Gazerbeam (Simon J. Paladino) x Elaine Roswell (Black Female OC)
This is a lawyer x paralegal story.
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This work is complete. Chapters update weekly.
NEXT CHAPTER - Chapter 9: Christopher Werner
Note: Okay so fun fact I did something like this at my last job except I forgot to produce documents that were due the day before and I'm not gonna lie I cried like a freaking baby to my atty who was like "oh no its traumatized, here have a chocolate. also that wasn't actually due until next week you're fine."
It's early morning when Elaine sits at her desk, her landline pressed to her ear. She's frantic, attempting to get in touch with Simon's go-to court reporting company, her heart pounding with anxiety. They have a deposition scheduled for two days from now, and she realized in the middle of the night she forgot to schedule them. She got in an hour early, too restless to focus on sleeping. Now, she's doing everything she can to fix her mistake before it's too late.
Her voice trembles as she explains the situation to the woman on the other line. "Good morning, this is Elaine from Paladino Law. I need to schedule a court reporter for a deposition in two days. I know it's short notice, and I'm really sorry for that, but is there any way I could get one scheduled?"
The representative responds, "Yeah we can do that, but there will be an additional fee."
Her stomach sinks at the confirmation, now knowing the extra cost is inevitable.
"That's alright!" her words spilling with fake politeness trying to hide the strain in her voice, "What would the cost be and is there anything other than the Notice that you need from us?"
"It's an extra $75 and you can drop the Notice off at the front desk with our scheduler. I'll put you on on our schedule right now, but we need the Notice for our records."
"Of course! I'll be there this afternoon then. Is there any way for me to receive a confirmation sheet for this?"
"Yes, I'll leave it with the scheduler to hand to you. Have a good day."
"Thank you, goodbye," Elaine sighs with a mixture of relief and impending doom. At least she has that on the books but now she needs to at least try and find one that won't charge extra...and tell Simon about her mistake.
She spends the next twenty minutes calling around to other court reporting companies for quotes. Sadly, most of them don't answer before their offices officially open despite their scheduling department starting thirty minutes to an hour beforehand. She's left sitting in her own haze of mounting anxiety with each passing moment. The clock ticks closer to 8:00 a.m., Simon's usual time to arrive. Her chest tightens with dread at the thought.
At some point, she gets up to make coffee just to keep busy. But she can't really remember doing it, her mind so lost in panic, she barely registers the sound of the beeping coffee pot signaling the finished brew. Her thoughts keep circling around her mistake, the potential cost, and the disappointment from Simon she knows she is going to face if she can't find a place that won't cost him more money.
Her eyes shoot to the front door hearing it unlock. Simon arrives right on the hour. Messenger bag on his shoulder and in a navy suit. He quickly says good morning to her, but before she can speak, he glances into his office at the sound of his landline ringing. He glances at the clock on the wall and announces he'll be back in a moment after the call. Mumbling that the call was set for 8:15, not 8 o'clock. Without hesitation he rushes into his office, leaving her to simmer in her anxiety and wait. She watches him walk away, her stomach twisting with guilt and fear. The minutes drag by, each one feeling heavier than the last. When Simon finishes his call twenty-eight minutes later, he heads out of his office to the kitchen, pours himself a cup of coffee, and heads back into his office door left open. He no longer keeps the single brew pot on his desk. Having placed it in storage after hiring her and swapping it for a sizeable six cup pot in the kitchen.
Elaine hesitates, her heart pounding so loudly she fears it might burst out of her chest. She takes a deep breath, then steps into his office, her hands are wringing behind her back and sweating so bad she can feel them become slick as her lotion wears off.
"Uhm, Simon?"
He looks up, surprised, her voice so soft he almost didn't hear her, "what's going on, Elaine?"
She pauses trying to find the right words. Her voice stutters a little as she speaks, "I made a huge mistake regarding the deposition. I accidentally forgot to schedule the court reporter for two days from now. I thought I had everything done, I think I was working on something else and it slipped past me. I called around and was able to book the normal company you usually use, but they're going to charge an additional fee because it's on short notice. I also reached out to some other court reporters, and I'm waiting to hear back from them. I'm so sorry! I thought—I thought I remembered to do this until I realized last night."
Her eyes flick up to his face with a mix of frustration at herself and worry over his reaction. "I just—I hope I haven't created a situation that's hard to fix or costs too much. I, uhm,…I well…" she trails off.
Simon listens quietly, his expression calm and composed. He stands from behind his desk and slowly makes his way over to her. Gently, he places his hands on the side of her shoulders, his tone soft, voice low and reassuring, "Elaine, I'm not mad at you. I'm glad you told me instead of saying nothing and I'm glad that you worked hard to fix it. Most things in our line of work can be fixed, and this is one of those things, which you have already gone through the effort of doing and from what you just told me, has already worked out. You can book with the usual company. I don't mind paying an extra fee for the short notice."
Elaine looks up at him felling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly, but the guilt still lingers.
He gives her a small reassuring squeeze as he turns to sit back down, "be sure you get the Notice to them and when the other companies call you back tell them you were able to book with someone else."
She nods, "I'll go there this afternoon."
"Sounds like a solid plan then," his comforting smile warms her heart, "could you close my door on your way out? I have another call with Mrs. Koch today."
"Of course," Elaine exits his office softly closing the door behind her while Simon dials in Mrs. Koch's number. She takes a massive breath letting it out slow to calm her nerves.
Well, I didn't get fired, screamed at, or called useless like I thought.
The tension she holds eases from her body. Her heart rate finally taking a break. Her hand leaves the door handle as she turns to head back to her desk. She settles in her chair, grabbing the receiver to the landline to start calling back the other companies. She still feels a little shaky, but her mind feels clearer now. Her gaze drifts to the clock on the wall as she dials. There's still plenty of time for her to print off the Notice and get it out the door after lunch. She makes a mental note to double-check everything.
"Okay, I've got this."
For the first time all day, a small smile forms on her lips. She knows she's not perfect and that mistakes happen, but she survived her worst fear since she started working for Simon. His reaction to her making a near catastrophic mistake was far better than she could have imagined, and she feels grateful to be working with someone with such an understanding heart.
-
A week has gone by since the chaos of securing the court reporter. Elaine sits at her desk, the hum of her small desk fan filling the surrounding space keeping her cool. As she types away drafting up filings or entering new information in an exhibit index her gaze keeps drifting toward the phone sitting on her desk, silently awaiting its next call.
