My Request list : Hello, I am a passionate black writer, and if you ever have a request, you can DM me or press the button up top. Make sure to have plot idea when you send it, (any person or any character from a show/movie with whatever genre, smut, fluff, angst)
A/N: Stack being submissive for his girl, enjoy!🙂↕️😏🤏🏽🤏🏽
Summary: You asked Stack if he’s open to being submissive, and he obliged. Little did you know. He had a secret sex room hidden down below his own house, once you were shown the room. You brought your A-game, while he obeyed your every command like he trained by you.
Warnings: BDSM, soft!Stack, begging, a submissive Stack, male whimpering, rough sex, slight angst, dirty talk, light praise, degradation, choking kink, dom!reader, consensual for both parties, raw sex, cumshots, glasses kink, creampie, manhandling?
Normally, Stack was the dominant one in the bedroom. You were both submissive and dominant yourself. You prefer to switch it up, and show off just as he did. For Stack, he would fuck you roughly or slow but passionately when he loved you deeply, his hand around your neck, his half-lidded eyes on your every reaction. Stack loved to tease, talking his shit, and
He would drag out his thrusts just to hear your moans longer, and just to make you cum, and, squirt, again and again. Stack would often have you ride him, take control as he looked up at you, in love, wanting, desire in the view of beauty.
A part of you couldn’t help wondering why he was so nasty? Was he always like that? Was Stack taught some things by all sorts of different black women through experiences? He must’ve been taught that pleasure was more for women, than his own. Studied. Perfected. Practiced until he was the way he is now.
Maybe his perspective changed over the years? Either way, you had questions of your own.
But the question that really tugged at you? Would Stack be open to being submissive for you? Let you take the lead as many times as you liked.
He couldn't be the only one dominant in the bedroom. You were as well.
Maybe he can wear handcuffs as you ride him? Handcuffs included or not, just so he couldn’t touch you.
That one little fantasy of yours played in your mind like a movie, vivid scenes of you standing over Stack while he was on his hands, and knees.
You sat criss-crossed on the couch with your eyes glued to the television, watching a marathon of random movies, some of which you were familiar with, some you weren't. You pushed your glasses to the bridge of your nose.
Stack was set to return home early tonight because he and Smoke had finally secured the holiday week off from their jobs together. Various ways of income to pay off everything on their own business. Fast money.
You reached for a bag of chocolate turtles on the coffee table, and shoved one in your mouth, and held the remote in your hand, lowering the volume. Just as you heard a car pull up in the driveway of the house.
You heard his Cadillac rumbling outside as the vehicle came to a gentle stop, rumbling on a fresh tank of gas.
Old school R&B belting through his car speakers, thumbing, rattling from the exterior of his car.
Adina Howard's "Freak" started playing, the chorus kicking in perfectly as Stack let the lyrics draw you and the neighbors in. Loud. Abrupt.
I want a freak in the morning, freak in the evening.
Just like me.
I need a roughneck nigga that can satisfy me.
If you are that kind of man.
‘Cause I’m that kind of a girl.
Stack has been blasting a lot of freaky music from the decade, as you assume that he was giving out hints to you, here, and there. You noticed it, but you haven’t said anything yet.
You didn’t want to come off too forward to Elias, still, he was a big ol’ freak with standards of his own in the bedroom. What he was into, or what he wasn’t into. He knew when to stop immediately, ask, and check for his girl to make sure that you were comfortable.
If you weren’t, then it’s okay too.
Stack killed the engine. Your lip curled into a mischievous smirk, heat blooming through your face. He made it back in one piece, safe and sound.
“He's home…” You mumbled, clutching the heart-shaped pillow close to your chest.
The click of shoes against the concrete, and darkwood resounding from outside, the jaggle of house keys in hand, the twist of both locks. The door swung open, revealing Stack in an oversized hoodie, chocolate brown, and matching sweatpants. Timberlands, and socks on his feet.
He closed the door behind himself, kicked off his shoes. Hurried his way to you near the couch, his hands mushed your face together. Stack kissed you all over your face, lips, nose, forehead, and cheeks as many as he could. Fogging up your glasses, you chuckled softly.
“Hi, boo. You missed me?” You inquired playfully, grinning between the kisses he gave.
Before he could pull away, he kissed your lips twice just for affection again. “I always miss you, and now I get to spend more time with my girl…”
“You good? How was work today?” Stack asks, his southern drawl spills over, warm, and thick like molasses. He hopped over the couch to sit beside you.
“Yeah, I’m cool. It was okay. How about you?” You lay your head on his shoulder, and his lip curled into a cheerful smile.
Stack shrugged like it was a usual day. “A’ight. All I look forward is my brother and I getting the money. I’m good.”
“As long as you’re good. That’s what matters.” You mention, your hand curled around his buff arm, soft, still firm.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
“Hey, can I ask you something?” You passed the remote to Stack, as he grabbed it from you.
“What’s your mind?” Stack’s eyes flickered to the television mounted on the wall. He flipped through channels, the light rays of vibrant colors glistening across his brown skin, and yours.
“I want to be fully dominant this time. You know? Would you be open to being submissive?” You asked, swallowing once. The sound came soft enough for him not to hear.
“You serious? I've been wanted to try it out,” Stack confessed, his southern drawl spilling out, deepening with a raspy. his hand on your neck. His thumb swiped across his gold chain.
“Really? I've never taken you for the submissive type, Elias. Have you done like that before?” You took a sip from your water bottle, as your brown eyes locked with your boyfriend’s.
Stack nodded understandably, his eyes darted to you. “Yeah, I have. Some women prefer it that way, and it’s cool with me.” He shrugged like it was casual.
“Good. You want a chocolate turtle?” You asked, pointing to the bag of chocolate turtles on the coffee table.
“Yeah. Feed it to me,” Stack added, his face leaning in close but not too close. His voice dropped to a sexy rasp, sent a tingling warmth through your thighs.
Your fingers picked out a chocolate turtle, and moved toward his mouth, Stack’s mouth wrapped around chocolate turtle, subtly around your finger, his tongue swiped over the piece of chocolate, biting into the treat, caramel spilling over his tongues, bits of pecan fell in. He moaned hoarsely at the taste, pushing it in.
He eat the entire piece of chocolate turtle, swallowed it fast, the sound was soft, as his brown eyes flickered to the television, and back to you.
“You like it? Some may not like chocolate, caramel and pecans together but I do. My mom liked them.” You asked, a brow rose at him, twisting the cap on your water bottle.
Stack nodded eagerly, humming in response. “Yeah, they real good.” His tongue swiped over his lips. He reached for the bottle of Gatorade, twisting the cap off before sipping it down.
“Um. Elias, can I ask something a little unhinged, and out of pocket?” You chuckled sheepishly, your hand on the nape of your neck.
“Yeah, you know you can ask me anything, Y/n.” Stack shrugged it off like it was nothing. But you had to mentally prepare to ask it.
“Do you have a sex room downstairs?” You asked too fast, your voice came out nervously but steady enough that it caught him off guard.
Stack almost choked on his Gatorade, coughing roughly. His hand over his chest, clearing his throat. His lip bunched up as if he was trying not to tell you. Your hand patted his back, as he says, “Thanks,”
Stack looked at you again, but this time it was softer, and careful. He had to tell you one way, or the other.“You really wanna know?”
“Yes, tell me!” You exclaimed, your hands gripped his buff shoulders, propped yourself on your knees pressed in the coach.
“A’ight then, but don’t say I ain’t warn yo’ fine ass.” Stack admonishes, shrugging again.
Your head tilting, your face twisted faintly like he was out of his rabbit ass mind. “Stack, it’s a sex dungeon, and I’m sure there’s nothing in there. I’ve haven’t seen before.”
Stack chuckled it off cockily, with a faint curl of his lip. He stood from the couch before circling around it. Hands behind his back, as if he had something up his sleeve.
Stack strode toward you with a mischievous smirk on his face, bowing as he held out his hand. Your eyes dart between his eyes, and his hand, feeling like you’re about regret asking later.
Your hand grabbed his gently, as his fingers interlocked with yours. Winking playfully at you, while he led you through the hallways of the house.
However, the man reached for a remote from the dresser in his bedroom. His thumb pressed the button, and you see the door in front of him flipped over into a a crimson velvet door with the first initial of a big bold ‘S’ on it.
Stack grinned at you, sliding the remote in his pocket. He reached for the doorknob, swung it open, as he led you through the door. Once inside, the elevator was a bit small and covered in red velvet carpet, including a small window, and your body pressed against his.
His muscles taut beneath the fabric against your skin. The heat sinking in the fabric of your pajamas. Your fingers gripped the thick fabric of his hoodie.
Stack closed the door and locked it behind him. He pressed the button on the remote in his hand again, prompted the small elevator to descend slowly to the lower floor while 90s R&B music played through tiny speakers. Stack softly hummed along to Ginuwine’s Pony.
Your eyes flickered up at him, giggling. “You would play this song with your nasty ass.”
“You like my nasty ass though, Hm?” Stack hummed, his hands mushed your face, gently shaking your head from side to side. He pressed a soft kiss against your lips twice.
“You've been playing a lot of freaky ass music from the 90s? Are you giving me a hint, or are you more of an R&B head?” You asked with curiosity, your head tilted.
“I'm more of an R&B head. I've been on a binge lately. The old school music has been speakin’ to me for a while.” Stack purrs, his nose nuzzling across yours.
“Sure it has.” You say sarcastically, squiting at him.
Stack snickered mid-breath, his hand mushed your face together again. He pressed a kiss on your forehead to your nose, then down your lips again. There goes that warmth through your body again whenever he's affectionate.
Ahh, Elias Moore. Your man.
“You're nasty, freaky music always speakin’ to ya.” You quipped at him, his hands on his chest.
“You know that...” Stack drawled with his hands cupped around your ass possessively.
The elevator ride dragged on for another hour or so, a string of R&B music humming through the small speakers of the machine. Stack hummed lightly to Natural Thang by Donell Jones.
The elevator finally opened to you, and Stack. He led through the long, narrow hallway with the same walls with red linoleum flooring underneath. How long were these hallways of the room?
“How long did it take you to build this? You brought other women down here before?” Your eyes scanned the hallway gradually.
“It took me a longer than a few years to build it, and design it myself. You’re the first person I brought here, baby.”
Stack finally stopped in front of the door of his underground room, reaching for the knob. Twisting it, and swung it open again.
The smell of sandalwood, something sweet like candy, and linen across the fabric of the bed, the rug. It included air conditioning to keep the place warm, and toasty.
Once you, and you man stepped through it. The room was spacious, with no windows, the floors below your sock-clad feet were matte onyx, and you could see your reflection in it. A king sized bed with crimson sheets and matching thick pillows lay neatly, with a blanket.
You spotted a pristine shelf of sex toys, his belt, fuzzy handcuffs, butt plugs, a leather dog collar with a leash attached to it, and vibrators, a gag ball, and a string of rope. Also, there was a fridge on the right corner of the room.
Your mouth agape, as your brown eyes scanning through every corner of the room. Speechless. Not a word spoken.
“Close that pretty mouth, sweetheart,” Stack demanded, his voice like velvet and gravelly.
Your mouth closed just as he told you to. Your eyes flickered to the man standing in front of you, his back leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed.
“Why is there a fridge?” You pointed to the fridge in the room.
“I get hungry, and watch movies, baby.” He says casually, pushing himself off the wall.
You nodded. “Okay. This place is very clean, which I like. It doesn't smell bad,” You gazed upon the room one last time to make sure you weren't dreaming.
“Damn, you’re a big ol’ freak, Elias. You always take it to another level, and never fail to bewilder me,” You confessed, half-laughing, half-bewildered.
“Experience teaches you things, here and there. You learn, and study, and perfect it till it’s right.” Stack bantered, his hand flying around the room.
“Mhm. Now that we're here. Take off your clothes, and get on the bed.” You demand, pointing to the bed like it was an order.
“Yes, ma'am.” Stack obliged without hesitation.
Stack backed away, with his hands held up in defense. But that smirk curled on his handsome face, fisting his hoodie, flung over his head. Threw it across the floor, and pulled off sweats like it was nothing. His boxers came right off.
His dick was set free from the fabric, thick, wide in girth, and veiny with a mean curve to the right. Stack hisses softly at the cool air brushing across his dick, as he fell flat on his back across the cool mattress, the faint squeak underneath.
His back leaned against the headboard, with his hands behind his head. Teeth trapped under his lip, dimples visible in his cheeks. His deep brown eyes flickered toward you, sat man-spread. Legs spread wide enough for you to see his dick on display, his abs sculpted, taut muscles on every inch of his body. Unhinged.
“Come get’chu some..” Stack flirted, his voice deepened with that accent, and that rasp. Gravelly still softened like velvet, drawing you in.
How does the man ooze dominance, and sexiness while being submissive? Your teeth dug into the soft pigment of your lip, as if the gears were twisting in your mind. You had to get this right.
Your eyes shoot out of your head. Widen. You forgot how big he was. You cleared your throat while you spun on your heels. Heat blooming through your thighs, and face to your neck.
Striding toward the shelf of his BDSM collection, and you stopped immediately. Your eyes swept over the toys until they landed on the handcuffs, and the dog collar with a leash. You reached for the leash, the dog collar, and the handcuffs.
You exhaled softly, nerves buzzing through your body. Your thighs clenching tight, your panties already wet. Stack blinked once, his head leaned to the side, his face softened.
“You good over there? We can stop if you want to?” Stack asked softly, his brows rose.
“Yeah, I'm good. Just a little nervous.” You reassured him, and yourself at once, swallowing once.
You got this. This is Stack we’re talking about. He’s fine with it. He’ll stop immediately if you don’t want to. You shook your head to brush off that anxiety buzzing in your body.
You spun around on your heels again, and strode over to the bed. Placing the toys on the edge, and stripping out of your clothes, slowly. Stack helped you up on the bed; you plopped down on your stomach. You, and him shared a snicker of mischief together.
“This bed is so big, and soft!” You exclaim with a smile, Stack chuckling softly at you.
Your naked body pressed his, your breasts touched his chest lightly. The nerves faded away, as the warmth crept in at the right time.
Your head turned in his direction, and your chin lay on his buff chest. Your warm brown eyes met his, batting your eyelashes at him. “Safe word, baby?” you inquired softly.
Stack hummed lightly, trying to gather the right safe word. His face lit up as the perfect color popped into his head, as if a lightbulb flickered over it.
“Red...” Stack drawled softly, his hand on the small of your back, thumb tracing circles on your melanated skin.
Your hands on his buff chest pushed you up to meet his gaze down below, his gaze following you, as you hoisted yourself straight up, with your knees pressed on the bed on either side of his waist, you could only hear the slow breathing between you, and your man.
“Good boy. Red it is then. You can say it at any time if you’re uncomfortable with anything, okay? Please let me know..” You added, your hand patted on his buff chest softly.
“I got you, and I’ll let you let know if I’m not comfortable.” Stack reassured you, nodding once again.
You reached for the dog collar with the leash attached to it. Your hand moved in a ‘come here’ motion, and as he leaned forward to you. Propped himself up by his elbows. You brought the dog collar to his neck, and wrapped it around with a soft click.
Your eyes met his again, with a steady concern, your face softening to see if he was still comfortable with it. Stack nodded for consent. “It’s okay...” He soothes to you, his face softening with yours like he was matching the pace of your mind, and body.
Your hand gripped the leash, and gently yanked at it. Stack lunged forward by the tug of the leash, his teeth dug into his lip, as if he was gritting his teeth. A soft whimper spilling out of his mouth, a sound of pure arousal, and satisfication.
“Don’t be pretty wit’ it. Show me more somethin’ than a gentle tug. Get real mean…” Stack coached with a low rasp; his head nodded to the leash in your hand.
Your hand yanked the leash forward roughly with a mean twist of your wrist, and Stack moaned, whimpering your name under his breath. “Damn…Y/n…” he hissed through gritted teeth.
Your stomach had a tingling warmth fluttering through your body, and your pussy was throbbing, clenching around nothing at the sight of Stack being so submissive below you.
The tug of the leash around his throat sent the blood down his dick, stood tall, thick beads of precum spilled from his tip, and throbbing with a desperate jolt of pleasure buzzing through his body like lightning. His hips pushed into the air for friction. His soft whimpering, tiny, raspy groans spilling from his lips. “Give me more, baby…” he begged for it, and drooling.
“I’ll show you...”
You hovered over him, as he angled himself upwards. You lowered yourself over his dick, wiggling your hips, your head craned back, gasping for air at the stretch. “Ahhh…shitt..” You hissed through it. Stack’s eyes darted up at you; his hand on your hip. You, and Stack whined softly. “All…the…way down…” Stack panted heavily with that rasp. Your hips plopped down with a sudden plunge. Stack flinched, until you were filled completely. “Just like that..” he praised softly, whimpering. You moaned from the thick size, pulsating against your walls, choking his dick. “You good up there, love?” you asked softly; he nodded frantically.
You bounced ruthlessly top of him, riding him with brute force; he soft grunts, raspy whimpers through every bounce. His big dick hit your spot in an endless loop. “Fuckk…Elias…” you panted softly. Your hips were grinding. Your pussy was still clenching, gushing down below from his dick to his balls. You cried out with your man; he caught your gaze above him. But Stack needed more. “Do it again…get meaner…”
The raspy rumbling from his throat. Your hand yanked the leash harder while you straddled him brutally, riding well, dominating Stack. He groaned in pleasure. His hips thrusted upwards, roughly. “Yeah…gimme that.” he taunted, voice raspy with need. “You're cute—fuck! When you listen...” you managed to say, through every moan. Stack unraveled; he was breathless under you. Your hand smacked his off your hip. His moans were desperate. “No touching...” you groaned; your hand yanked the leash again. Stack whimpered with a rasp.
Your nails dug into his pecs deeply, your mouth fell open once he thrusted upwards. “You killin’ me…” he hissed. A grin on your face. Your mind was so far away; you kept bouncing on his fat dick. The white essence below widened around. “You like to be treated this way? Like a big ol’ slut, ‘Lias?” You spewed with a moan. You felt full, and wetter than ever. You gushed again. “Fuckk...yeah,” he groans. Unapologetic. Fisting the sheets, fucking you upwards.
Stack looked up at you with a faint smirk; those dimples, and he smacked your ass. His abs clenched as he drilled upwards. “Elias! Shitt!” Your hand yanked at the leash, as he let a guttural groan. Your thumb grazed his sensitive nipples. Stack moans. “Uhhhnn…Y/n..fuck..” he rasps, rocking himself into your walls. Your hand yanked at the leash, with a clank of the chain. His chest heaved under your palm.
You quickened the pace, that had Stack trembling, whimpering. He ruined you again, and again, and your ass clapped against his balls.
