray suit fit him like a glove, and his cologne drifted to you like a whisper. When he saw you, his jaw trembled.

"You look beautiful, baby," he said, voice low and cracking.

You smiled, wiped his tears, and the guests let out a soft "aww." As the officiant welcomed everyone, Alvin lifted your veil. It was surreal. You were floating.

"Dearly beloved. We are gathered her today to witness and celebrate the union of two souls in marriage. Today is a day of joy. Marriage is a promise a promise to stand beside one another through every high and every low, every triumph and every challenge. It's not only built on passion, but trust, respect and unwavering commitment.

On this day, Yn Ln and Dr. Alvin Freeman are choose each other- choosing to walk forward hand in hand, not as two individuals but as life partners. In front of friends, family, and the people who mean the most to them, they make a sacred vow to cherish, to protect, and to love.

They have both taken the time to write their vows to each other. But before we move the exchanging of vows, I ask if there is anyone here who has reasons why this couple should not be joined in marraige.

Speak now-"

"You don't have to finish the rest."

Every head turned.

Erik Stevens stepped through the open church doors like he owned the place.

Combat boots. Fatigues. A devil-may-care smirk stitched across his face. The room didn’t recognize him — but you did. Your soul did. He wasn’t just an ex. He was a ghost you’d buried.

"How come I didn't get the invite, Yn. You don't want me here on your big day." He emphasized the later half of the sentence. Mouth dry and speechless, you couldn't muster up the ability to speak.

"Erik." Your fiancé snarled.

"Oh, so you have told him about me." Parking his step, his eyes never left yours. Barely even acknowledging the stares from all around. His eyes were focused. Focused on no one but you.

"Get the fuck out of here."

Never had you heard Alvin use that tone of voice. He was a naturally easy-going man. Rarely fixing his voice to raise it above a conversational tone. Stepping in front, you, Alvin squared off with Erik.

Brave- yet stupid.

Sure you had a discussion about your previous relationships. And you were honest, telling Alvin about your relationship with Erik. Erik was a man hardened by the world, with a stack of cards less than promising. Mother sentenced to federal prison for life, left to be raised by a father who ran the streets. Until the moment his father was gunned down outside of the apartment Erik lived in. Shipped between foster care, Erik never knew of a good, loving home. A man looking for someone to carry some of his baggage and make his pain hurt less.

You never told Alvin about Killmonger. Erik's black-ops code name that haunted you in this very moment. The skills that Erik was naturally gifted with made him a perfect asset for the US Navy Seals. To the public, he was a defense strategist and specialist. But all that really meant is that he was a ruthless killer.

Erik held the title of being your first real relationship. No puppy love, but plans for forever. You never told Alvin that Erik had shown you all the wrong ways love wasn't supposed to feel. That you both were trapped in a cycle of loving and hurting each other.

Taking a step toward Erik, Erik looked over his shoulder. Smiling at the frightened faces of your family. Lifting his shirt, Erik pulled out a semiautomatic pistol. Aiming directly at Alvin's head with one eye closed with chilling precision.

"I ain't going nowhere." You could hear the hinges unwraveling from the way Erik spoke. Your chances of walking out of here with no bloodshed were dwindling with every passing second.

Alvin lunged toward Erik, and a gunshot cut through the silent tension.

Everyone hit the ground.

And officially, all hell broke loose.

Your ears rang. For a moment, all you could hear was a high-pitched ringing. Slightly disoriented, you hadn't realized how hard you hit the ground. The wooden floor now cold as your elbows scraped against it. Your train twisted beneath you, you kept your head down until you heard your sister's panicked scream.

Looking to your left you saw scrambled to your knees crawling over to Alvin.

He was down; his body lay stiff on the steps leading to the altar. Blood was already soaking through the pale fabric of the suit. The suit that he picked out because you liked the color. His breathing was ragged and his eyes blinked slowly.

"Stay with me- just breathe, baby. I got you, You're gonna be okay." Hands covered in blood. It was like a horror movie coming to real life. Your dress ruined. However, that couldn't even fully register, as you were only concerned with keeping Alvin breathing.

"Yn." He rasped. "Leave, get away from here."