Her fingers tap anxiously on the polished wood surface, each tap echoing softly in her ears, a nervous rhythm she isn't going to bother trying to control. Every time she looks at the phone her stomach clenches, a familiar flutter of anticipation twisting inside her. She knew it was stupid to get this worked up. Everything was taken care of and the court reporter happily told them the transcript would be ready three days after the deposition took place. But that small seed of doubt still gnaws at her. What if they were missing something? What if she forgot a document they suddenly added to their requirements? What if, what if, what if.
She decides to throw herself into a mountain of other tasks—reviewing Simon's notes, organizing stacks of new documents, and cross-referencing the new information he uncovered from the deposition. Her hands move swiftly almost instinctively, typing, sorting, and organizing like a machine to keep her mind busy.
Thankfully, the deposition went well for them. Her and Simon worked like a seasoned team despite her time there being less than six months now. He acted pleased with the outcome that day. The deponent's testimony had aligned with what he suspected. He praised her handsomely after it was over even though he looked exhausted due to it lasting three more hours than what either of them had anticipated. Still, her recent mistake lingered in her mind which has caused her to quadruple check everything her hands or eyes lay on.
She rubs her temple in a steady motion, her headache slowly starting to ease up after taking a couple Midol. Her eyes flick over to the clock on the wall. It was mid-afternoon now, but the seconds felt so slow, almost exaggerated, each one dragging as if time itself was hesitant to move forward and make that darn phone ring. A soft knock on her desk pulls her from her thoughts. Simon stands there a few notes in hand. His expression is calm with a slight edge of concern she assumes is a reaction to her previous action.
"I'm alright, it 's only a small headache," she answers his question before his mouth can form any words, "what can I help you with?"
He clears his throat, "I've been going over the new details from the deposition. I think we're in a better spot than we were before. Her testimony lines up with some of the evidence I gathered earlier, but there's still more to look into. Can you call the client to confirm the dates she spoke about? I want a better timeline than what I wrote up before. Don't work off of the one I made, make a new one. Your notes are much better than mine."
"Will do, and the transcript should be ready for pick up today or tomorrow."
<p>"Great, then let's shoot to get this done by Thursday if we get the final transcript in the next couple of days."
Simon turns around after leaving his notes with her. She starts leafing through the stapled packet but looks up when she hears him abruptly turn back around. His hand pointing in the air upon remembering something else to tell her.
"Oh, uh, right! Can you also schedule a time for me to talk with the client to go over everything that happened in the depo so we're all on the same page?"
She nods at him.
"Thank you Elaine! You're the best!"
He heads back into his office while she writes a few notes for the call she is about to make. She glances at his office door, a smile blooming on her face at his praise.
As she dials the client's number she suddenly remembers that they are, like her, at work. Instead of finishing she hangs up the receiver and writes on a purple sticky note to call them in a few hours.
Summary: Can you handle the heat when two entirely different worlds collide in the dark, or will the power dynamic completely consume you? They say some connections are written in the stars, while others are caught under the heavy crimson glow of exclusive nightclub lights. Solange, an international high-fashion icon used to ruling the runways and protecting her pristine image, wasn’t prepared for the gravitational pull of Cody Rhodes. He isn’t just the WWE champion; he moves with a quiet, cold, and undisputed Mafia authority that commands every room he steps into. What starts as a slow, possessive gaze across a VIP lounge quickly turns into a high-stakes game of pursuit backstage in the concrete corridors. Between her elite fashion world, his hyper and chaotic inner circle, and an undeniable chemistry that feels both dangerous and completely inevitable, they are forced to confront a heavy question: Is this just a thrilling game of power, or have they stumbled into a love that will redefine both of their empires?
⚠️ Note: Please be aware there will be smut in some chapters, so keep an eye out for the "⚠️" symbol!
🎧 Inspiration: Inspired by the late-night, heavy melodic trap vibes of Royal44 and NOWIMYOUNG. Highly recommended to listen along while reading to catch the vibe! 🎧
Disclaimer & House Rules:
The only thing I own is my original character (Solange) and the made-up narratives. I am asking nicely once—please do not steal my stories, my plots, or my face claims as your own. I will get disrespectful about it. No shade, but all respect!
tags ! : 🏷️ @uceyliyahh @charmed-dreamssss @amandairene88 @duhitzkay380 @prettypink-princesss @bluestrawberrypatch @mjonthetrack @christinabae @transparentphantomface @fafomama @scorpiodivazchamp @keenagurl @trippiexlove @shanthefemalerapper @lovelikebuttahbaybee @mindairy 🏷️ lmk if you'd like to be tagged ! I'll add u!! 🏷️
C.2 💋
The heavy, metallic door at the end of the corridor clicked shut, the sound echoing flatly against the cold cinderblock walls. Cody was gone. But his presence—thick, magnetic, and heavy with the scent of high-end sandalwood, black pepper, and leather—lingered in the damp draft of the arena’s backstage wing.
Solange stood entirely frozen. Her back was still pressed against the rough, cold concrete of the wall, but her body felt like it was burning from the inside out. Her breath came in shallow, uneven intervals, her chest rising and falling beneath her white baby tee. Slowly, almost as if she were afraid she would break a spell, she lifted her left arm.
There it was.
Written in dark, bold, uncompromising black ink directly over her delicate wrist, tracing right across her racing pulse point, was a ten-digit number. The handwriting was incredibly elegant yet sharp—slanted perfectly, written with the steady, practiced hand of a man who never hesitated in his life.
His private line.
Solange let out a shaky breath, a soft, involuntary gasp slipping past her glossy lips. Her cheeks were flushed a deep, brilliant crimson, the heat radiating all the way down to her neck. In her world—the cutthroat, high-gloss universe of Parisian runways, luxury brand campaigns, and elite fashion weeks—she was the undisputed queen. She was used to men staring. She was used to billionaires offering her yachts, designers begging for her time, and athletes sliding into her DMs with pathetic, rehearsed pickup lines. She knew how to dismantle them with a single, icy look. She knew how to hold the power.
But Cody Rhodes? Cody had completely stripped her of her armor in less than three minutes.
He was just so massive. Standing close to him, she had been hyper-aware of the sheer physical scale of the man—the broadness of his shoulders beneath his fitted athletic gear, the hard line of his chest, the dominant way he leaned into her space without ever actually touching her until he gently took her hand. And those eyes. Those piercing, calculating eyes that seemed to look right through her, taking inventory of her soul and deciding, on the spot, that she belonged to him.
It made her feel incredibly, helplessly shy. It was a feeling she hadn't experienced since she was a teenager. It was infuriating, thrilling, and utterly terrifying.