His mouth wrapped around your right nipple, while he cupped, and pinched the other one. Your pussy was swollen, wet, and bruised. His quivering thighs pressed against yours. Stack panting heavily like he was losing breath. “Baby please..” he moaned, his mouth on your neck. Teeth dug into your areola, leaving behind hickeys. His hips are rutting into you, stretching you open. The tension in his shoulders and the soreness in your thighs pushed you and Stack to the limit. “Just like that…” you praised, as your nails clawed at him. You sought friction, yet you wanted to feel more of him.
Overcome with sensation, you felt like stars were exploding in your vision, as if he had taken you beyond the stars. Your thoughts were clouded, and all you could do was moan. "I-I'm gonna cum!" Stack pushed himself in inch by inch. A feral moan rippling from your throat, raspy. Stack gritted his teeth, stifling a moan that escaped anyway. Your walls tightened like an instinctive reaction. "Gimmie..Y/n..” he says lowly, panting. Your pussy tighten around him, drawing him in before he could fuck deeper.
Without hesitation, Stack flipped you on your back unexpectedly. No hands.
Stack plowed into you; he fucked you into the mattress, so deeply that you could feel the metal springs press deep. "S-sorry..." he whimpered softly. Your yanked at the leash roughly; he groaned. The fabric's burn on your skin sent a wave of heat through you. His hips pushed forward fast, and long strokes, savoring the sensation of you. Your moans grew feral, and heavy. “B-bad..fuck!” His breathing grew heavier, as if he was blowing smoke through his teeth.
“Yeah…I’m need…to be inside you deep...” He rasps, dragging his mouth across yours through every slow stroke while fucking you deep still. “Elias! I'm gonna cumm!” You could barely form a coherent sentence, your body trembling against his. "That's right..Gimmie..all..good..shit!"He moaned in your ear, the pleasure overwhelming.
You let out a hoarse moan until your voice faded. Your white cum spread from his tip to the base, spilling onto the sheets. Your hand held onto his; your knees felt like jelly. “Get there wit' me..” he coached. Your hand yanked the leash again. The heat in his thoart, and the ache in his body, sweat clung to you. "Cum with me.." His teeth plunged into your shoulder, biting hard, as he breathed rapidly through his nose, his breath hoarse.
His palm resting over your stomach, his fingers splayed poesseively. “You’re mine....” You cooed, biting your lip. The feel of your stomach clenched, as he rammed, harder, and the feel of his dick in, and out. He plunged roughly, held your neck.”Every time, I fuck you deep. That pretty lil pussy clench.. ” Stack pants, hips rolling in, his tip hitting that soft spot. Your pussy clenched as if by Stack’s nasty talk. Thrust. Clench. “See?” Your back arched longer than you hoped. “I see! I see!” You whined at him, your arm linked around his neck.
He flipped you on all fours like it was routine, his hand on the small of your back with the other on your hip. “So deep!”you cried out, your toes curled. Stack tried to hold in his climax as best as he could, quickening the pace while gruttal groaning your name. “I can get deeper…”
The bed creaked underneath both of you, and Stack. Your hands fisting the sheets for some kind of relief. Thrust. “E—lias!” A moan rippled from your throat. Thrust. Your bodyalmost stumbled over the bed but Stack yanked you back. “Tapping out already?” he taunts. Thrust. You whimper. “Too much dick for you?” Stack bullied, his hands on your waist, hoisted you still. Your hand yanked at the leash. Stack rasped. He looked down on you with that grin. “S-say you love the way I treat you—fuck like a pet…” You moaned a command, your head fell back into the pillow.
“I-I love t-the way you treat—fuck..like a pet...” Stack dragged out a long groan. You squirmed away from him but Stack yanked you by your ankle, eliciting that mean curve to strike a spot. You felt a jolt of pleasure. “Why you runnin’ from me? Don't you want this dick?” Stack teased. His hand sent a sharp smack across your ass. “Eliassss!” Your hands let go of the leash, losing your mind. Stack saw stars sparkling, and vibrant colors bursting. His brow knitted at the spot he couldn't reach while pushing deep.
Their bodies mushed together, sweaty, hot. “I'm gon’ cum!” you screamed. He nodded, his hands latched around your neck. “M-me too..”Your hips rolling, feeling a new sensation, your body buzzing.
You reached your limit, spilling all over Stack's fat dick, creating a large mess on the sheets as, he fucked you roughly, growling and grunting in your ear. “I'm right behind yo’ fine ass. Lemme have it..” Stack gritted his teeth. By his voice, you came undone, messy again. Stack shot his fat load of cum inside you. Walls filled up to the brim. “Fuckkkk!” Stack grunted loudly, laying his head on the side of the small of your back. He drooled on your skin, while you screamed in blissful agony.
His back muscles flexed, as he pulled slowly to see his dick inch out of your pussy. His half- lidded eyes squinted a bit, the white mingling with the deep brown of your folds. His cum oozing out. You flipped on your back. Moaning weakly. The soft gushing. You squirted on him.
“E-eat...” You commanded him, your legs parting for him. Half-lidded eyes met his, passionate, and daring. The smirk was still on his face, Stack hummed in response.
Stack ducked below between your thighs, slurping, and swallowing it all without shame. He came up for fresh air, his tongue gliding across his lip. Humming softly. “You taste good...” he mumbled, his voice raspy and gravelly.
“I know…but you're good when you're submissive, Elias…”
A/N: I definitely can! writer’s block is a mf, so I thought of Marshawn, listened to Kelly Rowland’s Motivation, and lots of Pretty Ricky. That gave me something. Can't complain. 🤷♀️
Summary: Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. Your son, Trevon, was happy, and Marshawn kept everything casual, cool, and cordial. No lingering heat between you two. You just needed one thing: his help on your new book.
Warnings: use of the n-word, dirty talk, slight praise, light teasing, Dom!Marshawn, light spanking, choking, co-parenting, mention of writer’s block, fucking for inspiration, various positions, multiple orgasms, slight Daddy kink, manhandling?
Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. You've normally gone over the cons. He was a present father, and loved seeing you and his son, Trevon. So far, everything has been cordial, and cool between the two of you.
Marshawn spends time with Trevon on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. You have had your own time to focus on yourself, working on your upcoming book, which currently only has a title and the first half completed.
You've penned dark paranormal stories featuring vampires and werewolves, dark romance, sci-fi, horror, somber romance, and steamy romance, incorporated the Grumpy x Sunshine trope, incorporating all tropes as you continued writing book after book.
Marshawn has been supportive of your successful writing career, and read a few of your books. He was impressed by your vast vocabulary, and wordplay.
Every character was black, you've wanted your readers to feel represented in each one. So far, you've been taking your time, little by little for this book.
Every book you wrote was a big hit, despite the heavy criticism of your smut scenes, but hey. Your fans adorned you, and your writing. That’s what matters most.
Thankfully, your publicist said you have enough time before the deadline of your book, and you were halfway there. You just need to write the smut scenes.
Now, you were writing a sports romance. Which wasn’t your forte. Since your time with Marshawn, you've been following sports prior to writing your book. You’ve been doing great up to this point.
There was tension in your body that ached for Marshawn. An ache swirling in your stomach, that you tried to ignore.
But now, Trevon was six years old. He noticed everything between you and Marshawn. Your son knew better than to ask why you haven't gotten back together with his dad. He didn't complain, didn't fuss.
You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him right now, when your career as a best selling author with excellent books, thriving as you hoped for. It’s unfortunate that you were experiencing writer’s block at the moment.
Many would suggest strolling around the neighborhood, driving, watching movies, or TV shows, or simply just write the first thing that pops up in your mom.
However, finding inspiration was not as effortless as commonly believed.
It's been five weeks, you've haven't written anything yet.
New boyfriends didn't stand a chance against Trevon, who tried to play Step-Daddy. It didn't work at all. Trevon said that he didn't like any of them every chance they left.
That was Marshawn’s son, through and through. Just as he raised to be like his dad, unhinged. Unchanged. Always had something smart to say.
After that, you've stopped dating for a while, and decided to focus on your book.
You sat comfortably against the couch, with Trevon on the right side, tablet in his hands, watching YouTube. His brown eyes flickered up at you. "Mama?" He asked happily.
“Yes, boo?” You eyes swept over the notebook in your hand, your leg resting over the other, a pen between your lips. Having fewer ideas.
“Am I staying with Daddy, or Grandma tonight?” Trevon asked softly, his finger swept over the screen. A backpack around his arms, Spider-Man.
“Grandma is coming to pick you up, and Daddy has work to do today.” You say, your pen scribbling across the paper.
“I know, but you've been having trouble with your book. Maybe Daddy can help you?” Trevon suggested, his eyes met yours.
You only blinked once, but you've given your son a nod of reassurance. “Maybe I will ask Daddy for help, thanks, baby.”
Trevon flashed a cheerful grin up at you, nodding in response. “Yeah! Daddy always helps me! He can help you, too!”
Your smile curled across your face, as your lips pressed a kiss on his forehead. He giggled softly, as his eyes flickered toward the screen before him.
A knock on the door alerted you, standing up, walking toward the door and you swung it open. Revealing your mom and Marshawn standing behind it.
His locs in two strand twists, hung around his face, thick, and clean. A fresh line-up. His bread freshly trimmed, his cologne hitting you in the face. He always smells so good around you, must’ve been done it on purpose.
Trevon gasped softly; he dropped his tablet on the pillow. He hopped off the couch, scurrying toward your mom, and his dad. “Daddy! Grandma!”
Marshawn lifted his son, twirling him in his embrace, holding him close. "What's up, lil man?”
“Hey Daddy!” Trevon exclaimed, his arms linked around his neck.
“You good? You’ve been good to your mama?” Marshawn asks, ruffling his curls.
“Yeah, but she made me eat broccoli though,” Trevon grumbled, his lip poked out.
“Hey, it’s good for you. Veggies help you become big, and strong like your dad,” Marshawn beamed, his hand over his own clothed chest.
“See? You better let him know Marshawn!” You & your mom exclaimed in praise, unison.
You rose from the cushion, confusion flickered across your face. “But Marshawn, what are you doing here?”
“I called him, and Marshawn wanted to see you and Trevon. He missed y'all,” Your mom mentions kindly, held her arms out to her grandchild. Hugging him tightly.
“Yeah! Thanks, Grandma!” Trevon exclaimed, jumping for joy.
“Yeah, thanks, mom.” Your hand ran down your face, sighing in disbelief, and not surprised either way.
“Now, why don’t you two catch up?” Your mom waved you, and Marshawn off like you were a couple again. Your eyes rolled while she couldn’t caught it.
“Ay, I saw that eye roll, missy!” Your mother shot back, arms crossed.
“Wait, Grandma. I have to tell Daddy something!” Trevon’s tiny hand yanked on her sleeve, stopping her.
Trevon walked over his dad, yanking his sleeve. Marshawn grinning, and bent at his son’s level. Whispering something very low, private.
After their short conversation, they bid farewell to each other. Marshawn gave his son a kiss on his forehead. Your mom, and your son strode out of the house, as the door closed shut.
Your fingers twisting the lock, catching the soft flick. Leaving you alone with your ex, as you spun around to face him.
“Hey, Marshawn.” You greeted awkwardly, smiling nervously.
“What’s up? You ain’t happy to see me?” Marshawn asked, his arms hung out.
You shrugged it off, acting as if Trevon, and Marshawn didn’t speak about your writer’s block.
“I am. Nothing much, still writing here, and there,” You chuckled softly, masking your nervousness.
Marshawn hummed lightly, nodding. “Yeah, Trevon told me you had trouble with your book? Come here. Why are you all the way over there?”
You chuckled sheepishly, purposely avoiding his gaze yet you looked back at him. Strolling toward him, yet gave him space.
“Why are you gettin’ all shy around me? You good?” He asks, his head tilting.
“I’m cool. It’s not that, Marshawn. It’s just that I’ve been having been writer’s block.” Your lip poked out a bit, your lip fell into a line.
“Just sit down, and write. It ain’t that hard, Y/n.” Marshawn says casually, rose a brow.
“Marshawn, clearly you don’t understand the process of being a writer. We read, and write, do everything under the sun. No inspiration, still.” You explained, crossing your arms.
“I can write a book if I wanted to, and then bang. I’m done. Everyone will definitely my book.” Marshawn bragged, shrugging it off as if it was easy.
“Not everyone can be a former NFL player champion, with awards and recognition, okay? Also I’ve seen your acting in Euphoria.” You say coyly, rolling your eyes.
Marshawn gasped dramatically, as if he was shocked. “Damn, it’s like that, baby?”
You waved him off. “You’re pretty decent Marshawn, and people keep asking me if you’re coming to NFL. But you say hell no,” you snicker mid-breath.
Marshawn rolled his eyes at the question, and his gaze turned back to you. “Anyway. Can I see what you’re written, so far?”
You couldn’t be this shy around Marshawn when it involved your writing. You were confident regardless but asking for help wasn’t difficult.
“Sure, follow me in my writing room,” You motioned him to follow you through the halls.
You, and Marshawn strode through the long, narrow halls of the house. You could still smell the cologne from behind, intoxicating and tempting in the worst way. A man that fine? Trouble.
You made a right turn into the room, stepped through, as Marshawn followed behind you. Breathing in. Your shoulders fell, jaw unclenching. Relaxing.
“I’ve been typing on my laptop mostly, it’s good so far, and I’m halfway done with the book too.” You explained, you hand gestures toward the laptop fully charging on the desk.
You took your laptop off the charger, unplugged it. You logged in, and clicked on the word document. Stepping aside, you gestured for Marshawn to take a peek.
Marshawn read every chapter carefully, as he returned to page 32 of your book, Had To Be You. He nodded with confidence. It was simply about a NFL player, with a taking chance to fall in love with his sports agent, who represented him, and they began to realize they’re made for each other. Cliche, yes. But hey, you’re writing still.
“It’s about a nfl player, and are you sure this ain’t about us?” Marshawn asked again, smirking playfully.
You chuckled sheepishly. “I may have used you as a reference but their personalities are totally different! You aren’t Avan, you know?” You hand angled to the laptop.
“So what’s the problem? What you’re writing is great, girl!” Marshawn grinned softly, his hands on your shoulders. He lifted them, brought them in his front pouch of his hoodie.
“It’s actually a sports romance too, and now, the characters are getting to the smut scene soon.” You say, your finger beneath your chin.
“Sports romance? That’s right my alley. Is it about us?” Marshawn asked, his head lean forward slightly in curiosity.
“No! It’s not about us Marshawn! It’s simply from personal experiences, and other stories.” You dismissed, waving him off.
Marshawn rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Nah, I’m only the sports nigga you’ve been wit’ in your life. It’s us. It’s means the book is gonna be a fucking hit!”
“Okay, okay. You’re right,” You chorused, smiling faintly.
“What do you really need my help with?” He asks, his voice deepening dangerously low. Tempting.
“You see. I need some dick for inspiration, for my book. I need to finish. That’s why I have writer’s block!” You whined, your hands gripped his shoulders tight.
“Y/n, you’re an amazing writer regardless and I think you’re using this opportunity to get some dick?” He countered, his arms folded behind his back.
You gasped dramatically, with a hand over your clothed chest as if you were shocked. “How dare you, sir? I—can you just help me with this?”
Marshawn rolling his eyes, snickering a bit. “All you had to do was ask..”
“Boy, just get on the bed, and here is a condom..."
—————
Garments were thrown about, skidding on the ground, until you reached his chest with your hands.
Gently, you guided him to the bed headboard, supported his back as your fingers moved over his stomach, teasing him in a playful manner with a grin.
"Ride me, baby," Marshawn murmured, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Maybe this was you needed. Your ex’s dick for inspiration. New excuse. Real nice.
You knelt forward, a playful grin playing on your lips as you positioned yourself over him. "You always stay wet for me. I love that..." Marshawn groans, watching your essence enlarging around his base. Sloshing. Gushing. He kissed you deeply, placing his hands on your waist and then running them up to your thighs, drawing you down swiftly until he was deep inside you. His thumb pressed on your clit, it started tracing unhurried, purposeful circles, each movement taking your breath away. "Fuckk..”
"F—fuck, Marshawn," you moaned, voice rough and urgent. You rode him brutally, grinding on him, your pussy clenching like a chokehold. Your white essence coated him, warm, adhesive, sliding down his dick, your hips wiggled. Hands anchoring at your hips as he fucked you upward, breath coming in ragged, raspy bursts.
His groans grew deeper, with something tender. "All you needed was this?" he rasped, the words raw. He slid two fingers between your clit and pinched lightly; the contact was small, yet breathtaking. A sharp scream ripped from you, tears overflowing as your pace stuttered, every nerve buzzing.
"F—fuck! Yes! All I need!" you gasped, choked on a broken moan. His hand delivered a sharp smack across your ass, bouncing. "Now you do..." Marshawn moaned low, drilling into you upwards. A jolt of pleasure shot through your body, squealing. Grinding still, clenching tight and moaning like it was the last time. It never was. You firmly held onto the headboard. "Is this dick all mine?" You say, shutting your eyelids, the vibrations spread throughout their bodies, and he could feel her cum slowly glide down to his base, plunging on his balls.
"Always been yours.." he panted lowly, still drilling. He was gonna give you inspiration all right, every last thrust. It had been a minute since you’ve touched by him, his head fell back on the pillow. You made him see stars. butterflies. Every bounce made thick, sticky strands of cum between them every he went in and out.
Your pussy gushed around him, as he went harder, harder as if trying to mold the shape of his dick inside you. Your nails clawing at his tattooed skin. "Look at you, cummin’ so pretty around this dick.." he grunted deeply, his Oakland accent spilling out. His hand smacked her asscheek, which led to a squeal, slithered across your bare body, cupping your bouncing breasts while simultaneously tugging at your nipples.
Marshawn pulled out slowly, before he flipped you on all fours. Gradually, pushing himself back inside, you dragged out a wild moan rippling from your throat. “Marshawn..fuck!” Hands on your waist, drilling into you like he was out of jail. Wild. Feral. He fucked you hard, fast to switched the pace. Your head turned, which almost gave you whiplash.
“Damn, girl? Ain’t nobody been in this pussy?” He teased, pushing forward. All you could do was grip the sheets, and scream for your life, in pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his dick. Afraid to let go. You were wetter than before. Marshawn? Yes. You whined in response, face buried in a pillow.
Your airy moans break between sentences, almost stumbling over the bed until Marshawn yanked you by your ankle, feeling his tip strike your spot once he manhandled you. Drooling at the way he fucked over the mattress. “Yeah? Never had that before? Your ex nigga ain’t hitting it right, baby?” Marshawn bragged, drilling in you again. His hips swiveling at a fast pace, you screamed sharply. “Noooo! Fuck! Baby—fuck!” You grit your teeth, eyelids snapping shut.