"Shh. Don't talk. Save your energy." You said, panic tightening your throat.

In front of you Erik peered over you. He clicked the safety and tucked the gun into his waistband.

"Look what you made me do,” he said, voice almost playful. “You always did have a thing for soft niggas. Thought maybe the white coat would make me jealous, huh?”

He looked around at the horrified faces of your family, everyone either frozen in shock or crying silently on the floor. “Y’all don’t gotta worry. As long as nobody tries to be a hero again… I ain't shooting nobody else.”

He turned to you with that same venomous grin. “Unless I gotta.”

You stood, body shielding Alvin’s, even though your knees threatened to buckle.

“You’ve made your fucking point, Erik. Just let them go. They don’t have anything to do with this.”

He tilted his head at you, like what you just said was so amusing to him.

"See, that's where you're wrong. They have everything to do with this. They put you int that dress. They talked you into some happily-ever-after bullshit with a man who ain't built to handle you." He stepped close to you. His voice lower.

"You think I forgot about you? You think I ever could?"

"You are the one who left me." You shot back.

"You put a gun to my head when I begged you to stay with me. But you choose your missions, every single time."

"I protected you. You never saw the dark sides From the evils of this world. I was called to a greater purpose. Liberating people who look like us all over the world. I left so you wouldn't see what I turned into."

Shaking your head you couldn't believe what you were hearing.

"I never stopping thinking about you. I watched from a distance to make sure you were safe. You were mine then, and you're still mine now."

With as much defiance you could gather, you swallowed hard. "You became a monster."

He scoffed.

"Is that so? I remember the way you looked at me when I was the only one who had your back. When no one believed in you. When the world turned its back on you, who was there for you Yn? Me. Every time you cried, I wiped those tears. When I brought Heaven to your Earth. Admit it. You couldn't get enough of me."

"Don't pretend this clean-cut charity case dentist loves you the way I did. He can't even survive a bullet wound."

"Come with me, and no one else has to get hurt."

You looked back down at Alvin. His eyes still full of love for you. He held your hand weakly. Shaking he brought your hand to his lips. New blood is beginning to pool at the corner.

"Erik, he needs a doctor!"

"I don't give a damn about him." Alvin's grip on your hands progressively gets weaker. Moving your hands to hold his face, your body sobbed. His breathing was shallow, every second ticked by like a death sentence.

Erik continued pacing. Growing more frustrated by the minute. On his way over here he timed to the exact minute how long he was going to take. Calculating the math to be just shy of nine minutes. He burned through five minutes already.

"Do you remember the night I left for Wakanda. You pleaded for me not to leave. How you grabbed onto to me, crying not to leave you. Said that you needed me to feel safe."

But you were silent. You didn't look up. Holding Alvin's head into your chest. But you must have forgotten how Erik feels when he is ignored. It was one of his childhood triggers. Feeling ignored, abandoned. It made him desperate for recognition.

"Don't fucking ignore me, Yn." He snapped, in a swift motion pulled out the gun again.

Crouching down to the other side where Alvin laid. He burned a glare into your face. You could feel his eyes, but you opted to keep eye contact with Alvin.

"You welcomed me back with open arms. I came back with new scars, a couple on fractures that would take months to heal. You didn't care. You loved me, took care of me."

"I didn't know what else to do. I was scared." You hissed.

"You kept me in the dark. You came home with blood on your hands. I stayed only because I thought I could help you. But that's how you used me. That's how you controlled me."

A bitter laugh erupted from him. "Control? Not at all baby. If I wanted control you'd be in the car already. No dress, no ring."

A fresh wave of rage washed over him.

"You think he could ever know you the way I do? He'll never be able to make you feel the same as I did. The way you use to whimper for me. Legs shaking, your body molded for me. He can never give you that."

Prepared to seal Alvin's fate, your father stood up from his seat. Fury written all over his face. Erik always prepared pulled out a second weapon. But now it was aiming at your father.

"Sit the fuck down old man."

You lunged onto his legs. "Don't! Please- Erik. Don't you fucking dare."

"There's my girl.I always knew you liked the crazy."

"I was misguided and you loved that. You fed off it. I didn't know what love felt like. You made me believe love hurts."