"Solange!"
The sharp, echoing shout of Naomi’s voice shattered the silence of the corridor. Solange gasped, her eyes widening in a sudden panic. Instantly, she yanked her left sleeve down, desperate to cover the bold black markings on her wrist. She frantically rubbed her burning cheeks with her palms, trying to force the blush to recede before her friends saw her.
"Hey! Over here!" Solange called back, her voice cracking slightly on the first syllable. She cursed under her breath, clearing her throat quickly. "In the side hall!"
Naomi and Rhea rounded the corner a second later. Naomi was carrying a sleek wardrobe bag over her shoulder, her eyes darting around the hallway, while Rhea walked with her hands shoved into the pockets of her leather jacket, her sharp gaze scanning the area.
"Girl, what the hell are you doing down here?" Naomi asked, stopping in front of her. She frowned, leaning in closer to examine Solange’s face. "Wait a damn minute. Why are you so red? Sol, you’re literally glowing. Are you having an allergic reaction to the arena air? Is it dusty back here?"
"No! No, I’m fine," Solange said quickly, her voice a little too high, a little too breathless. She adjusted her designer sunglasses, pulling them down over her eyes to hide her gaze, but it did nothing to conceal the brilliant blush covering her face. "I just... I walked a bit too fast. It’s hot back here."
Rhea didn't say a word. She just stood there, her head tilted slightly, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across her lips. Her dark eyes dropped down to Solange’s left hand, which was currently clutching the cuff of her sleeve so tightly her knuckles were turning white.
"Is that right?" Rhea asked, her voice a low, amused drawl. "You walked too fast? In a straight corridor?"
"Yes," Solange insisted, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I got turned around. Let’s just go back to the car."
"Solange," Rhea said, stepping forward. In one lightning-fast motion, she reached out and grabbed Solange's left hand.
"Rhea, don't—"
It was too late. Rhea easily pried Solange's fingers away and yanked her sleeve back. The bold, fresh black ink was fully on display, the numbers practically screaming against Solange's skin.
Naomi’s jaw dropped so low it looked like it might hit the concrete floor. She let out a screech so loud and high-pitched that two production crew members pushing a heavy metal crate at the end of the main hallway stopped dead in their tracks to stare.
"Shut the fuck up, Naomi!" Solange whispered fiercely, her face burning hotter as she desperately tried to pull her hand back, but Rhea held fast, examining the handwriting with an expert eye.
"Oh my fucking god!" Naomi squealed, clamping both hands over her mouth, her eyes practically popping out of her head. "No he did not! No the fuck he did not! Solange! Is that... is that a phone number? On your damn wrist?!"
"It's nothing," Solange pleaded, her shyness completely taking over. She felt like a high school girl caught hiding a love note. "We just... we bumped into each other. He was just being polite."
"Polite?!" Naomi gasped, grabbing Rhea's arm and shaking it violently. "Rhea, look at this! He didn't just give her his number, he branded her! He wrote directly on her skin! With a sharpie! The champion is a savage!"
"It’s a pilot pen, actually," Rhea corrected smoothly, a massive, knowing grin on her face as she finally released Solange’s wrist. "And that is not the handwriting of a polite man, Sol. That is the handwriting of a man who wanted to make sure his mark was on you. Look at you. You’re shaking."
"I am not shaking!" Solange lied, quickly pulling her sleeve back down and crossing her arms tightly over her chest. "I’m just... cold. The draft in here is freezing."
"Right. You're cold, but your face is literally the color of a cherry," Rhea teased, nudging Solange’s shoulder with her elbow. "I’ve seen you reject billionaire fashion CEOs without even looking up from your phone. But Cody Rhodes writes some numbers on your arm, and you completely lose your mind?"
"He's just... he’s very intense," Solange murmured, looking down at her vintage sneakers, her voice dropping to a shy, quiet whisper. "He didn't even ask for my name. He already knew it."
"Of course he knew it, you're a global icon," Naomi hyped, grabbing Solange’s shoulders and shaking her. "But more importantly... he wants you, Sol! The undisputed boss of this whole damn company wants you. Now, come the fuck on, let’s get to the car before I start screaming again. We have a whole strategy to plan."
Solange let her friends drag her down the hallway, her head spinning. As they walked back to the security checkpoint, she kept her hand tucked securely in her pocket, her thumb slowly, gently tracing the raised texture of the ink on her wrist.
While Rhea, Naomi, and a highly flustered Solange walked back to the parking garage, a completely secret, highly classified digital operation was being launched in the shadows.
The moment the girls stepped out of the arena doors, and the moment Jimmy and Jey Uso made it back to their private locker room, a brand-new group chat was created. It was an alliance that neither Cody nor Solange knew existed—a secret syndicate of friends determined to play matchmaker, whether the two main players liked it or not.
Operation Sody!
Members: Naomi💛, Rhea 🖤, Jey 🩸, Jimmy 🧸, Punk 🎀
| Jimmy 🧸: YO!!! Uces! Ladies! Did y'all see that shit in the hallway or am I fucking hallucinating?! Cody had her pinned to the concrete with nothing but his damn eyes! I thought the champ was gonna demand a private room right there in the production wing! 😂💀
| Naomi 💛: I AM LITERALLY SCREAMING IN THE PASSENGER SEAT RIGHT NOW!!! Girls, she came back to us looking like she just saw a damn ghost but her face was redder than a fire engine! She’s clutching her sleeve like she’s hiding a stolen diamond!
| Jey 🩸: On god, I ain't never seen Cody look at a woman like that. The man is usually cold as absolute ice backstage. If some network executive or wrestler steps out of line, Cody looks at them like he's gonna have them quietly removed from the building. But he was looking at Solange like she was the only damn thing in the room.
| Punk 🎀: It’s embarrassing, honestly. The great American Nightmare, the untouchable boss, completely reduced to a high school boy writing notes on a girl’s hand. He’s been in his private office for ten minutes staring at his blank phone screen. Someone needs to push him off the ledge before he starts pacing.
| Rhea 🖤: Solange is incredibly proud, guys. And right now, she’s so shy she can barely look at her own wrist. She’s staring out the window of my car right now like she’s in a tragic romance movie. If we leave it up to her, she’ll wait three days to text him just to prove a point.
| Naomi 💛: Exactly! She’s trying to play it cool but she is completely whipped already. We need to coordinate this. Jimmy, Jey—you guys need to keep hyping him up. Make him impatient. Don't let him play the calm, collected boss. Break his composure!