“You’re wetter than last time. I fit in just right.” Marshawn thrusting with relentless affection, your hips pushed back instinctively. You gasped between his crazy thrusts, your wetness flowing freely, as he emptied himself inside you. "Fuck!" you both moaned, his lips crashed into yours sent waves of heat through your body, making your head spin.
Restarting the pace to slow again, long and deep thrusts that made your body squirm away until his hand smacked your ass in disapproval, shaking his head. Legs squeezing around his waist. “Don't you want this dick, baby? Why you running?” Marshawn teases, peppered kisses along your spine. The room echo with the wet, squelching and both your breathing as his dick, massaging your walls thoroughly, pulsating, throbbing.
"Oh shit! I’m almost there!" you scream hopelessly, your mouth open wide, but no sound comes out, while you bounce after every stroke. You can definitely feel the ideas flowing through your mind, with the way he fucking you. Your hand reached for your clit until Marshawn smacked it out of the way. "This is my pussy..don't touch it.." he groaned, now, you were the one whimpering, crying, but your hips moved on their own. You craved for more, he wanted to relish in just like you did with him.
Once that he pulled out again, flipping you on your back. His hands gripped your ankles tight, pinning them over your head. His locs pooled in front of his face, his half-lidded eyes locked with yours, his hand around your neck. He gradually entered you, and you cried out as if in agony, almost too much to handle. "Marshawn! Yes!" But you loved it, maybe you should ask him for this often. Finally, he fit all of him inside from behind. He plowed into you. "You gettin' any new ideas, baby?" Marshawn groans, his head craned back from the pleasure. Just to feel you like this? Marshawn was falling in love all over again.
He plowed into you, hips snapped, "Yes! Marshawn! Yes!" you cried out wildly, your walls clung to his dick, milking him dry, on the sheets, hands fisting the blanket. "You hear me? You gettin’ any ideas?" Marshawn. He quickened the pace, still much harder. "Yes! I swear! I fucking swear!" you whined softly. Your mind went blank, yet every idea came right back. You couldn't even think straight. The bed creaking, and cracked in the process.
Tears spilled down your face, blurring your vision, knees buckling weakly. His hands threw your legs over his shoulders, pinning you down. His chest against your breasts. “I'd better hear every single idea you write.” Marshawn groans. He thrusts harder after that. You nodded frantically, crying, whimpering. His hand still around your neck. Your face close to his. “You better not doubt yourself..fuckk” Marshawn rasped, gritting his teeth. Your knees shook, “I won't! I won't, I swear!” You cried out to him, scratching his back. His fingernails dug into your melenated skin, he drilled unforgivingly, his passion raw.
The bed was broken underneath; there was a dent in the wall from the headboard banging. You were a wet, gibberish mess underneath Marshawn. He loved every single bit of you. Your eyes rolled back, unable to hold on to your arch. Toes curling into a ball. Bodies are almost going numb. “If you need any more ideas..call me. Only me..” Marshawn grunted in your ear. He adjusted his angle, finding the right spot that made you gasp sharply. "Only you! Marshawn!” Unable to respond, but only with broken moans.
You felt his pace slow down, thrusts turn sloppy, and frantic. “Daddy…I’m cumming…” you cried out, your hips rolling in deep with his. A mess underneath, and he noticed it too. The way your pussy sucked his dick back with a thrust, disappear like magic. “I know, baby.” he cooed, biting his lip. Shooting his load in the condom, as you came undone, cumming wildly around his big dick. A bigger mess. Marshawn pulled out slowly, and saw the cum spilling out. Chests falling, and rising. You were left bare, and breathless.
Bodies tangled together, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, gazing at you. "You good?" he asked softly, his concern clear.
"Y-yeah, I'm good..."
Aftercare was provided with practiced ease by Marshawn, you took a hot bubble bath. He asked you if he could take a shower, and you agreed to it. You told me that you appreciated his help on the book, and he says, “No problem!”
Once you finished your bath and Marshawn completed his shower, you quickly put on your pajamas and socks, applied lotion on yourself. He stood in full of the full length mirror, with a towel over his head, wiping himself. He sported his usual oversized grey hoodie, and sweatpants.
His eyes flickered toward you through the mirror, you sat at your writing desk. Typing on your keyboard with precision, smirking to yourself. All of your locs tied back in a bun while some locs hang in front of your face. You were finally done with your book.
“Hey, Marshawn. Can I ask something?” You chimed in, while typing on the keys on your laptop.
“What's up?”
Your grin spreads across your face, watching his reflection as you tuck a loose loc behind your ear, plotting your next meeting with him. “I'm thinking of starting a series for this book. Would you like to help me out with that, baby?”
A/N: I definitely can! writer’s block is a mf, so I thought of Marshawn, listened to Kelly Rowland’s Motivation, and lots of Pretty Ricky. That gave me something. Can't complain. 🤷♀️
Summary: Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. Your son, Trevon, was happy, and Marshawn kept everything casual, cool, and cordial. No lingering heat between you two. You just needed one thing: his help on your new book.
Warnings: use of the n-word, dirty talk, slight praise, light teasing, Dom!Marshawn, light spanking, choking, co-parenting, mention of writer’s block, fucking for inspiration, various positions, multiple orgasms, slight Daddy kink, manhandling?
Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. You've normally gone over the cons. He was a present father, and loved seeing you and his son, Trevon. So far, everything has been cordial, and cool between the two of you.
Marshawn spends time with Trevon on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. You have had your own time to focus on yourself, working on your upcoming book, which currently only has a title and the first half completed.
You've penned dark paranormal stories featuring vampires and werewolves, dark romance, sci-fi, horror, somber romance, and steamy romance, incorporated the Grumpy x Sunshine trope, incorporating all tropes as you continued writing book after book.
Marshawn has been supportive of your successful writing career, and read a few of your books. He was impressed by your vast vocabulary, and wordplay.
Every character was black, you've wanted your readers to feel represented in each one. So far, you've been taking your time, little by little for this book.
Every book you wrote was a big hit, despite the heavy criticism of your smut scenes, but hey. Your fans adorned you, and your writing. That’s what matters most.
Thankfully, your publicist said you have enough time before the deadline of your book, and you were halfway there. You just need to write the smut scenes.
Now, you were writing a sports romance. Which wasn’t your forte. Since your time with Marshawn, you've been following sports prior to writing your book. You’ve been doing great up to this point.
There was tension in your body that ached for Marshawn. An ache swirling in your stomach, that you tried to ignore.
But now, Trevon was six years old. He noticed everything between you and Marshawn. Your son knew better than to ask why you haven't gotten back together with his dad. He didn't complain, didn't fuss.
You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him right now, when your career as a best selling author with excellent books, thriving as you hoped for. It’s unfortunate that you were experiencing writer’s block at the moment.
Many would suggest strolling around the neighborhood, driving, watching movies, or TV shows, or simply just write the first thing that pops up in your mom.
However, finding inspiration was not as effortless as commonly believed.
It's been five weeks, you've haven't written anything yet.
New boyfriends didn't stand a chance against Trevon, who tried to play Step-Daddy. It didn't work at all. Trevon said that he didn't like any of them every chance they left.
That was Marshawn’s son, through and through. Just as he raised to be like his dad, unhinged. Unchanged. Always had something smart to say.
After that, you've stopped dating for a while, and decided to focus on your book.
You sat comfortably against the couch, with Trevon on the right side, tablet in his hands, watching YouTube. His brown eyes flickered up at you. "Mama?" He asked happily.
“Yes, boo?” You eyes swept over the notebook in your hand, your leg resting over the other, a pen between your lips. Having fewer ideas.
“Am I staying with Daddy, or Grandma tonight?” Trevon asked softly, his finger swept over the screen. A backpack around his arms, Spider-Man.
“Grandma is coming to pick you up, and Daddy has work to do today.” You say, your pen scribbling across the paper.
“I know, but you've been having trouble with your book. Maybe Daddy can help you?” Trevon suggested, his eyes met yours.
You only blinked once, but you've given your son a nod of reassurance. “Maybe I will ask Daddy for help, thanks, baby.”
Trevon flashed a cheerful grin up at you, nodding in response. “Yeah! Daddy always helps me! He can help you, too!”
Your smile curled across your face, as your lips pressed a kiss on his forehead. He giggled softly, as his eyes flickered toward the screen before him.
A knock on the door alerted you, standing up, walking toward the door and you swung it open. Revealing your mom and Marshawn standing behind it.
His locs in two strand twists, hung around his face, thick, and clean. A fresh line-up. His bread freshly trimmed, his cologne hitting you in the face. He always smells so good around you, must’ve been done it on purpose.
Trevon gasped softly; he dropped his tablet on the pillow. He hopped off the couch, scurrying toward your mom, and his dad. “Daddy! Grandma!”
Marshawn lifted his son, twirling him in his embrace, holding him close. "What's up, lil man?”
“Hey Daddy!” Trevon exclaimed, his arms linked around his neck.
“You good? You’ve been good to your mama?” Marshawn asks, ruffling his curls.
“Yeah, but she made me eat broccoli though,” Trevon grumbled, his lip poked out.
“Hey, it’s good for you. Veggies help you become big, and strong like your dad,” Marshawn beamed, his hand over his own clothed chest.
“See? You better let him know Marshawn!” You & your mom exclaimed in praise, unison.
You rose from the cushion, confusion flickered across your face. “But Marshawn, what are you doing here?”
“I called him, and Marshawn wanted to see you and Trevon. He missed y'all,” Your mom mentions kindly, held her arms out to her grandchild. Hugging him tightly.
“Yeah! Thanks, Grandma!” Trevon exclaimed, jumping for joy.
“Yeah, thanks, mom.” Your hand ran down your face, sighing in disbelief, and not surprised either way.
“Now, why don’t you two catch up?” Your mom waved you, and Marshawn off like you were a couple again. Your eyes rolled while she couldn’t caught it.
“Ay, I saw that eye roll, missy!” Your mother shot back, arms crossed.
“Wait, Grandma. I have to tell Daddy something!” Trevon’s tiny hand yanked on her sleeve, stopping her.
Trevon walked over his dad, yanking his sleeve. Marshawn grinning, and bent at his son’s level. Whispering something very low, private.
After their short conversation, they bid farewell to each other. Marshawn gave his son a kiss on his forehead. Your mom, and your son strode out of the house, as the door closed shut.
Your fingers twisting the lock, catching the soft flick. Leaving you alone with your ex, as you spun around to face him.
“Hey, Marshawn.” You greeted awkwardly, smiling nervously.
“What’s up? You ain’t happy to see me?” Marshawn asked, his arms hung out.
You shrugged it off, acting as if Trevon, and Marshawn didn’t speak about your writer’s block.
“I am. Nothing much, still writing here, and there,” You chuckled softly, masking your nervousness.
Marshawn hummed lightly, nodding. “Yeah, Trevon told me you had trouble with your book? Come here. Why are you all the way over there?”
You chuckled sheepishly, purposely avoiding his gaze yet you looked back at him. Strolling toward him, yet gave him space.
“Why are you gettin’ all shy around me? You good?” He asks, his head tilting.
“I’m cool. It’s not that, Marshawn. It’s just that I’ve been having been writer’s block.” Your lip poked out a bit, your lip fell into a line.
“Just sit down, and write. It ain’t that hard, Y/n.” Marshawn says casually, rose a brow.
“Marshawn, clearly you don’t understand the process of being a writer. We read, and write, do everything under the sun. No inspiration, still.” You explained, crossing your arms.
“I can write a book if I wanted to, and then bang. I’m done. Everyone will definitely my book.” Marshawn bragged, shrugging it off as if it was easy.
“Not everyone can be a former NFL player champion, with awards and recognition, okay? Also I’ve seen your acting in Euphoria.” You say coyly, rolling your eyes.
Marshawn gasped dramatically, as if he was shocked. “Damn, it’s like that, baby?”
You waved him off. “You’re pretty decent Marshawn, and people keep asking me if you’re coming to NFL. But you say hell no,” you snicker mid-breath.
Marshawn rolled his eyes at the question, and his gaze turned back to you. “Anyway. Can I see what you’re written, so far?”
You couldn’t be this shy around Marshawn when it involved your writing. You were confident regardless but asking for help wasn’t difficult.
“Sure, follow me in my writing room,” You motioned him to follow you through the halls.
You, and Marshawn strode through the long, narrow halls of the house. You could still smell the cologne from behind, intoxicating and tempting in the worst way. A man that fine? Trouble.
You made a right turn into the room, stepped through, as Marshawn followed behind you. Breathing in. Your shoulders fell, jaw unclenching. Relaxing.
“I’ve been typing on my laptop mostly, it’s good so far, and I’m halfway done with the book too.” You explained, you hand gestures toward the laptop fully charging on the desk.
You took your laptop off the charger, unplugged it. You logged in, and clicked on the word document. Stepping aside, you gestured for Marshawn to take a peek.
Marshawn read every chapter carefully, as he returned to page 32 of your book, Had To Be You. He nodded with confidence. It was simply about a NFL player, with a taking chance to fall in love with his sports agent, who represented him, and they began to realize they’re made for each other. Cliche, yes. But hey, you’re writing still.
“It’s about a nfl player, and are you sure this ain’t about us?” Marshawn asked again, smirking playfully.
You chuckled sheepishly. “I may have used you as a reference but their personalities are totally different! You aren’t Avan, you know?” You hand angled to the laptop.
“So what’s the problem? What you’re writing is great, girl!” Marshawn grinned softly, his hands on your shoulders. He lifted them, brought them in his front pouch of his hoodie.
“It’s actually a sports romance too, and now, the characters are getting to the smut scene soon.” You say, your finger beneath your chin.
“Sports romance? That’s right my alley. Is it about us?” Marshawn asked, his head lean forward slightly in curiosity.
“No! It’s not about us Marshawn! It’s simply from personal experiences, and other stories.” You dismissed, waving him off.
Marshawn rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Nah, I’m only the sports nigga you’ve been wit’ in your life. It’s us. It’s means the book is gonna be a fucking hit!”
“Okay, okay. You’re right,” You chorused, smiling faintly.
“What do you really need my help with?” He asks, his voice deepening dangerously low. Tempting.
“You see. I need some dick for inspiration, for my book. I need to finish. That’s why I have writer’s block!” You whined, your hands gripped his shoulders tight.
“Y/n, you’re an amazing writer regardless and I think you’re using this opportunity to get some dick?” He countered, his arms folded behind his back.
You gasped dramatically, with a hand over your clothed chest as if you were shocked. “How dare you, sir? I—can you just help me with this?”
Marshawn rolling his eyes, snickering a bit. “All you had to do was ask..”
“Boy, just get on the bed, and here is a condom..."
—————
Garments were thrown about, skidding on the ground, until you reached his chest with your hands.
Gently, you guided him to the bed headboard, supported his back as your fingers moved over his stomach, teasing him in a playful manner with a grin.
"Ride me, baby," Marshawn murmured, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Maybe this was you needed. Your ex’s dick for inspiration. New excuse. Real nice.
You knelt forward, a playful grin playing on your lips as you positioned yourself over him. "You always stay wet for me. I love that..." Marshawn groans, watching your essence enlarging around his base. Sloshing. Gushing. He kissed you deeply, placing his hands on your waist and then running them up to your thighs, drawing you down swiftly until he was deep inside you. His thumb pressed on your clit, it started tracing unhurried, purposeful circles, each movement taking your breath away. "Fuckk..”
"F—fuck, Marshawn," you moaned, voice rough and urgent. You rode him brutally, grinding on him, your pussy clenching like a chokehold. Your white essence coated him, warm, adhesive, sliding down his dick, your hips wiggled. Hands anchoring at your hips as he fucked you upward, breath coming in ragged, raspy bursts.
His groans grew deeper, with something tender. "All you needed was this?" he rasped, the words raw. He slid two fingers between your clit and pinched lightly; the contact was small, yet breathtaking. A sharp scream ripped from you, tears overflowing as your pace stuttered, every nerve buzzing.
"F—fuck! Yes! All I need!" you gasped, choked on a broken moan. His hand delivered a sharp smack across your ass, bouncing. "Now you do..." Marshawn moaned low, drilling into you upwards. A jolt of pleasure shot through your body, squealing. Grinding still, clenching tight and moaning like it was the last time. It never was. You firmly held onto the headboard. "Is this dick all mine?" You say, shutting your eyelids, the vibrations spread throughout their bodies, and he could feel her cum slowly glide down to his base, plunging on his balls.
"Always been yours.." he panted lowly, still drilling. He was gonna give you inspiration all right, every last thrust. It had been a minute since you’ve touched by him, his head fell back on the pillow. You made him see stars. butterflies. Every bounce made thick, sticky strands of cum between them every he went in and out.
Your pussy gushed around him, as he went harder, harder as if trying to mold the shape of his dick inside you. Your nails clawing at his tattooed skin. "Look at you, cummin’ so pretty around this dick.." he grunted deeply, his Oakland accent spilling out. His hand smacked her asscheek, which led to a squeal, slithered across your bare body, cupping your bouncing breasts while simultaneously tugging at your nipples.
Marshawn pulled out slowly, before he flipped you on all fours. Gradually, pushing himself back inside, you dragged out a wild moan rippling from your throat. “Marshawn..fuck!” Hands on your waist, drilling into you like he was out of jail. Wild. Feral. He fucked you hard, fast to switched the pace. Your head turned, which almost gave you whiplash.
“Damn, girl? Ain’t nobody been in this pussy?” He teased, pushing forward. All you could do was grip the sheets, and scream for your life, in pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his dick. Afraid to let go. You were wetter than before. Marshawn? Yes. You whined in response, face buried in a pillow.
Your airy moans break between sentences, almost stumbling over the bed until Marshawn yanked you by your ankle, feeling his tip strike your spot once he manhandled you. Drooling at the way he fucked over the mattress. “Yeah? Never had that before? Your ex nigga ain’t hitting it right, baby?” Marshawn bragged, drilling in you again. His hips swiveling at a fast pace, you screamed sharply. “Noooo! Fuck! Baby—fuck!” You grit your teeth, eyelids snapping shut.
“You’re wetter than last time. I fit in just right.” Marshawn thrusting with relentless affection, your hips pushed back instinctively. You gasped between his crazy thrusts, your wetness flowing freely, as he emptied himself inside you. "Fuck!" you both moaned, his lips crashed into yours sent waves of heat through your body, making your head spin.
Restarting the pace to slow again, long and deep thrusts that made your body squirm away until his hand smacked your ass in disapproval, shaking his head. Legs squeezing around his waist. “Don't you want this dick, baby? Why you running?” Marshawn teases, peppered kisses along your spine. The room echo with the wet, squelching and both your breathing as his dick, massaging your walls thoroughly, pulsating, throbbing.
"Oh shit! I’m almost there!" you scream hopelessly, your mouth open wide, but no sound comes out, while you bounce after every stroke. You can definitely feel the ideas flowing through your mind, with the way he fucking you. Your hand reached for your clit until Marshawn smacked it out of the way. "This is my pussy..don't touch it.." he groaned, now, you were the one whimpering, crying, but your hips moved on their own. You craved for more, he wanted to relish in just like you did with him.