He was quiet for a moment. Really quiet. Nostrils flaring.

"You think this is pain? This ain't nothing. I would do anything for you. I came here for you."

"You shot my fiance!" You screamed at him.

"Stop bringing him up." Clicking off the safety on the gun pointed at Alvin. Erik locked eyes with you.

"Tell me, Yn are you willing to die for him?"

"Please-"

With a warning shot nearly missing Alvin's chest. Erik wanted a direct answer.

Yes or no.

His fingers hovered over the trigger. "You wanna keep playing this game. I told you. You come with me and nobody else dies." He barked out.

You stood to your feet, slowly. Alvin groaned behind you, you could hear his wheezing getting louder. Your heart was splitting down the middle. Palms open you approached Erik.

"Put the gun down, and I'll go with you."

"Yn no-" Alvin tried to reach for you, but the amount of blood that he loss was catching up to him.

Erik remained stoic by his words. He stared at you. Like he was trying to read every part of your brain. Showing a slight act of good faith, Erik lowered the gun pointed at your father. You saw his chest drop, slightly relieved that his life was no longer in immediate danger.

"You have one chance." Erik pointed the weapon at you. Not aiming to kill, but to move in the direction away from Alvin. Leaning over Alvin, Erik's smile grew.

"I don't even have to waste another bullet on you." He lifted his foot to provide a swift kick to his abdomen. One kick turned to two, then three. No one dared move from their position. Erik laughed as he brutalized Alvin. Not caring that splurts of blood landed on the wooden floor.

Quenching his thirst for violence Erik grabbed one of your arms with a death grip. Leading you away from the chapel and way from your family. But you hadn't lost your fight. You saw the SUV that Erik had likely prepared for his escape. You wiggled against him, trying to run away. But he was strong, too strong.

Putting all your weight on your heels, you faught with all your might. Tearing the sleeve on your dress. In the moment of distraction, you managed to reach for one of the pistols on Erik's hip.

Now, balancing the odds in your favor you took a step back. Hands shaking from the weight of the weapon. Erik just stood in place. His gaze followed your every breath. He hadn't reached for his gun yet, but it was out by his sides.

"Hands up!" You commanded.

"I'm not afraid to die," His voice wasn't raised. No indication of fear- it was worse than that. Calm. Cold. Controlled.

"Part of me died a long time ago."

"You need help, Erik."

“You ever look in the mirror and not recognize the man staring back?” he continued, eyes unfocused now. “I seen too much. Done too much. Burned through every goddamn good thing in my life, and for what? So I could stand here and watch you marry some soft-ass man who never had to fight for his life?”

For every step he took forward, you took two steps backwards. Removing the other gun from his waistband, he put the barrel to his temple.

For the first time that day, he showed an emotion other than anger. He was allowing you to see him.

"Do you not love me?"

"I used to." You paused before you continued. "I really did."

"Then how could you move on. Leave everything that we had behind."

"Because I love him. Erik, I was in a dark place myself when we started dating. I was trying to figure out how to love you, while trying to love myself. It was never going to last."

"You don't know that."

"It was clear as day. The fighting to make up. The cussing and throwing things, just to hold each other and confess our fears. It was a recipe for a disaster."

Your eyes blurred, and you put down the gun. Erik kept the gun pointed at his temple. He was unusually quiet. He shook his head looking at the ground.

"Everytime I find something good in my life, it slips right out of my hand."

"But not this time." He pointed the gun at you, know with his fingers over the trigger.

"You will be the last thing I let slip out of my hands again. I can promise you that." And with his tone, he meant every word.

"We will leave this Earth together, Yn. This world don't mean shift if you aren't with me."

"It doesn't have to be this way." Slowly raising the gun back up. You were unsure if you were actually prepared to pull the trigger. Crossing the lines from victim to perpetrator.

With one final plea, you asked for Erik to leave. An eye twitched, and he looked you over. As if this would be the last time. Then he turned- gun still in his hand. He got into the SUV, speeding off, a smell of burned tire in the air.

Sirens could be heard in the distance.

You fell to the ground. The dress doing little to cushion your fall. Little had you know, Alvin had just taken his last breath.