| Jimmy 🧸: Oh, you already know we on that! We walked into his office and I told him he looked like a straight-up gangster writing on her wrist like that. He told me to shut the fuck up and go check the gate numbers, but I saw him smiling. He’s stressed! He wants that text BAD! 😂
| Punk 🎀: I'll handle the scheduling side. If she does text him, I’ll make sure his calendar is miraculously cleared of any corporate bullshit. I’d rather deal with a distracted Cody than a moody, waiting Cody.
| Rhea 🖤: Perfect. Operation: Crimson Union is officially active. Nobody say a word to either of them. Let them think they’re playing a highly sophisticated game of cat and mouse, while we pull the strings from the back.
| Jey 🩸: Yeet! Let's get it! 🙌🔥
Inside Rhea’s SUV, the silence was thick, but the digital airwaves were absolutely buzzing. Solange sat in the back, her cheek pressed against the cool glass of the window, pretending to watch the Atlanta skyline pass by. But in her lap, her phone was vibrating relentlessly.
My girls ♥️
| Nao💚: [Shared a contact file: 'Cody Rhodes 🫦'] Just in case you "accidentally" wash your wrist with heavy-duty soap, sweetie. I know your brain is currently fried.
| Solange ❣️: I am literally sitting right behind you, Naomi. I can hear you giggling. Stop texting me this.
| Rhea 🖤: She’s deflecting. Sol, for real. Are you going to text him or are you going to let that gorgeous, terrifying man think he scared you off?
| Solange ❣️: He didn't scare me. I'm just... thinking. It feels so cliché. "Hey, it's the girl from the hallway." I am an international model, I don't chase men. Especially not men who write on me like I’m a piece of scrap paper.
| Nao💚: Scrap paper?! Bitch, he wrote on your PULSE POINT. He basically put his signature on your heart rate! If a man with a bespoke charcoal suit and a neck tattoo did that to me, I’d already be planning the wedding colors!
| Rhea 🖤: She’s not lying, Sol. The energy he was giving off was pure power. He didn’t ask for your permission, he just took your hand and made his move. It’s hot. But now, you have to play the counter. If you don't text him, you’re letting him hold all the cards.
| Solange ❣️: I don't want to hold cards, I just don't want to look desperate.
| Nao💚: Desperate?? You look like a whole damn goddess! He’s probably in his locker room sweating through his expensive knit shirt waiting for a notification. Just send a simple text. A dot. A single letter. Anything!
| Solange ❣️: I'm not sending him a dot. I'm going to take a long shower, do my skincare routine, and ignore him for at least a few hours.
| Rhea 🖤: Sure you are. That’s why you’ve been looking at your wrist every thirty seconds since we left the loading dock. 😉
| Solange ❣️: I hate you both. Truly.
Part IV: The Boys’ Chat (The Round Table)
Back at the State Farm Arena, inside the private, heavily secured executive locker room reserved for the champion, the atmosphere was thick with masculine energy and unfiltered banter. Jimmy Uso, Jey Uso, Cody, and CM Punk were lounging on the leather sofas, a private fridge stocked with premium drinks behind them.
Cody sat in the center leather chair, his long legs crossed, a glass of bourbon resting on the armrest. He looked entirely relaxed, but his fingers were typing a slow, rhythmic pattern against the back of his phone.
The silence of the room was broken by the sharp, aggressive chime of the group chat.
Day 1🩸🍻
| Jon🩸: Yo, champ. You staring at that black screen so hard I think you’re trying to manifest a text with your mind. It’s pathetic, uce. Truly.
| Jey 🔑: On god! Just call her, uce! Oh wait... you didn't get her actual digits because you wanted to play the smooth, untouchable don in the hallway! How’s that working out for you? 😂💀
| Cody: I don't need to call her. She’ll text. It’s a negotiation, boys. Patience is key.
| Punk 🍻: A negotiation? Cody, she’s a high-fashion supermodel who spends her time in Paris and Milan surrounded by European aristocracy and billionaires who own half of luxury fashion. You think some ink on her wrist is going to make her drop her pride? She’s probably laughing about it with Ripley right now.
| Cody: She wasn't laughing in the hallway, Punk. She was shy. And she’s different. She didn't look at the championship belt, and she didn't care about the suit. She felt the weight of the room. She’ll text.
| Jimmy 🩸: Oh, she felt the weight alright! She looked like she was about to pass out from the sheer testosterone! But for real, champ, if she don't text by midnight, we pulling up to her penthouse in the Escalade. We ain't letting you pine like a teenager.
Cody: Touch my car, Jimmy, and I’ll have security bar you from the building tomorrow.
| Jey 🔑: Ooooooh, the boss is getting sensitive! 😂💀 He’s whipped!
| Cody: Focus on the show tonight. I want the opening segment executed perfectly. No mistakes.
| Punk 🍻: Sure, boss. We’ll focus on the show while you focus on your lock screen. 🙄
Once Solange arrived back at her penthouse, she immediately went to work stripping away the day. She took a long, steaming shower, letting the hot water cascade over her curls. She deliberately avoided scrubbing her left wrist too hard, watching the black ink fade slightly but remain entirely readable under the water.
After wrapping herself in a luxurious, oversized white silk robe, she sat down at her marble vanity to begin her skincare routine. She applied her serums, but her eyes kept drifting back to her reflection—and then to her phone.
"Okay, if I'm going to play this game, I'm playing to win," she whispered to herself, a spark of her usual confidence returning.
She walked out onto her expansive balcony, which overlooked the gorgeous Atlanta skyline. The late afternoon sun was beginning to set, casting a stunning, warm golden-hour glow over the high-rises. Solange leaned against the concrete railing, holding her iced matcha latte. She took a photo.
It was a masterclass in subtlety. The focus of the photo was the breathtaking sunset over the city, but in the foreground, her left hand was casually draped over the edge of the stone. Her silk robe's sleeve was pulled back just enough to reveal the faint, elegant scribble of black numbers on her inner wrist. It was highly teasing—only someone looking closely would notice the fresh ink.
Within seconds of uploading it to her Instagram Story, her phone began to explode.
Solange's Instagram Story
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@trinity_fatu: OH SHE IS PLAYING WITH FIRE!!! SOMEONE CALL THE FIRE DEPARTMENT!!! 😏😏
@rhea_ripley: A masterclass in teasing. I know exactly whose pen that is. 😉🖤
@user_fashiondaily: Wait, is that a phone number on Solange’s wrist?! Who wrote on her?! Zoom in!