Once that he pulled out again, flipping you on your back. His hands gripped your ankles tight, pinning them over your head. His locs pooled in front of his face, his half-lidded eyes locked with yours, his hand around your neck. He gradually entered you, and you cried out as if in agony, almost too much to handle. "Marshawn! Yes!" But you loved it, maybe you should ask him for this often. Finally, he fit all of him inside from behind. He plowed into you. "You gettin' any new ideas, baby?" Marshawn groans, his head craned back from the pleasure. Just to feel you like this? Marshawn was falling in love all over again.
He plowed into you, hips snapped, "Yes! Marshawn! Yes!" you cried out wildly, your walls clung to his dick, milking him dry, on the sheets, hands fisting the blanket. "You hear me? You gettin’ any ideas?" Marshawn. He quickened the pace, still much harder. "Yes! I swear! I fucking swear!" you whined softly. Your mind went blank, yet every idea came right back. You couldn't even think straight. The bed creaking, and cracked in the process.
Tears spilled down your face, blurring your vision, knees buckling weakly. His hands threw your legs over his shoulders, pinning you down. His chest against your breasts. “I'd better hear every single idea you write.” Marshawn groans. He thrusts harder after that. You nodded frantically, crying, whimpering. His hand still around your neck. Your face close to his. “You better not doubt yourself..fuckk” Marshawn rasped, gritting his teeth. Your knees shook, “I won't! I won't, I swear!” You cried out to him, scratching his back. His fingernails dug into your melenated skin, he drilled unforgivingly, his passion raw.
The bed was broken underneath; there was a dent in the wall from the headboard banging. You were a wet, gibberish mess underneath Marshawn. He loved every single bit of you. Your eyes rolled back, unable to hold on to your arch. Toes curling into a ball. Bodies are almost going numb. “If you need any more ideas..call me. Only me..” Marshawn grunted in your ear. He adjusted his angle, finding the right spot that made you gasp sharply. "Only you! Marshawn!” Unable to respond, but only with broken moans.
You felt his pace slow down, thrusts turn sloppy, and frantic. “Daddy…I’m cumming…” you cried out, your hips rolling in deep with his. A mess underneath, and he noticed it too. The way your pussy sucked his dick back with a thrust, disappear like magic. “I know, baby.” he cooed, biting his lip. Shooting his load in the condom, as you came undone, cumming wildly around his big dick. A bigger mess. Marshawn pulled out slowly, and saw the cum spilling out. Chests falling, and rising. You were left bare, and breathless.
Bodies tangled together, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, gazing at you. "You good?" he asked softly, his concern clear.
"Y-yeah, I'm good..."
Aftercare was provided with practiced ease by Marshawn, you took a hot bubble bath. He asked you if he could take a shower, and you agreed to it. You told me that you appreciated his help on the book, and he says, “No problem!”
Once you finished your bath and Marshawn completed his shower, you quickly put on your pajamas and socks, applied lotion on yourself. He stood in full of the full length mirror, with a towel over his head, wiping himself. He sported his usual oversized grey hoodie, and sweatpants.
His eyes flickered toward you through the mirror, you sat at your writing desk. Typing on your keyboard with precision, smirking to yourself. All of your locs tied back in a bun while some locs hang in front of your face. You were finally done with your book.
“Hey, Marshawn. Can I ask something?” You chimed in, while typing on the keys on your laptop.
“What's up?”
Your grin spreads across your face, watching his reflection as you tuck a loose loc behind your ear, plotting your next meeting with him. “I'm thinking of starting a series for this book. Would you like to help me out with that, baby?”
A/N: I definitely can! writer’s block is a mf, so I thought of Marshawn, listened to Kelly Rowland’s Motivation, and lots of Pretty Ricky. That gave me something. Can't complain. 🤷♀️
Summary: Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. Your son, Trevon, was happy, and Marshawn kept everything casual, cool, and cordial. No lingering heat between you two. You just needed one thing: his help on your new book.
Warnings: use of the n-word, dirty talk, slight praise, light teasing, Dom!Marshawn, light spanking, choking, co-parenting, mention of writer’s block, fucking for inspiration, various positions, multiple orgasms, slight Daddy kink, manhandling?
Co-parenting with Marshawn had its ups and downs. You've normally gone over the cons. He was a present father, and loved seeing you and his son, Trevon. So far, everything has been cordial, and cool between the two of you.
Marshawn spends time with Trevon on Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and weekends. You have had your own time to focus on yourself, working on your upcoming book, which currently only has a title and the first half completed.
You've penned dark paranormal stories featuring vampires and werewolves, dark romance, sci-fi, horror, somber romance, and steamy romance, incorporated the Grumpy x Sunshine trope, incorporating all tropes as you continued writing book after book.
Marshawn has been supportive of your successful writing career, and read a few of your books. He was impressed by your vast vocabulary, and wordplay.
Every character was black, you've wanted your readers to feel represented in each one. So far, you've been taking your time, little by little for this book.
Every book you wrote was a big hit, despite the heavy criticism of your smut scenes, but hey. Your fans adorned you, and your writing. That’s what matters most.
Thankfully, your publicist said you have enough time before the deadline of your book, and you were halfway there. You just need to write the smut scenes.
Now, you were writing a sports romance. Which wasn’t your forte. Since your time with Marshawn, you've been following sports prior to writing your book. You’ve been doing great up to this point.
There was tension in your body that ached for Marshawn. An ache swirling in your stomach, that you tried to ignore.
But now, Trevon was six years old. He noticed everything between you and Marshawn. Your son knew better than to ask why you haven't gotten back together with his dad. He didn't complain, didn't fuss.
You weren’t supposed to be thinking about him right now, when your career as a best selling author with excellent books, thriving as you hoped for. It’s unfortunate that you were experiencing writer’s block at the moment.
Many would suggest strolling around the neighborhood, driving, watching movies, or TV shows, or simply just write the first thing that pops up in your mom.
However, finding inspiration was not as effortless as commonly believed.
It's been five weeks, you've haven't written anything yet.
New boyfriends didn't stand a chance against Trevon, who tried to play Step-Daddy. It didn't work at all. Trevon said that he didn't like any of them every chance they left.
That was Marshawn’s son, through and through. Just as he raised to be like his dad, unhinged. Unchanged. Always had something smart to say.
After that, you've stopped dating for a while, and decided to focus on your book.
You sat comfortably against the couch, with Trevon on the right side, tablet in his hands, watching YouTube. His brown eyes flickered up at you. "Mama?" He asked happily.
“Yes, boo?” You eyes swept over the notebook in your hand, your leg resting over the other, a pen between your lips. Having fewer ideas.
“Am I staying with Daddy, or Grandma tonight?” Trevon asked softly, his finger swept over the screen. A backpack around his arms, Spider-Man.
“Grandma is coming to pick you up, and Daddy has work to do today.” You say, your pen scribbling across the paper.
“I know, but you've been having trouble with your book. Maybe Daddy can help you?” Trevon suggested, his eyes met yours.
You only blinked once, but you've given your son a nod of reassurance. “Maybe I will ask Daddy for help, thanks, baby.”
Trevon flashed a cheerful grin up at you, nodding in response. “Yeah! Daddy always helps me! He can help you, too!”
Your smile curled across your face, as your lips pressed a kiss on his forehead. He giggled softly, as his eyes flickered toward the screen before him.
A knock on the door alerted you, standing up, walking toward the door and you swung it open. Revealing your mom and Marshawn standing behind it.
His locs in two strand twists, hung around his face, thick, and clean. A fresh line-up. His bread freshly trimmed, his cologne hitting you in the face. He always smells so good around you, must’ve been done it on purpose.
Trevon gasped softly; he dropped his tablet on the pillow. He hopped off the couch, scurrying toward your mom, and his dad. “Daddy! Grandma!”
Marshawn lifted his son, twirling him in his embrace, holding him close. "What's up, lil man?”
“Hey Daddy!” Trevon exclaimed, his arms linked around his neck.
“You good? You’ve been good to your mama?” Marshawn asks, ruffling his curls.
“Yeah, but she made me eat broccoli though,” Trevon grumbled, his lip poked out.
“Hey, it’s good for you. Veggies help you become big, and strong like your dad,” Marshawn beamed, his hand over his own clothed chest.
“See? You better let him know Marshawn!” You & your mom exclaimed in praise, unison.
You rose from the cushion, confusion flickered across your face. “But Marshawn, what are you doing here?”
“I called him, and Marshawn wanted to see you and Trevon. He missed y'all,” Your mom mentions kindly, held her arms out to her grandchild. Hugging him tightly.
“Yeah! Thanks, Grandma!” Trevon exclaimed, jumping for joy.
“Yeah, thanks, mom.” Your hand ran down your face, sighing in disbelief, and not surprised either way.
“Now, why don’t you two catch up?” Your mom waved you, and Marshawn off like you were a couple again. Your eyes rolled while she couldn’t caught it.
“Ay, I saw that eye roll, missy!” Your mother shot back, arms crossed.
“Wait, Grandma. I have to tell Daddy something!” Trevon’s tiny hand yanked on her sleeve, stopping her.
Trevon walked over his dad, yanking his sleeve. Marshawn grinning, and bent at his son’s level. Whispering something very low, private.
After their short conversation, they bid farewell to each other. Marshawn gave his son a kiss on his forehead. Your mom, and your son strode out of the house, as the door closed shut.
Your fingers twisting the lock, catching the soft flick. Leaving you alone with your ex, as you spun around to face him.
“Hey, Marshawn.” You greeted awkwardly, smiling nervously.
“What’s up? You ain’t happy to see me?” Marshawn asked, his arms hung out.
You shrugged it off, acting as if Trevon, and Marshawn didn’t speak about your writer’s block.
“I am. Nothing much, still writing here, and there,” You chuckled softly, masking your nervousness.
Marshawn hummed lightly, nodding. “Yeah, Trevon told me you had trouble with your book? Come here. Why are you all the way over there?”
You chuckled sheepishly, purposely avoiding his gaze yet you looked back at him. Strolling toward him, yet gave him space.
“Why are you gettin’ all shy around me? You good?” He asks, his head tilting.
“I’m cool. It’s not that, Marshawn. It’s just that I’ve been having been writer’s block.” Your lip poked out a bit, your lip fell into a line.
“Just sit down, and write. It ain’t that hard, Y/n.” Marshawn says casually, rose a brow.
“Marshawn, clearly you don’t understand the process of being a writer. We read, and write, do everything under the sun. No inspiration, still.” You explained, crossing your arms.
“I can write a book if I wanted to, and then bang. I’m done. Everyone will definitely my book.” Marshawn bragged, shrugging it off as if it was easy.
“Not everyone can be a former NFL player champion, with awards and recognition, okay? Also I’ve seen your acting in Euphoria.” You say coyly, rolling your eyes.
Marshawn gasped dramatically, as if he was shocked. “Damn, it’s like that, baby?”
You waved him off. “You’re pretty decent Marshawn, and people keep asking me if you’re coming to NFL. But you say hell no,” you snicker mid-breath.
Marshawn rolled his eyes at the question, and his gaze turned back to you. “Anyway. Can I see what you’re written, so far?”
You couldn’t be this shy around Marshawn when it involved your writing. You were confident regardless but asking for help wasn’t difficult.
“Sure, follow me in my writing room,” You motioned him to follow you through the halls.
You, and Marshawn strode through the long, narrow halls of the house. You could still smell the cologne from behind, intoxicating and tempting in the worst way. A man that fine? Trouble.
You made a right turn into the room, stepped through, as Marshawn followed behind you. Breathing in. Your shoulders fell, jaw unclenching. Relaxing.
“I’ve been typing on my laptop mostly, it’s good so far, and I’m halfway done with the book too.” You explained, you hand gestures toward the laptop fully charging on the desk.
You took your laptop off the charger, unplugged it. You logged in, and clicked on the word document. Stepping aside, you gestured for Marshawn to take a peek.
Marshawn read every chapter carefully, as he returned to page 32 of your book, Had To Be You. He nodded with confidence. It was simply about a NFL player, with a taking chance to fall in love with his sports agent, who represented him, and they began to realize they’re made for each other. Cliche, yes. But hey, you’re writing still.
“It’s about a nfl player, and are you sure this ain’t about us?” Marshawn asked again, smirking playfully.
You chuckled sheepishly. “I may have used you as a reference but their personalities are totally different! You aren’t Avan, you know?” You hand angled to the laptop.
“So what’s the problem? What you’re writing is great, girl!” Marshawn grinned softly, his hands on your shoulders. He lifted them, brought them in his front pouch of his hoodie.
“It’s actually a sports romance too, and now, the characters are getting to the smut scene soon.” You say, your finger beneath your chin.
“Sports romance? That’s right my alley. Is it about us?” Marshawn asked, his head lean forward slightly in curiosity.
“No! It’s not about us Marshawn! It’s simply from personal experiences, and other stories.” You dismissed, waving him off.
Marshawn rolled his eyes, shook his head. “Nah, I’m only the sports nigga you’ve been wit’ in your life. It’s us. It’s means the book is gonna be a fucking hit!”
“Okay, okay. You’re right,” You chorused, smiling faintly.
“What do you really need my help with?” He asks, his voice deepening dangerously low. Tempting.
“You see. I need some dick for inspiration, for my book. I need to finish. That’s why I have writer’s block!” You whined, your hands gripped his shoulders tight.
“Y/n, you’re an amazing writer regardless and I think you’re using this opportunity to get some dick?” He countered, his arms folded behind his back.
You gasped dramatically, with a hand over your clothed chest as if you were shocked. “How dare you, sir? I—can you just help me with this?”
Marshawn rolling his eyes, snickering a bit. “All you had to do was ask..”
“Boy, just get on the bed, and here is a condom..."
—————
Garments were thrown about, skidding on the ground, until you reached his chest with your hands.
Gently, you guided him to the bed headboard, supported his back as your fingers moved over his stomach, teasing him in a playful manner with a grin.
"Ride me, baby," Marshawn murmured, his lower lip trapped between his teeth. Maybe this was you needed. Your ex’s dick for inspiration. New excuse. Real nice.
You knelt forward, a playful grin playing on your lips as you positioned yourself over him. "You always stay wet for me. I love that..." Marshawn groans, watching your essence enlarging around his base. Sloshing. Gushing. He kissed you deeply, placing his hands on your waist and then running them up to your thighs, drawing you down swiftly until he was deep inside you. His thumb pressed on your clit, it started tracing unhurried, purposeful circles, each movement taking your breath away. "Fuckk..”
"F—fuck, Marshawn," you moaned, voice rough and urgent. You rode him brutally, grinding on him, your pussy clenching like a chokehold. Your white essence coated him, warm, adhesive, sliding down his dick, your hips wiggled. Hands anchoring at your hips as he fucked you upward, breath coming in ragged, raspy bursts.
His groans grew deeper, with something tender. "All you needed was this?" he rasped, the words raw. He slid two fingers between your clit and pinched lightly; the contact was small, yet breathtaking. A sharp scream ripped from you, tears overflowing as your pace stuttered, every nerve buzzing.
"F—fuck! Yes! All I need!" you gasped, choked on a broken moan. His hand delivered a sharp smack across your ass, bouncing. "Now you do..." Marshawn moaned low, drilling into you upwards. A jolt of pleasure shot through your body, squealing. Grinding still, clenching tight and moaning like it was the last time. It never was. You firmly held onto the headboard. "Is this dick all mine?" You say, shutting your eyelids, the vibrations spread throughout their bodies, and he could feel her cum slowly glide down to his base, plunging on his balls.
"Always been yours.." he panted lowly, still drilling. He was gonna give you inspiration all right, every last thrust. It had been a minute since you’ve touched by him, his head fell back on the pillow. You made him see stars. butterflies. Every bounce made thick, sticky strands of cum between them every he went in and out.
Your pussy gushed around him, as he went harder, harder as if trying to mold the shape of his dick inside you. Your nails clawing at his tattooed skin. "Look at you, cummin’ so pretty around this dick.." he grunted deeply, his Oakland accent spilling out. His hand smacked her asscheek, which led to a squeal, slithered across your bare body, cupping your bouncing breasts while simultaneously tugging at your nipples.
Marshawn pulled out slowly, before he flipped you on all fours. Gradually, pushing himself back inside, you dragged out a wild moan rippling from your throat. “Marshawn..fuck!” Hands on your waist, drilling into you like he was out of jail. Wild. Feral. He fucked you hard, fast to switched the pace. Your head turned, which almost gave you whiplash.
“Damn, girl? Ain’t nobody been in this pussy?” He teased, pushing forward. All you could do was grip the sheets, and scream for your life, in pleasure. Your pussy clenched around his dick. Afraid to let go. You were wetter than before. Marshawn? Yes. You whined in response, face buried in a pillow.
Your airy moans break between sentences, almost stumbling over the bed until Marshawn yanked you by your ankle, feeling his tip strike your spot once he manhandled you. Drooling at the way he fucked over the mattress. “Yeah? Never had that before? Your ex nigga ain’t hitting it right, baby?” Marshawn bragged, drilling in you again. His hips swiveling at a fast pace, you screamed sharply. “Noooo! Fuck! Baby—fuck!” You grit your teeth, eyelids snapping shut.
“You’re wetter than last time. I fit in just right.” Marshawn thrusting with relentless affection, your hips pushed back instinctively. You gasped between his crazy thrusts, your wetness flowing freely, as he emptied himself inside you. "Fuck!" you both moaned, his lips crashed into yours sent waves of heat through your body, making your head spin.
Restarting the pace to slow again, long and deep thrusts that made your body squirm away until his hand smacked your ass in disapproval, shaking his head. Legs squeezing around his waist. “Don't you want this dick, baby? Why you running?” Marshawn teases, peppered kisses along your spine. The room echo with the wet, squelching and both your breathing as his dick, massaging your walls thoroughly, pulsating, throbbing.
"Oh shit! I’m almost there!" you scream hopelessly, your mouth open wide, but no sound comes out, while you bounce after every stroke. You can definitely feel the ideas flowing through your mind, with the way he fucking you. Your hand reached for your clit until Marshawn smacked it out of the way. "This is my pussy..don't touch it.." he groaned, now, you were the one whimpering, crying, but your hips moved on their own. You craved for more, he wanted to relish in just like you did with him.
Once that he pulled out again, flipping you on your back. His hands gripped your ankles tight, pinning them over your head. His locs pooled in front of his face, his half-lidded eyes locked with yours, his hand around your neck. He gradually entered you, and you cried out as if in agony, almost too much to handle. "Marshawn! Yes!" But you loved it, maybe you should ask him for this often. Finally, he fit all of him inside from behind. He plowed into you. "You gettin' any new ideas, baby?" Marshawn groans, his head craned back from the pleasure. Just to feel you like this? Marshawn was falling in love all over again.
He plowed into you, hips snapped, "Yes! Marshawn! Yes!" you cried out wildly, your walls clung to his dick, milking him dry, on the sheets, hands fisting the blanket. "You hear me? You gettin’ any ideas?" Marshawn. He quickened the pace, still much harder. "Yes! I swear! I fucking swear!" you whined softly. Your mind went blank, yet every idea came right back. You couldn't even think straight. The bed creaking, and cracked in the process.
Tears spilled down your face, blurring your vision, knees buckling weakly. His hands threw your legs over his shoulders, pinning you down. His chest against your breasts. “I'd better hear every single idea you write.” Marshawn groans. He thrusts harder after that. You nodded frantically, crying, whimpering. His hand still around your neck. Your face close to his. “You better not doubt yourself..fuckk” Marshawn rasped, gritting his teeth. Your knees shook, “I won't! I won't, I swear!” You cried out to him, scratching his back. His fingernails dug into your melenated skin, he drilled unforgivingly, his passion raw.
The bed was broken underneath; there was a dent in the wall from the headboard banging. You were a wet, gibberish mess underneath Marshawn. He loved every single bit of you. Your eyes rolled back, unable to hold on to your arch. Toes curling into a ball. Bodies are almost going numb. “If you need any more ideas..call me. Only me..” Marshawn grunted in your ear. He adjusted his angle, finding the right spot that made you gasp sharply. "Only you! Marshawn!” Unable to respond, but only with broken moans.
You felt his pace slow down, thrusts turn sloppy, and frantic. “Daddy…I’m cumming…” you cried out, your hips rolling in deep with his. A mess underneath, and he noticed it too. The way your pussy sucked his dick back with a thrust, disappear like magic. “I know, baby.” he cooed, biting his lip. Shooting his load in the condom, as you came undone, cumming wildly around his big dick. A bigger mess. Marshawn pulled out slowly, and saw the cum spilling out. Chests falling, and rising. You were left bare, and breathless.
Bodies tangled together, and he pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, gazing at you. "You good?" he asked softly, his concern clear.
"Y-yeah, I'm good..."
Aftercare was provided with practiced ease by Marshawn, you took a hot bubble bath. He asked you if he could take a shower, and you agreed to it. You told me that you appreciated his help on the book, and he says, “No problem!”
Once you finished your bath and Marshawn completed his shower, you quickly put on your pajamas and socks, applied lotion on yourself. He stood in full of the full length mirror, with a towel over his head, wiping himself. He sported his usual oversized grey hoodie, and sweatpants.
His eyes flickered toward you through the mirror, you sat at your writing desk. Typing on your keyboard with precision, smirking to yourself. All of your locs tied back in a bun while some locs hang in front of your face. You were finally done with your book.
“Hey, Marshawn. Can I ask something?” You chimed in, while typing on the keys on your laptop.
“What's up?”
Your grin spreads across your face, watching his reflection as you tuck a loose loc behind your ear, plotting your next meeting with him. “I'm thinking of starting a series for this book. Would you like to help me out with that, baby?”
Summary: In the neon-drenched nights of Wakanda, the newly crowned King Erik—known to his subjects as "The Mad King"—rules with a fusion of Oakland swagger and royal authority. When he sets his sights on Khamari, the loyal wife of Jabari chief M'Baku, he initiates a dangerous game of power and desire. As ancient traditions clash with radical change, Khamari finds herself caught between duty to her husband and the magnetic pull of the king who wants to claim her as his own.
Warnings: power dynamics, possessive behavior, violence, political manipulation, infidelity, dark themes, explicit language.
The sun baked the golden dome of the palace in Birnin Zana, but by nightfall, the capital city transformed into something else entirely. Something wilder. Something that belonged to Erik Killmonger.
By day, Wakanda remained what it had always been, gleaming spires of vibranium-infused architecture piercing the clouds, maglev trains gliding silently between floating platforms, holographic displays advertising everything from traditional textiles to the latest in biotech. The citizens moved with purpose, their colorful traditional garments mingling with sleek, modern attire. A perfect fusion of past and future.
But night? Night was when the kingdom revealed its true self under Erik's rule.
Neon lights in pulsating purples, electric blues, and blood-reds bathed the streets in otherworldly glows. The royal palace—once a beacon of dignified tradition—now pulsed with life, its exterior transformed into a massive canvas for holographic displays that shifted between Wakandan patterns and imagery more reminiscent of Oakland street art. The soundscape changed too, the gentle hum of advanced technology now joined by the deep bass of music that vibrated through the very foundations of the city.
Inside the throne room, Erik Killmonger—King of Wakanda, Black Panther, the man they called "The Mad King"- sat upon the throne that had once belonged to his cousin. His body sprawled with arrogant ownership across the ornate seat of panther-shaped vibranium, one leg draped over the armrest, the other planted firmly on the ground. At thirty-three, he embodied a contradiction that had become the new normal in Wakanda: traditional royal attire merged with unmistakable elements of his Oakland upbringing. The ceremonial kimoyo beads around his wrist coexisted with a thick gold chain that disappeared beneath the open collar of his royal tunic. His locs, some threaded with gold, fell across his shoulders, partially obscuring the scars that marked his skin like a map of his journey from Oakland street kid to Wakandan king.
Erik's fingers drummed against the armrest, the sound absorbed by the vibranium as his gaze swept across the throne room. His advisors stood at a respectful distance, their discomfort palpable. They hadn't yet learned to navigate the moods of their new king—how his calm could be more dangerous than rage, how his laughter often preceded destruction.
"Your Majesty," one ventured cautiously, "the tribal leaders have begun to arrive for the council meeting."
Erik's lips curved into a smirk that didn't reach his eyes. "Let 'em wait."
The advisor swallowed nervously. "But tradition dictates—"
"Fuck tradition," Erik cut him off, his voice a low growl that carried easily through the cavernous room. "Tradition got my people hiding while the world burned. Tradition had my uncle killing my father and leaving me to rot in Oakland. Tradition can kiss my royal black ass."
He shifted on the throne, the movement fluid and predatory despite his relaxed posture. The memories came unbidden, the ritual combat that had changed everything. The taste of blood in his mouth, the shock in T'Challa's eyes as Erik's blade found its mark. The way the heart-shaped herb had surged through his veins, connecting him to every Black Panther who had come before, even as he rejected everything they stood for.
You are not fit to be king! T'Challa had gasped, clutching the wound in his chest.
The fuck I'm not, Erik had responded, standing over him with the royal ring now on his finger. This kingdom's been asleep too long. Time to wake up.
The exile had been swift. T'Challa, stripped of the Black Panther's power but not his life, had been escorted to the border with his mother and sister. Erik had made sure they left with enough resources to live comfortably; his revenge was against the throne, not the man. Not completely anyway.
"Your Majesty?" the advisor prompted again, more cautiously this time.
Erik's focus returned to the present, the ghost of his cousin's disappointment replaced by the thrill of his new reality. "The council meeting. What's on the agenda?"
"Several matters require your attention, Your Majesty. There's been an increase in crime in the outer districts since you implemented the new trade policies. The River Tribe is concerned about—"
"The River Tribe's always concerned about something," Erik interrupted with a wave of his hand. "They've been sitting pretty by the water for centuries while the Mining Tribe breaks their backs digging up vibranium. Time they learned to adapt."
He rose from the throne, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his height and muscular build. The ceremonial cloak—rich purple fabric trimmed with gold, swirled around him as he walked toward the massive window that overlooked the city.
"Crime goes up when people have money to spend and new shit to want. That's not a problem. That's progress." He paused, his reflection appearing in the glass: dark skin, tribal scars, the gold chain glinting at his throat. A king who looked nothing like what Wakanda expected. "What else?"
The advisor consulted his kimoyo beads. "The Border Tribe reports increased activity along the perimeter. They believe other nations are becoming suspicious of our new openness."
Erik laughed, a harsh sound that echoed in the throne room. "Let 'em look. Let 'em wonder. We've been hiding behind that farmer bullshit for too long. Wakanda's got a responsibility to the world, and it ain't selling them vegetables."
He turned from the window, his expression unreadable. "And the Jabari? M'Baku still got his panties in a bunch about me being king?"
"Chief M'Baku has... reservations," the advisor chose his words carefully. "He questions whether someone raised outside Wakanda can truly understand and respect our ways."
Erik's eyes narrowed. "M'Baku can kiss my ass too. Sitting up in his mountains with his gorilla god, acting like he's the only one who keeps it real. I'll show him what real is."
The advisor wisely changed subjects. "There is one other matter, Your Majesty. The citizens have taken to calling you... well, they have a nickname."
Erik's interest piqued. "Yeah? What they calling me?"
"The Mad King," the advisor admitted reluctantly.
A slow grin spread across Erik's face, genuine this time. "The Mad King." He tested the words, savoring them. "Shit, I like that. Let 'em talk. Let 'em whisper about the crazy motherfucker from Oakland who took their precious kingdom and turned it upside down."
He moved back toward the throne, his swagger more pronounced now. "Mad King Killmonger. Got a ring to it, don't it?"
"Indeed, Your Majesty."
Erik sank onto the throne again, this time leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "Call the council. Let's get this shit over with."
As the advisor scurried away to summon the tribal leaders, Erik allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. They called him mad because they couldn't understand him. Because he refused to be molded into the shape of kings past. Because he looked at their perfect isolation and saw a prison rather than a paradise.
Let them call him mad. Let them fear him. Let them whisper about the king who wore gold chains with his royal robes, who spoke like a street hustler but strategized like an MIT graduate, who had the blood of a royal line running through his veins but the heart of a revolutionary.
The doors to the throne room opened, and the first of the tribal leaders began to enter. Erik watched them approach, his expression carefully neutral. The River Tribe elders in their green robes, the Mining Tribe representatives with traces of vibranium dust still on their clothing, the Merchant Tribe in their distinctive attire, the Border Tribe trying to look inconspicuous despite their obvious importance.
And then came the Jabari delegation, led by M'Baku himself. A massive man with a presence that filled the room. But it wasn't the chief who captured Erik's attention.
It was the woman beside him.
Khamari.
At twenty-nine, she moved with a grace that belied her years, her short natural hair styled in a sleek cut that framed her face perfectly. Gold jewelry adorned her neck, arms, and ankles, catching the light with every movement. Tattoos decorated her skin—script on one arm, small symbols scattered across her body like constellations. Her eyes, dark and elegant, swept the room before coming to rest on the throne.
On him.
Erik felt something long-dormant awaken, a recognition that went beyond physical attraction. This was a woman who understood power, who carried herself with the confidence of someone who had earned her place in the world. A woman who stood beside a man like M'Baku not as property, but as an equal.
The Mad King found himself leaning forward, his interest suddenly piqued by something other than strategy or revenge.
As the tribal leaders took their positions, Erik's gaze remained fixed on Khamari. The council meeting could wait. The concerns about crime and border security could wait.
For the first time since claiming the throne, Erik had found something that truly captured his attention.
And what the Mad King wanted, the Mad King inevitably took.
The thought brought a smile to his lips as he prepared to address his council. This meeting had just become a hell of a lot more interesting.
The council chamber was a testament to Wakanda's paradoxical nature under Erik's rule. Ancient stone pillars, carved with the histories of the Golden Tribe, soared toward a ceiling that projected a real-time holographic map of the city. The traditional circular table where tribal leaders had convened for centuries remained, but now each seat was equipped with interactive kimoyo interfaces that glowed with soft blue light. Windows of transparent vibranium offered a panoramic view of the cyberpunk nightscape outside, where neon rivers flowed between buildings that seemed to defy gravity.
As the tribal leaders took their positions, the contrast between old and new became starkly apparent. The Border Tribe representatives, still maintaining their disguise of simple farmers, sat uncomfortably in their rough-spun garments, their hands calloused from work they no longer needed to do. The River Tribe elders, draped in flowing green robes adorned with crocodile symbols, arranged themselves with practiced dignity, their faces masks of disapproval as they surveyed the chamber's technological additions.
The Mining Tribe leaders, shoulders dusted with the distinctive silver-blue shimmer of vibranium, nodded respectfully to Erik before taking their seats. They, at least, seemed to appreciate the changes he'd implemented—higher wages, better safety protocols, and a greater share of the profits from the vibranium trade. The Merchant Tribe representatives, a mix of seasoned veterans and younger members, watched Erik with open admiration. Their distinctive attire, a vibrant fusion of traditional patterns and modern fabrics, seemed to embody the very fusion Erik was creating in Wakanda.
And then there was the Jabari delegation. M'Baku filled his chair with an authority that transcended mere physical presence. His traditional white fur vest contrasted sharply with the sleek surroundings, a deliberate statement of his tribe's rejection of modern technology. Beside him, Khamari sat with an elegance that drew the eye despite herself. She carried herself with the poise of a queen, though she wore no crown. Her short natural hair seemed to absorb the chamber's ambient light.
Erik watched them all from his throne, his expression unreadable as he cataloged their reactions. The younger members of the Merchant Tribe practically vibrated with excitement, their eyes bright with the possibilities Erik represented. They saw a future where Wakanda's wealth and technology could be leveraged on a global scale, where their skills as traders and diplomats would finally be utilized to their full potential.
The River Tribe elders, on the other hand, regarded him with thinly veiled hostility. Their fingers, adorned with rings of carved wood and river stones, tapped restlessly against the table's surface. They saw a king who disrespected everything they held sacred—tradition, isolation, the careful balance of power that had maintained Wakanda's security for generations.
"Welcome," Erik said, his voice carrying easily through the chamber. He didn't bother to rise or gesture formally. Instead, he leaned back on the throne, one leg draped over the armrest in a posture of deliberate disrespect. "Let's get this shit started. I got places to be."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the council members, though the Merchant representatives tried to hide their smiles. The River Tribe elder nearest to Erik—Chief Amara, a woman whose age showed in the wisdom of her eyes rather than the wrinkles on her face, raised her hand slowly.
"Your Majesty," she began, her voice steady despite her obvious disapproval, "traditionally, the council begins with a blessing from the priests of Bast and a moment of reflection on the responsibilities we carry as leaders of our people."
Erik's laugh was short and sharp. "Traditionally, we also sat on our asses while the rest of the world suffered. Tradition got us here, but it ain't getting us where we need to go. So let's skip the blessings and get to the problems."
He shifted his gaze to the Mining Tribe representatives. "Y'all been having issues with the new extraction protocols?"
The chief miner, a man named T'Chaka—no relation to the former king—nodded enthusiastically. "The new sonic resonators are working well. We've increased output by thirty percent with minimal environmental impact. The workers appreciate the improved safety measures and higher compensation."
"See?" Erik gestured expansively. "Progress. That's what we're about now." His eyes slid to the River Tribe elders. "Maybe y'all could learn something from the miners. Instead of worrying about blessings, figure out how to get more water to the farming districts without using half the damn vibranium in the kingdom."
Chief Amara's jaw tightened, but she maintained her composure. "The river systems are delicate. They require balance, not brute force. We have maintained these waters for generations—"
"And while you were maintaining, people were thirsty," Erik cut in. "Find a better way. Or I'll find someone who can."
His attention moved to the Border Tribe representatives. "How's our little farmer act holding up? Anyone getting suspicious?"
The border chief, a woman named Zola with weathered features and eyes that missed nothing, shrugged. "The Americans have increased satellite surveillance. They think we're hiding something, but they can't figure out what. Our agricultural cover story still holds."
"Good," Erik nodded. "Keep up the good work. Maybe next year we can actually start growing some food instead of just pretending to. Real farmers grow shit, you know?"
The Border representatives exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing in response.
Erik's gaze drifted back to the Jabari delegation, specifically to Khamari, who had been watching the exchange with an unreadable expression. He found himself momentarily distracted by the way the chamber's light caught the gold hoops in her ears, how they framed her face and drew attention to the elegant column of her neck. She shifted in her seat, as if feeling his attention, and met his eyes directly. No fear, no deference, just calm, steady regard that acknowledged his power without submitting to it.
Something stirred in Erik's chest, an interest that had nothing to do with politics or strategy.
M'Baku, noticing the exchange, moved subtly to block Erik's view of his wife. "Your Majesty," he said, his deep voice filling the chamber, "the Jabari Tribe has concerns about your leadership."
Erik's focus snapped back to the council business, though his awareness of Khamari remained like a low hum beneath his skin. "Yeah? What's the problem, Big Man? Don't like my style?"
M'Baku's massive hands rested on the table, fingers splayed like an animal preparing to strike. "Your style disregards centuries of tradition. Your policies expose Wakanda to dangers we have successfully avoided for generations. Your approach to leadership..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "It lacks wisdom."
The chamber grew silent as all eyes turned to the Jabari chief. Defying the king was one thing; questioning his wisdom was another entirely.
Erik's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Wisdom? You want to talk to me about wisdom? You sit up in your mountains with your gorilla god, pretending the world doesn't exist. You reject the technology that could feed your people, heal your sick, protect your borders. You call that wisdom? I call it willful ignorance."
He rose from the throne, moving slowly around the council table. The tribal leaders watched him approach, some with fear, others with defiance. He stopped behind the Jabari delegation, close enough that M'Baku's shoulders tensed.
"Wisdom is knowing when to change," Erik continued, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "Wisdom is recognizing that isolation isn't strength, it's weakness. Wisdom is understanding that power unused is power wasted."
His eyes found Khamari again, who hadn't flinched despite his proximity. Instead, she watched him with an intensity that matched his own, her eyes seeming to look right through him, to see the man beneath the crown.
"But what would you know about that?" Erik asked M'Baku, though his gaze remained fixed on Khamari. "You've never had to fight for anything. You were born chief of your little mountain club. I had to fight for every damn thing I ever got."
M'Baku started to rise, but Khamari's hand on his arm stopped him. It was a subtle gesture, but one that spoke volumes about their relationship, about her influence, her ability to temper his warrior's rage with something more strategic.
"The Jabari have fought for their independence for centuries," M'Baku said, his voice carefully controlled. "We have preserved our ways, our beliefs, our honor. That is a fight you cannot understand, King of Strays."
"King of Strays," Erik repeated, testing the words. A slow grin spread across his face. "I like that almost as much as Mad King." He leaned closer to Khamari, deliberately invading her personal space. "What about you, Queen of the Mountain? You think I'm a stray? Or do you see something else when you look at me?"
Khamari didn't look away. Instead, she met his challenge directly, her voice clear and steady. "I see a man who wears a crown that doesn't quite fit. A man who confuses noise with power, disruption with progress. A man who has much to learn about the weight of his position."
The chamber was so silent Erik could hear his own blood pounding in his ears. No one had spoken to him like that before, not since he'd taken the throne. No one had dared.
And damn if it didn't turn him on.
"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dangerously soft. "And what makes you such an expert on the weight of positions? You just the wife of a chief, or you something more?"