@wwe_fans: Yo... Cody Rhodes uses that exact brand of black pilot pens. I’m just saying... 👀👀👀
Across town, inside his private office at the arena, Cody was reviewing the script for the evening's broadcast when his phone buzzed with a notification. He tapped on his screen, and his eyes instantly darkened with absolute amusement and intense, possessive satisfaction.
He zoomed in on the photo, his thumb tracing the image of her wrist. He could see his own handwriting on her soft skin, glowing under the golden hour light.
"Beautiful," he muttered, a low, dangerous chuckle escaping his throat.
He stood up, walking over to the full-length mirror in his office. He adjusted his dark tie, smoothing down the lapels of his bespoke black suit jacket. He took a photo of his reflection—not a smiling selfie, but a cold, dominant shot. He was looking back over his shoulder, his face half-shadowed, the bold American Nightmare neck tattoo sharp and imposing against his collar. The background showed the sterile, concrete environment of the arena's executive wing. He posted it to his story without a single caption.
Letting the silence do the talking was his specialty.
Cody Rhodes' Instagram Story
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@So.lange: 🤫
@jimmyuso: Cody ass looking like he’s about to order a hit on someone! Sheesh, save some style for the rest of us💔
@jeyuso: The boss man don’t play! Yo style ass btw uce
@cmpunk: Stop staring at your reflection and get to the gorilla position. The show starts in twenty.
Cody's heart actually skipped a beat when he saw the notification chime. Solange had replied. Just a single, teasing emoji—the shushing face.
The game of cat and mouse was officially over. It was time to close the trap.
He tapped directly into her DMs, his fingers moving with absolute, commanding certainty.
@CodyRhodes -> @So.Lange
| Cody♥️: I see my handwriting suits you. Though, to be fair, it looks a lot better up close.
| Solange💕: Bold of you to assume those are your numbers, Mr.Rhodes. Maybe I let someone else write on me. 😉
| Cody♥️: Don't lie to me, Solange. I’d recognize my own penmanship anywhere. And more importantly, I’d recognize that wrist. You’re playing hard to get, and while I respect the pride, I’m an incredibly impatient man.
| Solange💕: Is that a threat, Cody?
| Cody♥️: A promise. I have a private black Escalade waiting outside your penthouse lobby in exactly one hour. The driver has instructions. He’s taking you to a private dining spot downtown. No cameras. No crowd. No distractions. Just us.
| Solange💕: ...I haven't even said yes.
| Cody♥️: You will. Don't keep me waiting, Solange. I don't like being stood up.
| Solange💕: I'll think about it.
| Cody♥️: Don't think too hard. You might ruin the surprise. See you in an hour.
Solange stared at her phone screen, her breath hitching in her throat. She let out a soft, nervous laugh, throwing her head back against her vanity chair.
"Oh my god," she whispered, her heart racing. "He is absolutely insane."
Within three minutes of the DM exchange, Solange's penthouse door was practically kicked open. Naomi and Rhea burst in, both of them holding garment bags, makeup cases, and a level of chaotic energy that belonged in a stadium.
"He sent a car?!" Naomi screamed before she even reached the living room. "Tell me you did not just tell us he sent a private Escalade!"
"How did you even know that?!" Solange gasped, standing up from her vanity.
"Jimmy texted Jey, Jey texted me, and I texted Rhea!" Naomi yelled, throwing her hands in the air. "The boys' locker room is literally in a state of emergency right now because Cody ordered his private security detail to escort you! You are going on a date with the Don, Sol! Get your ass in the chair!"
"I said I was thinking about it!" Solange protested, though she was already walking toward her massive walk-in closet. "I haven't decided if I’m going."
"Oh, you are going," Rhea said, leaning against the closet doorframe with a cool, authority-filled smirk. "Because if you don't step into that car, Cody Rhodes will probably have his driver wait there all night. And let's be honest... you want to go. You're just terrified because he actually has the balls to command your attention."
Solange paused, holding a designer silk slip dress in her hands. She looked at Rhea, her eyes softening into a shy, vulnerable expression. "He’s just... he’s so intense, Rhea. I'm used to being in control. When I'm with him, I feel like I'm completely out of my depth."
"That’s because he’s a real man, Sol," Rhea said gently, her voice softening as she walked over and placed a reassuring hand on Solange’s shoulder. "He’s not some fashion boy trying to impress you with a free handbag. He’s powerful, he’s dangerous, and he respects himself enough to go after what he wants. But don't forget who you are. You’re Solange Olandria. You rule the runway. Now go put on something that makes him remember exactly why he had to write his number on your skin."
Solange smiled, a surge of adrenaline washing away her anxiety. "Okay. Let's do this."
For the next forty-five minutes, the penthouse was a blur of high-fashion preparation. Naomi handled the makeup, creating a flawless, sultry "no-makeup" look that highlighted Solange's high cheekbones and striking dark eyes, leaving her lips glossy and plump. Rhea helped her style her voluminous dark curls, letting them cascade wild and free over her shoulders.
Finally, Solange stepped out of her closet.
She wore a breathtaking, minimalist black knit midi-dress that clung to every curve of her frame like a second skin. It featured a high neckline but was entirely backless, exposing the smooth, elegant expanse of her back. She paired it with simple, high-end black leather mules and delicate gold jewelry. She looked expensive, sophisticated, and entirely untouchable.
"Oh my god," Naomi whispered, tearing up slightly. "You look like a Mafia queen. Cody is going to lose his mind."
"He won't know what hit him," Rhea agreed, checking her watch. "The car is downstairs. Go get him, Sol."
Solange took a deep breath, grabbing her designer clutch. She looked at her left wrist one last time. The ink was still there, a dark promise of what was to come.
"I'll see you guys later," she said, her heart fluttering.
"Text us the second you get in the car!" Naomi yelled as Solange walked out the door.
The ride downtown in the sleek, blacked-out Escalade was completely silent. The driver, a large man in a sharp black suit who introduced himself as Wayne, drove with absolute precision. He didn't speak, keeping his eyes on the road, but the professional, secure atmosphere of the vehicle only added to the heavy, elite feeling of the evening.
Solange stared out the window, her fingers tightly clasping her clutch. The shyness was creeping back, making her stomach flip with every block they got closer to the destination.
Finally, the SUV pulled down a quiet, cobblestone alleyway in the heart of the historic district. It stopped in front of a heavy, unmarked iron door illuminated by a single, vintage gas lamp. The area looked completely deserted, tucked away from the bustling city lights and paparazzi.