"Enough," M'Baku growled, rising to his full height, which was considerable even compared to Erik's muscular frame. "She is the Queen of the Jabari, and you will address her with respect."
Erik's laugh was genuine this time, a sound of pure amusement that seemed to startle everyone in the room. "Queen of the Jabari? That's cute. Y'all make up titles for yourselves up in the mountains?" He circled back to his throne, but his eyes never left Khamari. "Let me tell you something about respect. Respect is earned, not given. And right now, the only thing y'all have earned is my attention."
He sank onto the throne, sprawling with insolence. "Now, unless anyone else has opinions about my fitness to rule, let's get back to the actual problems we need to solve. The Border Tribe needs better surveillance tech. The Mining Tribe needs more workers. The River Tribe needs to get their heads out of their asses and figure out irrigation. And the Merchant Tribe..." He paused, smiling at the eager young representatives. "The Merchant Tribe needs to start making us some real money on the global market."
As the council members scrambled to respond to his directives, Erik found his attention drifting back to Khamari. She was watching him again, her expression thoughtful rather than hostile. There was no fear in her eyes, no deference, just calm assessment, as if she were trying to figure out exactly what kind of man he was.
And wasn't that the question of the day?
The Mad King. King of Strays. A man who wore a crown that didn't quite fit.
Erik Killmonger had faced down armies, outsmarted intelligence agencies, and defeated his own cousin in ritual combat. But as he sat on his throne, watching the woman who had dared to speak truth to power, he felt something he hadn't experienced in years.
The thrill of a challenge.
And he had never, ever been one to walk away from a challenge.
The council meeting continued, but Erik's mind was already working, planning, strategizing. The problems of Wakanda could wait. There was a more immediate problem that required his attention.
A queen who didn't know her place.
Yet.
And the Mad King was just the man to teach her.
The council meeting dragged on for another hour, but Erik had checked out. His body remained on the throne, a picture of insolent authority, but his mind was elsewhere, circling back to the woman with the steady gaze and the unshakeable presence. Khamari. Queen of the Jabari, like that was a real thing.
As the tribal leaders filed out, their expressions ranging from defiant to deferential, Erik remained seated, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He watched them go, his eyes narrowed, his mind already working.
She looked at me like she knew me. Like she saw the kid from Oakland hiding under the crown. Nobody's seen that kid since I was twelve years old, burying my father in a city that didn't give a damn about either of us.
The memory surfaced unbidden, his mother's hands on his face, her voice low and urgent as she packed their meager belongings into trash bags.
"Never ask for anything in this world, baby," she had said, her eyes burning with a fierce light that had both terrified and inspired him. "The world wasn't made for us. It was made to take from us. So you take back. You see something you want? You figure out how to get it. You see something they say you can't have? You make damn sure you can."
And I wanted everything. I wanted the vibranium they kept hidden while our people suffered. I wanted the throne they said wasn't mine by blood. I wanted the power they said I wasn't fit to wield.
His father's death had cemented that philosophy. N'Jobu, killed by his own brother for trying to help their people. Left to die in a foreign land, his son to grow up fatherless in a system designed to break him. Every accomplishment since then—MIT, where he'd outsmarted professors who saw a hood rat and missed a strategic mind; the SEALs, where he'd pushed his body past limits others couldn't imagine; the mercenary work, where he'd honed his skills in the real world—all of it had been about proving them wrong. About taking what he was denied.
"Your Majesty?"
Erik looked up to find his advisors lingering near the door, their expressions uncertain. He waved them forward, watching as they approached with caution.
"First thing first," Erik said, his voice low and gravelly. "This 'Your Majesty' shit is for T'Challa. You call me King. Or My King. But none of that Majesty bullshit. We clear?"
The advisors exchanged glances before nodding. "Yes, My King."
"Good." Erik leaned forward, his forearms resting on his thighs. "Now, tell me everything you know about the Jabari chief's wife."
The advisors blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in topic. "Queen Khamari, My King?" ventured the eldest advisor, a man named Okoye—no relation to the general of the Dora Milaje, but just as traditional in his thinking.
"Queen," Erik scoffed. "Right. I want her history. Where she came from, how she ended up with the Jabari, what she likes, what she hates. I want to know the last book she read, the last meal she ate, the last person who pissed her off. I want to know her better than she knows herself."
The advisors shifted uncomfortably. "My King, if I may ask, why this sudden interest in Chief M'Baku's wife?"
Erik's eyes narrowed. "You may not. You may, however, do as I command without questioning my motives. Or you can find yourself cleaning vibranium toilets in the Mining Tribe district. Your choice."
The threat hung in the air, sharp and undeniable. "Of course, My King," the advisor hastened to say. "We will gather the information immediately."
"See that you do." Erik rose from the throne, stretching his shoulders. "And while you're at it, find out everything about M'Baku too. Weaknesses. Enemies. Anything I can use."
As his advisors scrambled to carry out his orders, Erik moved to the window, looking out over the cityscape. The neon lights painted his face in shifting colors, turning his scars into rivers of darkness and light.
They think I'm just some thug who got lucky. They don't see the MIT education, the strategic thinking, the years of training to anticipate every move, every counter-move. They see a man who speaks like he's from the streets and miss the mind that graduated top of my class while planning my revenge. They see the muscles and miss the mind that moves them.
Hours later, Erik sat in his private chambers, a glass of imported Hennessy in hand as he reviewed the information his advisors had gathered. The room was a fusion of Wakandan luxury and Oakland edge, traditional tapestries hung alongside street art, ornate furniture shared space with state-of-the-art technology.
He read through the reports on Khamari, his interest sharpening with each detail.
Born in the River Tribe. Orphaned at seven when her parents died in a mining accident. Shuffled between relatives until she was twelve, when she ran away rather than be married off to a man three times her age. Found by a Jabari hunting party and taken in by M'Baku's family. Educated alongside the Jabari children, trained in their ways, eventually becoming M'Baku's advisor and, at twenty-two, his wife.
Not born Jabari. Not born royal. Made herself both. A survivor. A fighter.
Erik's lips curved into a smile. This was better than he could have imagined. She wasn't just some mountain princess born to her position. She was a woman who had carved out her place through sheer force of will. A woman who understood what it meant to take what you wanted.
The reports on M'Baku were less interesting—standard Jabari propaganda about his strength, his wisdom, his devotion to his people. But some details caught Erik's attention—old rivalries with other tribes, disputes over territory, a tendency to let anger cloud his judgment when his pride was wounded.
Pride. That's a weakness I can use. Pride makes you predictable. Pride makes you stupid.
Erik set down the reports and picked up his kimoyo beads, accessing the palace's security systems. It took him less than five minutes to hack into the Jabari delegation's private communications, another skill they underestimated in him. He listened to their conversations, watched their movements through the palace cameras.
He found Khamari in the royal gardens, alone, her fingers trailing along the petals of a rare moon orchid. The camera zoomed in, capturing the thoughtful expression on her face, the way her brow furrowed slightly as if considering some complex problem. She was beautiful, yes, but it was her mind that truly captivated Erik—the intelligence in her eyes.
She's not like the others. Not like the tribal elders who fear change, not like the young merchants who see me as a path to wealth. She sees me. And she's not afraid.
The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through him. He hadn't felt this way since... well, since never. Not really. He'd wanted women before, taken them when it suited him, but this was different. This was a conquest that mattered.
His plan began to form, piece by piece, like a strategic map unfolding in his mind. He couldn't just take her—not yet. That would be too simple, too crude. M'Baku would fight, the Jabari would rebel, and while Erik knew he could win any physical confrontation, he wanted more than that. He wanted her to choose him. Or at least, he wanted to create the illusion of choice before taking what he wanted anyway.
First, I'll isolate her. Show her the limitations of her mountain life, the narrowness of her world. Then I'll demonstrate the possibilities of mine. The power, the influence, the ability to shape not just a tribe but an entire nation. I'll make her see that standing beside me is greater than standing behind him.
He rose from his chair and moved to the window, looking out at the city that had become his kingdom. The nightscape pulsed with life and possibility, a reflection of his own vision for Wakanda.
They call me the Mad King because they don't understand what I'm building. They don't see the future I'm creating. But she will. She'll see it because she's not trapped by the past like the others. She's a survivor, just like me. And survivors recognize opportunity when they see it.
Erik's reflection in the window showed a man confident in his power, certain of his ability to get what he wanted. But beneath the surface, something stirred—a recognition of an equal, a counterpart. A woman who might just be his match in every way that mattered.
Let them call me mad. Let them whisper about the king who wants another man's wife. They don't understand that this isn't about desire. This is about destiny.
He turned from the window, his mind made up, his plan forming with the precision of a military operation.
"She had her chance to choose her path once before," Erik murmured to himself, a slow smile spreading across his face. "Let's see how she handles being given another one."
The Mad King was on the hunt.
The royal gardens of Birnin Zana were a masterpiece of engineered nature—bioluminescent flowers that pulsed with soft light, trees whose branches formed intricate patterns against the holographic sky, water features that defied gravity as they flowed upward in shimmering spirals. It was here that Erik found Khamari three days after the council meeting, her fingers tracing the edge of a moon orchid as its petals unfurled in response to her touch.
He approached silently, his footsteps muffled by the moss-like ground covering that absorbed sound. She didn't startle when he spoke, which told him volumes about her awareness.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" Erik said, his voice low and smooth. "Genetically engineered to bloom only at night. Kinda like me—come alive when the sun goes down."
Khamari turned slowly, her expression unreadable but not hostile. "My King," she acknowledged with a slight nod. "I wasn't expecting to find you here."
Erik smirked, leaning against a nearby tree. "I own the place, remember? I go where I want." He gestured to the orchid. "You know what they say about flowers like this? They only flourish in darkness. Some things need the night to truly show their beauty."
Her eyes met his. "Is that what this is, My King? A demonstration of your beauty in darkness?"
The challenge in her voice sent a thrill through him. She wasn't playing coy or simpering like most women who found themselves alone with the king. She was meeting him head-on, word for word.
"I'm just saying that people aren't always what they seem in the light," Erik replied, pushing off from the tree to close the distance between them. "Sometimes the most interesting things happen when no one's watching."
He watched her throat work as she swallowed, the gold hoops in her ears catching the garden's ambient light. She was affected by his presence, but she wasn't letting it show beyond the subtle tells he'd been trained to recognize.
"My husband will be looking for me," Khamari said, though she made no move to leave.
"Let him look," Erik countered softly. "A man should never worry about his wife wandering off unless he's given her reason to." He reached out, not touching her, but close enough that she could feel the heat of his hand near her arm. "M'Baku seems like a good man. A strong man. But strength without vision... that's just muscle with no purpose."
Khamari's chin lifted slightly. "The Jabari have purpose. We preserve what others would discard."
"Preserve or stagnate?" Erik challenged, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "There's an old proverb: 'When the roots are deep, there is no reason to fear the wind.' But what happens when the wind becomes a hurricane? What happens when the world changes so much that preservation becomes extinction?"
He saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes and knew he'd found a crack in her armor. Not much, but enough.
"My King," she began, but was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps.
M'Baku appeared between the trees, his massive frame seeming even larger in the enclosed space of the garden. His eyes immediately went to Erik, then to Khamari, then back to Erik. The protective instinct was palpable, a territorial display that would have been obvious to anyone, let alone a man trained to read body language.
"There you are," M'Baku said to Khamari, though his gaze remained fixed on Erik. "I was wondering where you had disappeared to."
"Just enjoying the gardens," Khamari replied smoothly, stepping away from Erik as she did. "The King was kind enough to join me."
Erik's smile was all teeth. "We were just discussing the nature of preservation versus evolution. Your wife has some interesting perspectives on the matter."
"I'm sure she does," M'Baku rumbled, extending a hand to Khamari. "But we have preparations to make for our return journey."
As they walked away, Erik called after them, "A proverb for you, Chief: 'The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago. The second best time is now.' Think about it."
He watched them go, his mind already working on the next phase of his plan. The subtle approach had been tested, and while it hadn't failed, it hadn't succeeded either. Time to escalate.
Three days later, Erik made his move. During another council meeting, this one focused on trade agreements with outside nations, he announced a new initiative.
"The Jabari Tribe has been isolated for too long," Erik declared from his throne, ignoring the shocked expressions around the table. "As part of my commitment to uniting all Wakandans, I'm allocating resources to develop the Jabari region."
M'Baku, who had been slouched in his chair with barely-concealed boredom, sat up straight. "We need no development from you. The Jabari are self-sufficient."
"Are you?" Erik countered, leaning forward. "I've seen the reports. Child mortality rates higher than any other tribe. Limited access to advanced medical treatments. No educational resources beyond what your own people can provide." He paused, letting his words sink in. "That's not self-sufficiency. That's neglect."
He activated the holographic display in the center of the table, showing images of the Jabari mountainside villages. "I'm sending medical teams. Educational resources. Agricultural technology that can triple your food production without compromising your values. You can accept it as the gift it is, or you can explain to your people why you're letting them suffer for the sake of tradition."
M'Baku's face was a thundercloud of fury. "You dare insult my leadership? My people?"
"I'm offering you help," Erik corrected smoothly. "Help you can't provide on your own." His eyes found Khamari, who was watching him with an expression he couldn't read—part anger, part curiosity. "Unless, of course, you think your wife would prefer to watch children die rather than accept help from the Mad King."
The challenge hung in the air, sharp and dangerous. Erik had deliberately put Khamari in the middle, forcing M'Baku to either accept the offer or appear to care more about tradition than his people's lives.
"We will consider your... offer," M'Baku managed through gritted teeth.
"Good," Erik nodded. "Consider it accepted. The teams leave tomorrow."
As the meeting adjourned, Erik caught Khamari's eye. She held his gaze for a moment before looking away, but not before he saw the conflict in her expression. She was torn between loyalty to her husband and the undeniable truth of his people's needs.
That night, Erik walked through the streets of Birnin Zana, making his customary unannounced inspections of the city. He liked to see firsthand how his changes were affecting the citizens, to hear their unfiltered opinions when they didn't know the king was listening.
He found what he was looking for in a plaza where young people had gathered around holographic displays, their excited conversations carrying on the night air.
"King Erik is changing everything," a young woman with elaborate braids said to her friends. "My brother's studying engineering now—something he never could have done under the old regime."
"My cousin joined the Border Tribe," another added. "She always wanted to see the world, but T'Challa would never allow it. King Erik's sending ambassadors to twelve countries next month."
"He's not like the other kings," a young man with glowing tattoos on his arms said. "He talks like us, thinks like us. He understands that Wakanda can't stay hidden forever."
Erik smiled to himself, moving deeper into the shadows. These were his people, the ones who saw the future he was building, who understood that isolation was a cage, not protection. They were the foundation of his new Wakanda.
As he continued his walk, his mind returned to Khamari. He could feel her resistance, her loyalty to M'Baku and the Jabari way of life. But he could also sense her curiosity, her intelligence, the part of her that recognized the truth in his words.
She's fighting it because she thinks she has to, Erik thought. Because her loyalty demands it. But loyalty without question is just weakness in disguise.
He stopped at a vendor selling traditional Wakandan street food, buying a portion of grilled fish spiced with herbs from the River Tribe region. As he ate, he watched a group of children playing with a new type of toy—small drones that could be programmed to form shapes and patterns in the air. One of the children, no older than six, was directing them, her fingers moving across the control panel with natural ease.
This is the future I'm building. A future where children from any tribe can become anything they want. Where tradition doesn't hold them back, but gives them a foundation to build upon.
The thought solidified his resolve. Khamari wasn't just a woman he wanted. She was a symbol—a bridge between the old Wakanda and the new one he was creating. If he could win her, he could win anyone.
There's another proverb, he thought, finishing his food and tossing the wrapper into a recycling chute. 'A single bracelet does not jingle.' But a queen who stands with me? We'll make enough noise to shake the foundations of this kingdom.
The next phase of his plan was already taking shape in his mind. The public display of favor toward the Jabari had been step one. Step two would require something more personal. Something that would force Khamari to see him not just as a king, but as a man.
The journey back to the Jabari mountains was made in tense silence. M'Baku drove their armored vehicle—a rugged, heavily modified transport that looked ancient compared to the sleek maglevs of Birnin Zana but could handle the treacherous mountain terrain with ease. Khamari sat beside him, watching the landscape change from the futuristic cityscape to the wild, untamed beauty of the mountains.
The vehicle's interior was spare but functional, leather seats worn smooth with age, the dashboard a mix of analog gauges and minimal kimoyo technology that M'Baku tolerated only when necessary. Outside, the sky darkened as they climbed higher, the neon glow of the capital giving way to the natural light of stars and moon.
"He's dangerous," M'Baku said suddenly, breaking the silence. His hands gripped the steering wheel. "More than I anticipated."
Khamari turned from the window, studying her husband's profile. The tension in his jaw, the furrow of his brow—all signs of his agitation. "He's also strategic. The MIT education wasn't just for show."
M'Baku scoffed. "A degree means nothing when it comes to wisdom. The man has no respect for tradition, for balance, for the ways that have kept Wakanda safe for generations."
"He has a vision," Khamari countered softly, though she knew her words would only fuel M'Baku's anger. "A different one, perhaps, but a vision nonetheless."
"A vision that puts his own desires above the good of the kingdom," M'Baku retorted. "Did you see how he looked at you? Like you were a prize to be won, another conquest for the Mad King?"
Khamari's fingers tightened on the hem of her tunic—a simple garment of deep blue wool, trimmed with fur at the collar and cuffs, practical for mountain life but still elegant. "I saw how he looks at many things. With hunger. With determination."
"And you find that admirable?" M'Baku's voice was dangerously low. "You find the way he disrupted the council, the way he dismissed our traditions, the way he threatened to expose our people's suffering to get his way... you find that admirable?"
"I find it honest," Khamari replied, choosing her words carefully. "He doesn't hide his ambitions behind pleasantries. He doesn't pretend to be something he's not."
"Unlike some?" M'Baku's glance at her was sharp. "Is that what this is about? You're drawn to his honesty because you feel you've been living a lie?"
The accusation hung between them, heavy and painful. Khamari looked away, back to the mountains rising outside the window. "I have never lied to you, M'Baku. Not about who I am or what I believe."
"Then why do I feel you slipping away?" His voice softened slightly, the anger giving way to something more vulnerable. "Why do I feel him pulling at you like a tide?"
Khamari didn't have an answer, or perhaps she had too many. The truth was complicated, a tangled web of loyalty, curiosity, and a dangerous attraction she couldn't deny.
As they rounded a bend in the mountain road, the Jabari stronghold came into view. Carved directly into the mountainside, the settlement was a testament to the tribe's philosophy of living in harmony with nature rather than seeking to dominate it. Structures of wood and stone blended seamlessly with the landscape, their design both functional and beautiful. No vibranium gleamed here, no holographic displays or advanced technology. The only lights were torches and lanterns, their warm glow compared to the neon of Birnin Zana.