Wayne stepped out, opening the door for Solange with a respectful bow of his head. "After you, Miss Baxter. He’s waiting inside."
Solange stepped out into the cool night air, the cobblestones clicking beneath her heels. She walked up to the heavy iron door, her hand trembling slightly as she reached out to push it open.
The door swung open smoothly, revealing a dim, candlelit corridor lined with dark wood and velvet curtains. The faint, seductive sound of classic jazz echoed through the space. At the end of the hall, standing in the doorway of a private dining room, was Cody.
He had changed out of his media clothes. He now wore a deep navy, bespoke velvet blazer over a crisp black button-down shirt, the top two buttons undone to reveal the edge of his bold neck tattoo. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, his heavy silver rings gleaming in the candlelight. His platinum hair caught the soft glow of the room, making him look incredibly handsome and entirely dominant.
As Solange stepped into the light, Cody’s eyes locked onto her.
He froze for a fraction of a second, his breath visibly catching in his throat. His gaze swept slowly, possessively down her stunning black dress, tracing the elegant curve of her neck, the bare skin of her shoulders, and the soft curls framing her face. The cold, untouchable expression he usually held backstage instantly melted into a look of pure, unadulterated admiration.
Solange stopped a few feet away, her heart hammering so hard she was sure he could hear it in the quiet room. She looked up at him through her lashes, her shyness returning in full force as a soft, warm blush crept up her cheeks.
"You didn't keep me waiting," Cody murmured, his voice dropping into that low, melodic Southern drawl. He stepped closer, his warm, expensive scent instantly enveloping her. He reached out, his fingers gently tracing the side of her face, tucking a loose dark curl behind her ear. His touch was incredibly warm, sending a violent shiver of electricity straight down her spine. "You look absolutely breathtaking, Solange."
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the soft jazz music. She looked down for a second, her lashes casting long shadows on her cheeks. "You... you don't look too bad yourself, Mr.Rhodes."
Cody let out a rich, quiet chuckle, his thumb gently brushing against her jawline, tilt-raising her head so she had no choice but to lock eyes with him.
"Don't be shy with me, Sol," he whispered, his eyes dark, intense, and completely intoxicating. "We’re past the point of hiding. Come on inside. Let’s have that conversation."
Kiss Kiss Kiss ‘💋
a/n: Cody really gon get what he want by any means 😭😭
Summary: Can you handle the heat when two entirely different worlds collide in the dark, or will the power dynamic completely consume you? They say some connections are written in the stars, while others are caught under the heavy crimson glow of exclusive nightclub lights. Solange, an international high-fashion icon used to ruling the runways and protecting her pristine image, wasn't prepared for the gravitational pull of Cody Rhodes. He isn't just the WWE champion; he moves with a quiet, cold, and undisputed Mafia authority that commands every room he steps into. What starts as a slow, possessive gaze across a VIP lounge quickly turns into a high-stakes game of pursuit backstage in the concrete corridors. Between her elite fashion world, his hyper and chaotic inner circle, and an undeniable chemistry that feels both dangerous and completely inevitable, they are forced to confront a heavy question: Is this just a thrilling game of power, or have they stumbled into a love that will redefine both of their empires?
⚠️ Note: Please be aware there will be smut in some chapters, so keep an eye out for the "⚠️" symbol!
🎧 Inspiration: Inspired by the late-night, heavy melodic trap vibes of Royal44 and NOWIMYOUNG. Highly recommended to listen along while reading to catch the vibe! 🎧
Disclaimer & House Rules:
The only thing I own is my original character (Solange) and the made-up narratives. I am asking nicely once—please do not steal my stories, my plots, or my face claims as your own. I will get disrespectful about it. No shade, but all respect!
tags ! : 🏷️ @uceyliyahh @charmed-dreamssss @amandairene88 @duhitzkay380 @prettypink-princesss @bluestrawberrypatch @mjonthetrack @christinabae @transparentphantomface @fafomama @scorpiodivazchamp @keenagurl @trippiexlove @shanthefemalerapper @lovelikebuttahbaybee @mindairy 🏷️ulmk if you’d like to be tagged ! I’ll add u!!🏷️
C.1💋
Los Angeles, California
The bass inside Avenue did not just fill the room; it commanded it. The heavy, melodic trap rhythm of Royal44 and NOWIMYOUNG pulsed through the dark, cavernous space, a late-night anthem setting a slow, hypnotic tempo for the exclusive crowd. Deep crimson spotlights sliced through the smoky air, casting long, dramatic shadows over the velvet booths and marble bars. It felt less like a standard nightclub and more like an underground empire where only the elite were granted entry.
Inside the premier VIP section, Solange sat back against the dark leather cushions, looking every bit the international high-fashion icon she was. She wore a liquid obsidian silk dress that clung perfectly to her frame, her long, voluminous dark curls cascading over her bare shoulders. She held a crystal flute of champagne, her glossy lips catching the red strobe lights every time she took a slow, deliberate sip.
To her left, Naomi was a shimmering vision, her gold dress catching the light as she bounced to the heavy beat, completely matching the club's electric energy. "I’m telling you, Sol, this is exactly what you needed!" Naomi shouted over the music, raising her glass to bump against
Solange’s. "No cameras, no demanding designers, just the three of us turning heads."
"And a strictly enforced VIP list," Rhea added with a dry, confident smirk, leaning against the railing in her signature cropped black leather jacket. Her dark eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk guarding its territory, ensuring no one dared step across the invisible line separating them from the rest of the venue. "Which means we actually get some peace tonight."
Solange laughed, the exhausting weight of her twelve-hour runway shoot finally melting away under her best friends' relentless energy. "You guys are right. I was ready to crash, but this vibe is actually perfect."
Across the sprawling VIP deck, tucked into the club's most coveted corner booth, a completely different kind of court was being held. The atmosphere around that table didn't feel like a standard party—it felt like a syndicate holding a private meeting, a quiet bubble of absolute authority in the middle of a chaotic room.
Cody Rhodes sat dead center in the booth, exuding a quiet, cold, and undisputed command. He wore an impeccably sharp, bespoke charcoal double-breasted suit with a silk tie, looking completely out of place in a nightclub yet entirely owning the space. A luxury watch gleamed on his wrist, and heavy silver rings adorned his fingers. The crisp, stark white of his collar pointed sharply against his neck, framing the bold American Nightmare tattoo that peeked out—a rugged, dangerous trademark that looked less like rock-and-roll and more like the permanent marking of an untouchable leader. His platinum-blonde hair caught the crimson light, making him practically glow against the surrounding shadows.