At the center of the settlement stood the temple to Hanuman, its massive wooden doors carved with scenes from Jabari mythology. The scent of pine and wood smoke filled the air, mingling with the cold, crisp mountain breeze. This was home, the place that had taken her in when she had nowhere else to go, the place where she had become more than an orphan, more than a refugee.
M'Baku parked the vehicle outside their dwelling, a spacious structure built into the mountainside, with thick walls to ward off the mountain chill and windows that offered a breathtaking view of the valley below. Inside, the interior was a blend of rugged practicality and surprising comfort. Furs covered the stone floors, woven tapestries depicting Jabari history adorned the walls, and a massive fireplace dominated the main living area.
"I need to speak with the council," M'Baku said, his earlier anger replaced by the weary resolve of a leader facing crisis. "Erik's 'gift' cannot be refused without appearing to care more about tradition than our people's lives, but neither can it be accepted without weakening our position."
"What will you do?" Khamari asked, helping him remove his heavy fur cloak.
"I will accept," M'Baku replied, his voice heavy with resignation. "But on our terms. The medical teams will be monitored at all times. The educational resources will be reviewed before implementation. The agricultural technology will be tested on a small scale before widespread use." He turned to face her, his expression serious. "We will take what we need, but we will not become dependent on his charity."
Khamari nodded, though she wondered if such a delicate balance was possible. Erik didn't seem like a man who accepted half-measures.
As M'Baku left for the council meeting, Khamari moved to their bedroom, a space that reflected both of them. His weapons and tribal regalia shared space with her collection of books and maps. His massive fur-covered bed dominated the room, but her small desk by the window was cluttered with papers and writing implements.
She changed out of her travel clothes, donning a simple tunic of soft wool and leather leggings. The cool mountain air felt good against her skin after the artificial climate control of the capital. For a moment, she considered meditating, seeking clarity in the rhythms of Hanuman's worship, but her mind was too restless.
Instead, she found herself standing before the full-length mirror, studying her reflection. The gold jewelry she always wore seemed to catch the light, even in the dim room. The tattoos on her arms, symbols of her journey from orphan to queen, stood out against her dark skin. She saw a woman caught between worlds, between loyalties, between desires she couldn't easily name.
What does he see when he looks at me? she wondered. Does he see a challenge? A conquest? Or does he see something more?
The thought was dangerous, she knew. Erik was not a man to be trifled with, not a man whose attention was easily escaped. But part of her, a part she tried to suppress, was intrigued by the challenge he represented, by the vision of Wakanda he was building, even as she feared what it might cost her people.
Meanwhile, in Birnin Zana, Erik stood before a holographic map of Wakanda, his advisors arrayed behind him. The map showed the Jabari mountains in detail, with the positions of M'Baku's forces marked in red.
"He'll accept," Erik said, his confidence absolute. "He has no choice. But he'll try to control the situation, to limit our influence."
"Then we must be prepared to escalate," replied one of his military advisors, a former Border Tribe commander who had embraced Erik's vision with enthusiasm. "The Border Tribe stands ready. Our warriors are equipped with the latest vibranium-woven armor and weapons. We can be at the mountains' base within hours."
Erik nodded, his eyes fixed on the map. "And the Dora Milaje?"
"General Okoye remains... conflicted," another advisor admitted. "But many of the younger Dora have been inspired by your approach. They see the wisdom in preparing Wakanda for the world rather than hiding from it."
"Good," Erik said. "Prepare the forces. I don't anticipate open conflict—M'Baku's not stupid enough to start a war he can't win—but I want us ready for any eventuality."
As his advisors dispersed to carry out his orders, Erik remained before the map, his mind already calculating the next move. The medical teams and educational resources were just the beginning—a way in, a foothold in the Jabari territory. The real prize was still Khamari, still the challenge she represented.
That night, as Erik stood on his balcony. Below, citizens moved through the streets, their lives already changing in response to his leadership.
They call me the Mad King, he thought, but I'm the only one who sees clearly. The only one willing to do what's necessary to secure our future.
His thoughts returned to Khamari, to the conflict he could see warring within her. He had seen it in her eyes at the council meeting, in the way she defended her husband's position even as she acknowledged the truth of Erik's words.
She's fighting it because she thinks she must, he thought, because loyalty demands it. But even loyalty has its limits, and I'm a man who enjoys testing limits.
High in the mountains, Khamari stood before the window of her bedroom, looking out at the same moon that illuminated Erik's balcony. The mountain air was cold against her skin, but inside, a different kind of coldness was taking hold—the chill of uncertainty, of desire warring with duty.
M'Baku would return soon from his council meeting, his resolve strengthened, his position clear. He would fight to the death to protect their way of life, to resist Erik's influence. And she should stand with him—her husband, her king, the man who had given her a home and a position when she had nothing.
But as she looked at the moonlight on the snow-capped mountains, she couldn't help but wonder what the future held. Couldn't help but wonder about the man who saw Wakanda not as it had been, but as it could be.
And couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to stand with him instead.
The thought was dangerous, she knew. But some dangers were too compelling to resist.
The sound of the royal transport touching down in the Jabari valley was like an insult to the mountain silence. It was a sleek, black vessel of vibranium and advanced technology, its presence in the rugged landscape as jarring as a drop of blood on snow. When the ramp lowered, only one figure emerged.
Erik Killmonger.
He wore no royal robes, no crown. Just black tactical pants, heavy combat boots, and a simple black T-shirt that did little to hide the muscular physique beneath. A thick gold chain rested against his chest, disappearing between his pecs, a small piece of Oakland in the heart of traditional Wakanda. His locs were pulled back from his face. He was alone. Unarmed. Unprotected.
The Jabari warriors who spotted him first moved with the practiced efficiency of mountain hunters, spreading out, surrounding him, their spears and traditional weapons at the ready. They were big men, accustomed to the harsh mountain life, but even they seemed to pause at the sight of him. There was something about Erik's stillness that was more menacing than any weapon.
"Chief M'Baku is expecting no one," one of the warriors said, his voice rough as granite.
"I'm not 'no one'," Erik replied, his voice calm but carrying an edge of danger. "I'm your fucking King. Now take me to him."
The word spread through the stronghold like wildfire. By the time Erik reached the central dwelling, M'Baku was waiting for him outside, his massive frame seeming to block the entire doorway. He wore only a pair of loose-fitting pants, his broad chest bare, the muscles of his arms and shoulders tensed for battle.
"You have no right here," M'Baku rumbled, his voice low with fury. "No right to bring your machines, your disrespect, your presence to our sacred land."
"I have every right," Erik countered, stopping a few feet from M'Baku. "I'm the King of Wakanda. That includes your precious mountains, your gorilla god, and your wife."
The last words hung in the cold mountain air, a deliberate provocation. M'Baku's hands clenched into fists.
"You come to my home, you threaten my wife, and you expect me to bow?" M'Baku took a step forward, his bare feet planted firmly on the stone ground. "You are not my king. You are a pretender, a thug with a crown you didn't earn."
Erik's laugh was short and sharp. "Didn't earn it? I beat your boy T'Challa fair and square in ritual combat. That's how it works, right? Or does that only count when your side wins?" He circled slightly, the two alpha males sizing each other up. "I came to talk, but if you want to throw down, we can do that too. Just know that I've been killing motherfuckers since before I could shave."
"Your arrogance will be your downfall," M'Baku growled, his eyes narrowing.
"Maybe," Erik acknowledged with a shrug. "But not today." He turned his gaze to the dwelling behind M'Baku, where Khamari had appeared in the doorway. Even in the traditional Jabari clothing, she stood out—regal, poised, her eyes watching the confrontation with an intensity that Erik found both irritating and captivating.
"Khamari," Erik said, his voice changing slightly, becoming smoother. "We need to talk."
"There is nothing to discuss," M'Baku said, moving to block Erik's line of sight. "She is my wife. The Queen of the Jabari. You will not address her."
"I'll address whoever the fuck I want," Erik shot back, his patience wearing thin. "I'm trying to be civil here, Big Man. Don't make me get ugly."
"The only ugliness here is your presence," M'Baku retorted, taking another step forward. "You bring your Western corruption, your disrespect, your hunger for what doesn't belong to you. This is our land. Our ways. Our queen."
Erik's eyes flickered to Khamari, who hadn't moved from the doorway. "Is that what you want, Khamari? To spend your life in these mountains, playing queen to a man who thinks the world ends at his doorstep? Or do you want something more?"
He took a step toward her, ignoring M'Baku's warning growl. "I can give you the world, not just this mountain. Power, influence, the chance to shape Wakanda's future instead of just preserving its past. Stand with me, and you'll have more than you ever dreamed possible. Stand with me, and you'll be a true queen, not just the wife of some mountain chief."
Khamari's response was neither acceptance nor rejection. "My place is with my people," she said, her voice steady despite the tension crackling in the air. "With my husband."
"Is that your place, or is that just where you've ended up?" Erik challenged. "There's a difference."
The words struck home; Erik could see it in the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, the slight tightening of her jaw. She was considering it. Considering him.
That was all M'Baku needed to see.
With a roar of fury, the Jabari chief charged. He moved with surprising speed for a man of his size, his massive fists aimed at Erik's head.
"I warned you," Erik said, his voice dangerously calm as he sidestepped the attack.
M'Baku's momentum carried him past Erik, who pivoted with the fluid grace of a predator. The first strike was a knife-hand blow to M'Baku's kidney, followed immediately by an elbow to the back of his knee. The Jabari chief stumbled but didn't go down, turning with another roar, his face contorted with rage.
"You dare strike me in my own home?" M'Baku lunged again, this time more cautiously, his movements those of a trained warrior rather than just an angry man.
"I'll strike you anywhere I damn well please," Erik replied, his movements economical and precise. This was the years of combat experience that M'Baku had underestimated. He wasn't just a thug with a crown; he was a weapon that had been honed to deadly perfection.
The fight was brutal but brief. M'Baku had strength and fury, but Erik had technique and cold calculation. He used M'Baku's own momentum against him, redirecting attacks, finding openings, exploiting weaknesses with ruthless efficiency. A palm strike to the nose, followed by a knee to the solar plexus, then a sweeping kick that took M'Baku's legs out from under him.
The Jabari chief went down hard, his head cracking against the stone ground. He struggled to rise, but Erik was already there, his foot planted firmly on M'Baku's chest, the blade of a knife he'd produced from nowhere pressed against his throat.
"I could have killed you," Erik said, his voice low and dangerous. "I could have ended you right here, right now. But that's not why I came." He removed his foot, stepping back but keeping the knife ready. "I came to offer your wife a choice. Something you've never given her."
M'Baku coughed, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "She has made her choice."
"Has she?" Erik looked at Khamari, who still stood in the doorway, her expression unreadable. "The offer stands. Think about it."
With that, Erik turned and walked away, leaving M'Baku bleeding on the ground, and Khamari caught between duty and desire.
As Erik descended the mountain path, he found his elite guard waiting for him—twenty warriors in black vibranium armor, their weapons ready, their expressions murderous at the sight of blood on their king.
"My King," the commander said, her eyes fixed on the cut on Erik's cheek. "He dared to attack you? Give the order, and we will take this mountain. We will drag him before you in chains."
Erik wiped the blood from his face with the back of his hand. "Stand down. This isn't how it plays out."
"But he attacked the king," the commander protested. "The penalty for such treason is death."
"He's a stupid motherfucker who let his pride get the better of him," Erik replied, his voice calm. "Killing him makes him a martyr. Letting him live with the humiliation of being beaten by the 'thug from Oakland'? That's a punishment that keeps on giving."
He looked back up at the mountain stronghold, where he could see Khamari watching from the doorway. "This isn't about him anymore. It's about her."
The commander nodded reluctantly, though her expression remained grim. "As you command, My King."
As they boarded the transport, Erik allowed himself a small smile. The confrontation had gone exactly as planned, establishing his dominance, demonstrating his capabilities, and planting a seed of doubt in Khamari's mind.
There's a proverb for this, he thought as the transport lifted off, leaving the mountains behind. 'The lion does not turn around when a small dog barks.' But even lions need to remind the dogs who's in charge sometimes.
Back in the palace, Erik retreated to his private chambers—not the formal rooms of state, but a smaller space he'd claimed for himself. It was part sanctuary, part command center, with walls of smart glass that could display information or become transparent to reveal the city beyond. Comfortable seating was arranged around a central table where holographic displays could be summoned with a gesture.
He poured himself a glass of imported liquor, the amber liquid catching the light from the city below. The cut on his cheek stung, but it was a good pain—a reminder that he was alive, that he was fighting for what he wanted.
"She felt it," he murmured to himself. "When I had him on the ground, she felt the power shift. She knows who's really in charge now."
He accessed the security feeds, watching as M'Baku was helped inside by his warriors, as Khamari tended to his wounds. There was tenderness in her actions, but also something else—a distance, a contemplation that hadn't been there before.
The seed is planted, Erik thought with satisfaction. Now I just have to water it and watch it grow.
He took another sip, his mind already working on the next move. The direct approach had its uses, but subtlety could be just as effective—especially when dealing with a woman like Khamari. A woman who valued strength but respected intelligence, who was drawn to power but understood responsibility.
"She'll come around," he said to the empty room. "They always do."
And if she didn't? Well, he had other methods. Other ways to get what he wanted. The Mad King was nothing if not persistent.
The silence in M'Baku and Khamari's chambers was heavy enough to suffocate. M'Baku sat on the edge of their bed, his massive frame hunched over as Khamari gently cleaned the blood from his face. The cut on his face wasn't deep, but the humiliation behind it was a wound far more damaging.
"I should have killed him," M'Baku growled, his voice low with fury. "I should have torn him limb from limb for daring to step foot on our sacred land."
"And died for it?" Khamari countered softly, dabbing at the split in his lip with a cloth soaked in herbal antiseptic. "He moves like a panther, M'Baku. All fluid grace and lethal precision. You've never fought anyone like him."
"I have fought warriors my entire life," M'Baku insisted, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. "I am the strongest in the Jabari tribe. I am—"
"You are proud," Khamari interrupted gently. "And your pride made you predictable. He used it against you."
The truth of her words stung. M'Baku had always relied on his strength, on his reputation as the most formidable warrior in the Jabari tribe. But Erik had fought differently—not with brute force, but with the cold precision of a trained killer.
"His offer..." M'Baku began, then stopped, unable to finish the thought.
"Was tempting," Khamari finished for him, her hands stilling on his face. "Was honest. Was everything we're not."
She moved away, putting space between them as she cleaned the medical supplies. The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls of their home feeling more like a cage than a sanctuary.
"He would give me the world," Khamari said, more to herself than to M'Baku. "Power beyond this mountain, influence that could shape not just the Jabari but all of Wakanda. He sees me as an equal, not just a wife."
"You are my equal," M'Baku protested, rising from the bed. "You are my queen, my advisor, the heart of our tribe."
"Am I?" Khamari turned to face him, her expression unreadable. "Or am I the orphan your family took in, the girl you trained to be your perfect queen, the woman who has never known a life beyond what you've given her?"
The question hung between them, sharp and painful. M'Baku had never seen it that way—he had seen himself as her savior, giving her a home, a position, a purpose when she had nothing. But now he wondered if he had also given her a prison.
"You have a choice to make," M'Baku said, his voice heavy with resignation. "And whatever you choose, I will respect it."
Khamari's eyes widened slightly. She had expected anger, demands, threats—not acceptance.
"You would let me go?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"If that is what you truly want," M'Baku replied, though the words clearly cost him. "But I hope you will stay. I hope you will see that what we have here is real, not just... convenient."
Before Khamari could respond, a voice echoed through the chamber—a voice that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once.
"Hope is a fool's game, Big Man."
Erik.
Khamari spun around, searching for the source of the voice, but the room was empty. Then she noticed it, the faint shimmer in the air near the window, the distortion that revealed a holographic projection.
Erik stood there, life-sized and three-dimensional, his image so clear it seemed he could step right through the window into their room. He was still in the black tactical clothes he'd worn to the mountain, still had the cut on his cheek, but his expression was one of supreme confidence.
"Privacy means nothing when you're the king," Erik said, his smirk evident even in holographic form. "I can see you, hear you, be anywhere I want to be. Something to think about when you're making your decision."
M'Baku roared with fury, grabbing a spear from the wall and lunging at the hologram. He passed through it harmlessly, stumbling slightly before turning to face it again.
"Coward!" M'Baku spat. "Face me in person if you dare."
"I already faced you, remember?" Erik's hologram replied, completely unfazed by M'Baku's rage. "And we both know how that ended." His attention shifted to Khamari. "Time's up, beautiful. You need to make a choice."
"What choice?" Khamari asked, her voice steady despite the surreal situation. "Stay with my husband or become your property?"
"Property?" Erik's laugh was harsh. "Nah, I don't want property. Property is boring. I want a partner. Someone who can stand with me, not behind me. Someone who understands that Wakanda's future is bigger than one mountain, one tribe, one tradition."
He took a step closer to her, or rather, his hologram did, the image moving with fluid realism. "Stay here, and you'll always be the Jabari queen, the wife of Chief M'Baku. You'll have respect, tradition, a place in your little mountain society. But you'll never have more. Never be more."
"And with you?" Khamari challenged. "What would I be with you?"
"With me?" Erik's expression intensified, his eyes seeming to burn with an inner fire. "With me, you'd be the true queen of all Wakanda. You'd have power beyond imagination, the ability to shape not just our people but the world. You'd stand at my side as we drag this kingdom out of the past and into the future. You'd be feared, respected, worshipped."
He paused, letting his words sink in. "But mostly, you'd be mine. And I'd be yours. Completely. No fucking games, no half-measures. All in."
The offer hung in the air, tempting and terrifying in equal measure. Khamari felt pulled in two directions—her loyalty to M'Baku, to the life they had built together, warring with the undeniable attraction she felt to Erik's vision, to the power he represented.
"She has made her choice," M'Baku said, though his voice lacked conviction.
"Has she?" Erik's hologram turned its full attention to Khamari. "Let's be clear about what you're choosing. You choose him, you choose this mountain, this isolation, this slow death by tradition. You choose me, you choose the world."
Khamari's mind raced, weighing the options, considering the implications of her decision not just for herself but for all of Wakanda. To choose Erik was to choose change, disruption, a future that was both exciting and terrifying. To choose M'Baku was to choose stability, tradition, a future that was safe but limiting.
"I need time," she said finally.
"You've had time," Erik countered. "Your whole life has been preparation for this moment. The question is, are you brave enough to take what you want, or will you let fear keep you in this comfortable little cage?"
M'Baku watched them, his expression a mixture of anger and fear. He could feel her slipping away, could sense the pull of Erik's vision, the lure of power beyond anything he could offer. He had always been proud of her intelligence, of her strength, but now those same qualities might be what led her away from him.
"Khamari," he said, his voice soft with pleading. "Remember who you were when we found you. Remember what we built together."
"I remember," Khamari replied, her eyes never leaving Erik's holographic image. "But I also remember the girl who dreamed of more than just survival. The girl who wanted to see the world, to make a difference, to be more than just an orphan who got lucky."
Erik's smirk widened. "There she is. The girl I've been waiting to meet. The one who knows she deserves better than this mountain can offer."
Khamari's internal struggle was evident in her expression, in the way her hands clenched and unclenched at her sides. She was at a crossroads, her decision not just about which man to choose but about which version of herself to become.
"I choose..." she began, then stopped, taking a deep breath. "I choose my people. I choose my husband. I choose the Jabari."
The words hung in the air, final and undeniable. Erik's hologram stood silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. M'Baku released a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, relief flooding through him.
"Wrong choice," Erik said finally, his voice cold and hard. "But it's your choice to make. For now."
The hologram flickered and disappeared, leaving the room in silence once more. Khamari stood trembling slightly, the weight of her decision settling over her. She had chosen loyalty over ambition, stability over change, the familiar over the unknown.
But as she looked at M'Baku, at the relief on his face, at the love in his eyes, she couldn't help but wonder if she had just made the biggest mistake of her life.
"You chose well," M'Baku said, moving to embrace her.
Khamari allowed herself to be held, to take comfort in his strength, in the familiarity of his touch. But as she rested her head against his chest, her eyes drifted to the window where Erik's hologram had stood, and she wondered if she would ever stop wondering what might have been.
In the palace, Erik stood before the holographic display, his expression unreadable as he watched Khamari and M'Baku embrace. He had expected her rejection, had anticipated her loyalty, but that didn't make it any less frustrating.
"She'll come around," he said to the empty room. "They always do."
But even as he spoke the words, he knew this time was different. Khamari wasn't like the others—she wasn't swayed by power alone, wasn't intimidated by his threats. She had principles, a sense of loyalty that was both admirable and annoying.
"Then we'll make her regret her choice," Erik murmured, his mind already working on a new plan.
He accessed the palace's systems, pulling up information on ancient Wakandan laws, on forgotten traditions that might give him an advantage. There had to be something—some loophole, some precedent he could use to get what he wanted.
Because Erik Killmonger didn't accept rejection. He didn't take no for an answer. And he certainly didn't let a little thing like a woman's loyalty stand in his way.
The royal med-bay was a sterile white box of advanced technology, in contrast to the organic, earthy feel of the Jabari mountains. Erik sat shirtless on an examination table, a medical drone hovering over his face, using precise beams of light to knit the cut on his cheek back together with minimal scarring. The faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air, mixing with the scent of Erik's own sweat and the expensive leather of his pants.
"His Highness should avoid direct combat for the next seventy-two hours," the drone's synthesized voice recommended. "Tissue regeneration is optimal, but repeated trauma could result in permanent scarring."
Erik waved the drone away impatiently. "Yeah, yeah. Tell me something I don't know." He slid off the table, grabbing a black silk robe from a nearby chair and shrugging it on. The cool fabric felt good against his heated skin, a small comfort in the midst of his simmering frustration.
He walked through the palace corridors, his footsteps echoing on the polished floors. The building was quiet at this hour; most of the staff had retired, leaving Erik to his thoughts. Dangerous territory, especially now.
She fucking chose him. Chose that big-ass motherfucker over me. Me.
The thought kept circling in his mind, a shark in the water of his consciousness. He wasn't just angry; he was insulted. Deeply, profoundly insulted. He had offered her the world, and she had chosen a mountain. He had offered her power, and she had chosen tradition. He had offered her himself, and she had chosen... less.
This ain't even about wanting her anymore, Erik realized, stopping before a window that overlooked the city. This is about the fact that she dared to say no to me. To the King.
The rejection had transformed something in him, turning desire into obsession, want into need. It wasn't about Khamari anymore, not really. It was about proving that no one—no one—said no to Erik Killmonger and got away with it.
He continued to his private chambers, the rooms he had claimed for himself rather than using the formal king's quarters. They were a reflection of his dual nature—part Wakandan, part Oakland. The walls were smart glass that could display information or become transparent to reveal the city beyond. Comfortable seating was arranged around a central table where holographic displays could be summoned with a gesture. But there were also touches of his past—a framed photo of his mother, a collection of hip-hop vinyl from his youth, a shelf of worn paper books alongside advanced kimoyo tablets.
Erik poured himself a drink, the amber liquid catching the light from the city below. He needed to think, to plan, to find a way around this obstacle. Because that's what Khamari had become—an obstacle to his will, and Erik had never met an obstacle he couldn't overcome.
There's always a way. Always a loophole. Always some forgotten law or tradition that can be twisted to serve my purpose.
He accessed the palace's historical archives, his fingers moving across the holographic interface with practiced ease. The royal library was digitized, every scroll, every text, every legal precedent from Wakanda's long history available at his command. Most kings would have delegated this task to their advisors, but Erik wasn't most kings. He didn't trust anyone else to find what he was looking for—not when it mattered this much.
He searched for hours, his glass slowly emptying as he delved deeper into Wakanda's legal history. Marriage laws, succession protocols, tribal customs—anything that might give him an advantage. Most of it was useless, outdated traditions that had no relevance to his situation.
Until he found it.
Buried in a section on ancient royal prerogatives, in a text that hadn't been referenced in over two centuries, was a law that made Erik's lips curve into a slow, dangerous smile.
The Right of Reparation.
According to the text, established during the reign of King Azzuri in the 18th century, if a tribal leader publicly challenged the king's fitness to rule, the king gained the right to invoke the Right of Reparation. This gave him the authority to claim any member of the challenger's tribe as compensation for the insult to the crown—land, resources, or even people.
Holy shit, Erik thought, his heart pounding with excitement. This is it. This is the loophole.
He read further, his mind racing with possibilities. The law had been intended to prevent tribal leaders from making frivolous challenges to the king's authority, a way to maintain the balance of power in a time when Wakanda's internal stability was constantly threatened. It hadn't been invoked in over two hundred years, which meant it was still technically valid—no one had ever seen fit to repeal it.
And M'Baku publicly challenged my fitness to rule, Erik remembered with satisfaction. In front of the entire council. He basically handed me this shit on a silver platter.
The law was specific about what could be claimed and how. The king had to formally declare his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation within one lunar cycle of the challenge. The claim had to be of equivalent value to the perceived insult—land for land, resources for resources, or in this case, a person for a person.
Not just any person, Erik realized, his excitement growing. The law specifies that the claim must be of equal or greater status to the challenger. Since M'Baku is chief, I can claim someone of equal or greater status within his tribe.
Khamari.
As Queen of the Jabari, she was the only person who met those criteria. The law practically demanded he claim her.
"This is fucking perfect," Erik said aloud, pouring himself another glass of whiskey. "This is destiny right here."
He could already see how it would play out. He would announce his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation at the next council meeting. There would be outrage, of course—protests from the traditionalists, threats from the Jabari. But the law was clear. It was his right as king.
And then Khamari would have to choose again. But this time, there would be no ambiguity, no room for personal preference. This time, her choice would be between honoring an ancient law that upheld the very fabric of Wakandan society, or rebelling against the king and risking civil war.
Let's see how loyal she is when it's not just about her feelings, but about the stability of the entire kingdom, Erik thought with satisfaction. Let's see how committed she is to her mountain man when she has to choose between him and the law itself.
He was so absorbed in his plan that he didn't hear the soft chime that announced someone at his door. It wasn't until the door slid open that he looked up, his annoyance quickly replaced by curiosity.
It was Zola, the Border Tribe chief, along with two younger members of the Merchant Tribe. All three were supporters of his vision, but they looked nervous now, their expressions a mixture of concern and determination.
"My King," Zola began, her voice respectful but firm. "We hope we're not disturbing you."
Erik waved them in, his mind already shifting gears. "Not at all. What's on your minds?"
The younger merchant, a woman named Amara with intricate braids and intelligent eyes, spoke first. "We're concerned about your... interest in Chief M'Baku's wife."
Erik's expression hardened. "My interests are my own business."
"Normally, yes," Amara continued bravely. "But when those interests start to affect your judgment, when they start to distract you from the important work you're doing for Wakanda... then they become everyone's business."
Zola nodded in agreement. "The changes you've made—the openness, the trade agreements, the technological advancements—they're transforming our kingdom for the better. But some of us worry that you're losing focus, that you're letting personal desires interfere with your responsibilities as king."
Erik considered their words, part of him annoyed by their presumption, another part grudgingly respecting their courage. Most people were too intimidated by him to speak so frankly.
"I appreciate your concern," he said finally, his voice measured. "But I assure you, my focus is exactly where it needs to be."
"Is it?" the other merchant, a man named Kael with sharp eyes and an even sharper mind, challenged gently. "Because from where we're standing, it looks like you're about to start a war with the Jabari over a woman. A war that could undo all the progress you've made, that could set Wakanda back decades."
Erik's eyes narrowed. "You think I'm that stupid? That I'd risk everything for a piece of ass?"
"We think you're a man," Zola replied diplomatically. "A man who has been rejected, and who doesn't handle rejection well. We think you're letting pride cloud your judgment."
Erik stood up, moving to the window and looking out at the city lights. "What if I told you I had a way to get what I want without starting a war? A perfectly legal way, that's supported by ancient Wakandan law?"
The three exchanged glances. "We'd be interested to hear more," Amara said cautiously.
Erik smiled, though they couldn't see it from where they stood. "Let's just say that the Jabari chief made a mistake when he challenged my fitness to rule. A mistake that's about to cost him something very precious."
He turned back to face them, his expression confident. "Trust me when I say that I know exactly what I'm doing. This isn't about pride or rejection anymore. This is about establishing once and for all who the fuck is in charge in this kingdom."
The three visitors seemed to relax slightly, their concern giving way to curiosity. "You have a plan," Kael stated.
"I always have a plan," Erik replied. "And this one's foolproof. By the time I'm done, Khamari will be standing by my side as queen, and M'Baku will have learned a valuable lesson about challenging the Mad King."
As his visitors left, reassured but still somewhat uneasy, Erik returned to his holographic display, his mind already working out the details of his announcement. He would need to time it perfectly, to present it in a way that made it seem like a reasonable response to M'Baku's challenge rather than a personal vendetta.
They think I'm letting my dick do the thinking, he thought with amusement. They have no idea this is about so much more than that.
This was about power. About respect. About establishing his authority in a way that no one could ever question again. Khamari was the prize, yes, but she was also the message, the message that Erik Killmonger always got what he wanted, one way or another.
Accessing the database of traditional sayings he'd been studying. 'When the king is good, the chiefs are quiet. When the king is bad, the chiefs become loud.' M'Baku had been loud. Now it was time to make him quiet.
Erik poured himself one more glass of whiskey, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat. Tomorrow, he would set his plan in motion. Tomorrow, he would claim what was his.
And the best part? The absolute fucking cherry on top? He wouldn't even have to fight for it this time. The law would do the fighting for him.
"Checkmate, motherfucker," Erik murmured to the empty room, his smile widening. "Game, set, and match."
The training grounds of the Dora Milaje were a symphony of controlled violence. Under the harsh glare of the morning sun, dozens of warriors moved in perfect synchronization, their bodies flowing through combat forms that had been perfected over generations. The air was thick with the sounds of exertion—grunts of effort, the slap of bare feet on the practice mats, the sharp clang of vibranium spears striking against one another.
Erik watched from the elevated observation platform, his forearms resting on the metal railing. He wore a simple black tank top and tactical pants, his muscular arms on display. The cut on his cheek was already healing, leaving only a faint pink line that would soon disappear entirely.
"Her form is exceptional," Erik noted, his voice low as he watched one particular warrior—a young woman with fierce concentration and movements so fluid they seemed almost preternatural. "What's her name?"
"General Okoye's protégé, My King," replied Zola, who stood beside him. "Ayo. They say she's the most talented warrior the Dora have produced in a generation."
Erik nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Ayo. "She fights like she's got something to prove. Like she's angry."
"Her village was destroyed in a border skirmish with the Azanian empire," Zola explained. "She was the only survivor. Okoye found her and brought her here."
"Survivors make the best warriors," Erik commented. "They know what they're fighting for." He turned from the railing, his expression unreadable. "Gather the advisors. I want them in the war room in thirty minutes."
As Zola hurried to carry out his command, Erik watched the training for a few more moments, his mind already working on the coming confrontation. The Dora Milaje were the elite royal guard, the most formidable warriors in Wakanda. Under his leadership, they had become something more—a symbol of the new Wakanda he was building, a blend of tradition and innovation, of ancient warrior codes and modern combat techniques.
They'll be needed soon, he thought. When I claim what's mine, there will be resistance. And resistance must be crushed.
Gone were the open skies and living greenery. In their place stood polished vibranium, glowing displays, and sharp geometric lines. It was a circular chamber with walls of smart glass that could display tactical information, become transparent to reveal the palace grounds, or turn opaque for privacy. In the center of the room stood a massive holographic table capable of projecting detailed maps and strategic simulations.
Erik's advisors were already assembled when he entered—six of the most powerful and influential people in Wakanda, each representing a different aspect of his administration. Zola of the Border Tribe, Okoye of the Dora Milaje, T'Chaka of the Mining Tribe, Amara and Kael of the Merchant Tribe, and Nakai, the head of the Hatut Zeraze, Wakanda's covert intelligence agency.
They watched him with varying expressions—curiosity, concern, respect, and in Okoye's case, barely concealed disapproval. She stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her posture rigid, her face a mask of professional courtesy that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"Thank you for coming," Erik began, his voice calm as he moved to stand before the holographic table. "I know you're all anxious to know what I've been planning since the... incident with the Jabari chief."
He activated the table, projecting a detailed map of the Jabari mountains, with M'Baku's stronghold highlighted in red. The advisors leaned in, their expressions intense.
"I've found a solution," Erik continued, his fingers moving across the table's interface. "A way to resolve this situation without bloodshed, without civil war, without compromising the stability of the kingdom."
He projected the text of the ancient law he had discovered, the words floating in the air above the table. "The Right of Reparation. Established during the reign of King Azzuri in the 18th century."
The advisors read the text, their reactions varying from confusion to dawning comprehension. It was Nakai who spoke first, his voice sharp with intelligence.
"This law hasn't been invoked in over two hundred years," he noted. "There's no precedent for how it would be applied in modern Wakanda."
"There's a precedent for everything if you know where to look," Erik countered smoothly. "And the precedent here is clear. When a tribal leader publicly challenges the king's fitness to rule, the king gains the right to invoke the Right of Reparation."
He looked around the table, making eye contact with each advisor in turn. "M'Baku publicly challenged my fitness to rule in front of the entire council. He gave me this right. I'm just choosing to exercise it."
Okoye stepped forward, her expression troubled. "And what exactly do you plan to claim as reparation, My King? Land? Resources? The vibranium deposits in the Jabari territory?"
Erik's smile was slow and dangerous. "I'm claiming something much more valuable. I'm claiming his queen."
The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife. The advisors stared at him, their expressions a mixture of shock and disbelief.
"You can't be serious," Amara breathed, her eyes wide. "You want to invoke an ancient law to... to kidnap another man's wife?"
"It's not kidnapping if it's legal," Erik corrected, his tone casual. "And according to this law, it's perfectly legal. The claim must be of equal or greater status to the challenger. Since M'Baku is chief, I'm claiming someone of equal status within his tribe—Khamari, as Queen of the Jabari."
"This is madness," Okoye protested, her composure finally cracking. "It will provoke a war with the Jabari. The other tribes will revolt. You'll tear Wakanda apart over a personal vendetta."
"Will they?" Erik challenged, turning to face her. "Or will they respect the law? The very foundation of our society is the rule of law, the principle that no one—not even the king—is above it. But also that no one, not even a tribal chief—is beyond it."
He looked around the table again, his gaze intense. "This isn't a personal vendetta. It's a test. A test of whether Wakanda is truly a nation of laws, or just a collection of tribes bound by tradition. A test of whether the king's authority is absolute, or subject to the whims of those who would challenge it."
Nakai nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "From a strategic standpoint, it's brilliant. You're forcing M'Baku to either accept the law and lose his wife, or reject the law and be branded a traitor to Wakanda itself."
"Exactly," Erik confirmed. "He's trapped either way. And so is she."
"But the human cost," T'Chaka protested, his face troubled. "This woman—Khamari—she becomes a pawn in your political game. Is that right?"
"Right and wrong have nothing to do with it," Erik replied coldly. "This is about power. About establishing once and for all that the king's word is law. That challenges to my authority will be met with consequences."
He turned to Okoye, his expression hardening. "I need the Dora Milaje ready to move at a moment's notice. Not to fight the Jabari, unless it becomes necessary, but to enforce the law. To escort Khamari to the capital if M'Baku refuses to comply."
Okoye's jaw tightened, but she nodded reluctantly. "As you command, My King."
"And the Hatut Zeraze," Erik continued, turning to Nakai. "I need you to monitor the situation in the Jabari mountains. I want to know every move M'Baku makes, every conversation he has with his advisors, every whisper of rebellion among his people."
"Already done," Nakai confirmed. "We have operatives in place. You'll know what he's thinking before he does."
Erik nodded, satisfied. "The Merchant Tribe will handle the economic aspects of this. If M'Baku resists, I want sanctions imposed. No trade, no travel, no access to the markets. Let's see how long his people support him when they're starving."
Amara and Kael exchanged uneasy glances but nodded their agreement. "It will be done, My King."
As the meeting adjourned, the advisors dispersing to carry out their orders, Erik remained before the holographic table, his mind already working through the details of his plan. He could feel the pieces falling into place, the inevitable conclusion drawing nearer.
That night, Erik stood on the balcony of his private chambers, looking out over the cityscape of Birnin Zana. The lights pulsed with life and energy. Below him, the city moved with purpose, its citizens embracing the changes he had implemented, the future he was creating.
But his thoughts were far away, in the Jabari mountains, with a woman who had dared to say no to him. A woman who would soon learn that rejection was not an option when it came to Erik Killmonger.
"She had her chance to choose," he murmured to himself, the city lights reflecting in his eyes. "She had her chance to choose freely, without pressure, without consequence. She made the wrong choice."
"Now I'll make the choice for both of us."
The thought brought a smile to his lips. Tomorrow, he would announce his intention to invoke the Right of Reparation. Tomorrow, he would set in motion the events that would bring Khamari to his side, whether she wanted to be there or not.
'The child who is not embraced by the village will burn it down to feel its warmth.' They had never embraced him, never accepted him as one of their own. Now they would learn the consequences of that rejection.
The Mad King was coming for his queen.
And nothing—not tradition, not loyalty, not love itself—would stand in his way.