But while Cody was the calm, chilling center of the storm, his inner circle was pure, unfiltered chaos.
"I'm telling you, he didn't see it coming! Boom! Out of nowhere!" Jimmy Uso shouted, completely hyper, throwing his arms in the air and nearly splashing his drink onto the leather seats. He jumped up slightly, bumping shoulders with his twin brother, Jey. "Tell him, Jey! We tore the roof off that stadium tonight, uce!"
"Man, we didn't just tear it off, we blew it into the next state!" Jey hyped right back, matching his brother's exploding energy, slapping the table with a wide, triumphant grin. He leaned over to Cody, pointing a finger. "Look at the champ over here, though! Sitting back like a movie villain in a three-piece. You gotta celebrate, Cody! Put the glass up, uce!"
Across from them, CM Punk sat back with a cold glass of Pepsi, his heavily tattooed arms resting on the velvet cushions. He rolled his eyes with a dry, quiet chuckle, though a fond smirk played on his lips. "Good luck getting them to calm down, Cody. They've been running on pure adrenaline since the three-count. I'm just surprised Jimmy haven't tried to DJ yet."
"Hey, don't give me ideas, Punk!" Jimmy yelled back, laughing hysterically.
Cody didn’t say a word initially. He slowly swirled the dark liquid in his glass, his expression calm, calculated, and entirely unbothered by the loud, hyper energy of his boys. He loved their fire—it was the passion that protected their circle. Finally, his lips twitched into a slow, relaxed smile, his piercing eyes remaining sharp as he looked up. "Let them run their mouths, Punk. They earned it tonight. Just make sure the loading crew has the trucks secure for tomorrow's city."
"Already handled," Jey said, still nodding his head to the heavy bass line of the music. "We got eyes on everything, always."
Suddenly, Jimmy stopped bouncing, his jaw dropping slightly as his eyes locked onto the main VIP entrance. He tapped Jey's shoulder aggressively. "Yo, uce. Look. Stop talking, look right now."
Cody, naturally perceptive, followed Jimmy’s gaze across the room.
Three women had just walked onto the VIP platform, escorted personally by the club’s head of security. But Cody’s eyes completely bypassed Naomi and Rhea, locking instantly onto the woman in the center.
Solange.
She walked with a slow, hypnotic grace that made the chaotic club around her seem to fade into a complete blur. Her dark curls bounced gently with every step, and the crimson lights traced the elegant contours of her face and the smooth silk of her liquid obsidian dress.
As if feeling the sudden, intense weight of someone’s commanding gaze, Solange paused. She slowly turned her head, her eyes sweeping past the crowd until they landed directly on Cody.
For a long, suspended moment, the thumping bass of the music seemed to quiet. Across the crimson-lit room, through the haze of smoke and luxury, their eyes locked. Cody didn’t look away. His gaze was heavy, slow, and instantly possessive. A slow, devastatingly confident smile spread across his face—a silent, calm declaration that he had already chosen her. Keeping his eyes locked onto hers, he slowly raised his glass in a dark, elegant toast, and gave her a smooth, deliberate wink.
Solange’s breath caught in her throat. A sudden, electric jolt shot straight down her spine. She kept her composure, but the faint, warm blush rising to her cheeks was undeniable. She offered a tiny, mysterious tilt of her lips before turning back to Naomi and Rhea, her heart hammering against her ribs.
"Oh my god," Naomi whispered, grabbing Solange’s arm tightly. "Did he just wink at you? Sol! Tell me you saw that!"
"I saw it," Solange murmured, taking a quick sip of her champagne to cool the sudden heat in her throat.
"He's dangerous, Sol," Rhea noted, her eyes narrowing slightly as she analyzed Cody’s booth from afar. "Look at how people move around him. That's not just an athlete. That man runs things like a don."
"I know," Solange smiled, intentionally keeping her back to his booth for the rest of the night. But even as they danced and laughed into the early hours of the morning, she could still feel the lingering phantom of that heavy, platinum-haired gaze and that commanding Mafia aura.
When Solange finally made it back to her penthouse, the adrenaline from the club was still buzzing beneath her skin. She kicked off her heels, letting them drop carelessly onto the hardwood floor, and unzipped her liquid obsidian dress. The silence of her apartment was a stark contrast to the thumping bass of Avenue, but her mind was anything but quiet.
Plugging her phone into the charger on her nightstand, the screen immediately lit up with notifications. A smile tugged at her lips as she opened the group chat.
My girls♥️
| Nao💚: okay but can we talk about how the entire VIP section went completely silent when we walked in??? 💅💅💅
| Rhea 🖤: They knew better than to crowd the space. Security was on point tonight.
| Nao💚: NO RHEA IM NOT TALKING ABOUT SECURITY. I’m talking about THE MAN.
| Nao 💚: Solange please tell me you are not sleeping because I know your heart was beating out of your chest when Cody Rhodes looked at you like he owned the air you breathe!!!
| Sol❣️: I’m awake lol. And it was just a glance, Naomi. He was probably just looking at the dress.
| Rhea 🖤: Please. I know a syndicate gaze when I see one. That man wasn't looking at the fabric, Sol. He was taking inventory. He looked like he was deciding exactly how to acquire you.
| Nao💚: YESSSS!! The wink!! The slow glass raise!! I almost fainted for you!
| Sol ❣️: He’s definitely confident, I’ll give him that. But I’m not easily acquired.
| Rhea 🖤: Good. Make him work for it if he tries anything. But don't deny the chemistry, it was heavy in there.
| Nao 💚: speaking of... did you post the photos from tonight yet?? The world needs to see the look.
| Sol ❣️: Just about to. Goodnight girls, see you tomorrow morning x
Solange opened her gallery, scrolling through the candid shots Naomi had snapped before they left the apartment and the one Rhea took inside the dark crimson lighting of the VIP lounge. She selected the best one—a shot of her looking over her bare shoulder, the dark curls cascading perfectly down her back, the deep red lighting framing her silhouette like a vintage Italian film.
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@So.lange
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@So.lange: A beauty.
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@trinityfatu: THATS MY BEST FRIENDDD!!! 🔥 @rhea_ripley: Untouchable. 🖤
@user_glame: Oh she looks expensive. The lighting is everything!
@wrestling_updates: Wait... wasn't Cody Rhodes and the Usos at Avenue tonight too?? Look at the lighting 👀👀👀
Solange stared at the last comment for a second, her heart giving a small, unexpected thud. She quickly closed the app, tossing her phone onto the mattress, and climbed into bed. As she closed her eyes, the vivid image of piercing eyes and a perfectly tailored charcoal suit flashed behind her eyelids.
"Absolutely not. Naomi, I am literally still in my pajamas."
Solange groaned, burying her face into a silk pillow as the bright, relentless morning sun poured through the windows of her luxury apartment.
"I don't care about your pajamas!" Naomi shouted, yanking the duvet off Solange’s bed with a triumphant grin. She was already fully dressed, looking bright and energetic. "Get up! Rhea is already downstairs in the car. We are going to the arena."
Solange squinted, shielding her eyes. "The arena? As in... the wrestling arena?"
"Yes! The WWE show is in town tonight, and Rhea and I have full access," Naomi explained, pulling Solange up by her hands. "We’re going to show you around. You’ve spent your entire life in high-fashion studios, Sol. It’s time you see some real power. Now, get dressed!"
An hour later, Solange found herself sitting in the passenger seat of Rhea’s sleek SUV, sipping a massive iced coffee. She had opted for a casual but effortlessly chic look: a pair of oversized designer sunglasses, a cropped white baby tee, and high-waisted cargo pants paired with clean, vintage sneakers. Her voluminous curls were pulled back into a loose, messy claw-clip.
When they pulled up to the arena's loading dock, the sheer scale of the production hit Solange. Massive semi-trucks were lined up, and crew members in black t-shirts were wheeling heavy metal production crates through the giant double doors. But what caught her attention was the security—dozens of guards in sharp black suits, standing post at every entrance.
Rhea flashed her laminate pass at the security checkpoint, and the guard immediately stood up straight, bowing his head respectfully as he waved them through.
Stepping inside the backstage area felt incredibly tense. The concrete corridors were lined with bright fluorescent lights, thick black cables snaking along the floor, and an underlying aura of serious business. Superstars and executives walked past, but everyone seemed to move with a sense of urgency.
"Hey, I need to go grab my locker room key from talent relations really quick," Rhea said, halting near a fork in the hallway. "And Naomi, didn't you say you needed to find the wardrobe department?"
"Oh, right!" Naomi gasped. "Sol, will you be okay right here for like five minutes? Don't move."
"I'll be fine," Solange smiled. "Go do what you need to do."
"We'll be right back," Rhea promised, disappearing down the left corridor with Naomi.
Solange stood alone for a minute, taking a slow sip of her coffee. Deciding to find a slightly quieter spot to wait, she turned down a dimly lit side hallway. The noise of the main corridor quickly faded, replaced by the humming of the building's massive ventilation system.
She walked slowly, looking at the vintage posters of past wrestling legends lining the walls. She was so engrossed in looking at an old black-and-white photo of a championship match that she didn't hear the footsteps rounding the corner. Solange turned to head back—and slammed directly into a solid, unyielding chest.
"Oh!" she gasped, her iced coffee slipping from her grip.
A pair of strong, quick hands shot out, catching her by the forearms to steady her before she could stumble backward. At the same time, the person miraculously caught her falling coffee cup with their other hand, preventing a single drop from spilling onto her white tee.
"Whoa there," a smooth, deeply familiar voice chuckled. "Easy does it."
Solange blinked, looking up from the broad chest clad in a fitted, dark blue athletic zip-up jacket. Her eyes traveled past a strong jawline, up to a familiar, rugged neck tattoo, and finally met a pair of bright, piercing eyes framed by perfectly styled platinum-blonde hair.
It was Cody.
Without the sharp suit, he looked even more imposing—his broad shoulders and powerful frame highlighted by the casual athletic gear—but he still held that absolute, commanding Mafia aura. Cody looked down at her, and the split-second of surprise on his face instantly melted into a warm, utterly delighted grin. He slowly released his grip on her forearms, but he didn't take a step back, keeping them in close, intimate proximity. He handed her coffee back to her with a polite bow of his head.
"I believe this belongs to you," Cody murmured, his voice dropping into that gentle, melodic Southern drawl. "And if I'm not mistaken... you're Solange."
Solange took her coffee, her heart doing a violent flip in her chest. She looked up at him through her dark sunglasses, a slow, teasing smile playing on her glossy lips.
"And you're the champion who likes to stare down strangers in dark clubs," she countered smoothly, her voice cool and playful.
Cody let out a rich, genuine laugh, leaning his shoulder against the concrete wall, looking down at her with an intense, admiring gaze. "Guilty as charged. Though, to be fair, I don't usually look at just anyone like that. Only the women who manage to completely take over my thoughts."
He stepped just an inch closer, the warm, clean scent of his expensive cologne washing over her. He looked down at her, his voice dropping to a low, magnetic whisper that made the empty hallway feel completely electric. "What are you doing wandering around my concrete jungle, Solange? I didn't think this was your usual runway."
"It's not," Solange admitted, gesturing down the empty hallway. "My friends Naomi and Rhea dragged me here. They left me for five minutes, and I managed to get myself lost."
"Lost, huh?" Cody’s smile turned highly mischievous, his dark, commanding aura melting into a smooth, deeply flirtatious charm meant only for her. "Well, in that case... I think it's my duty to make sure you get safely to where you need to go. But first... I think you owe me a conversation. We missed out on one last night."
Solange tilted her head, her curls shifting beautifully over her shoulder. She slowly slid her sunglasses down the bridge of her nose, letting her dark, beautiful eyes lock directly onto his.
"Is that so? And what makes you think I want to talk to you, Cody Rhodes?"
Solange didn't back down. The high-fashion world was full of sharks, executives, and billionaires who thought their status bought them whatever they desired. She knew how to hold her ground, but Cody wasn't just a man with a checkbook. He had an undeniable gravity, a presence that pulled at her senses until it was difficult to remember why she was supposed to be keeping her distance.
"You're very bold, Cody," she said softly, her thumb tracing the rim of her coffee cup. "Does this routine usually work for you? Bumping into women in deserted corridors and demanding their time?"
"It’s not a routine if it's entirely spontaneous," Cody countered, his lips curving into a slow, devastating smile. He crossed his arms over his chest, the fabric of his jacket tightening against his broad shoulders. "And I rarely have to demand anyone's time. Usually, people are quite eager to speak with me. But with you... I get the feeling I have to earn every single second."
"You do," Solange confirmed, her gaze steady. "I don't give away my attention for free."
Before Cody could respond, a burst of chaotic, booming noise echoed from the far end of the hallway. The heavy, rapid stomps of expensive sneakers hit the concrete floor as Jimmy and Jey Uso literally ran around the corner, entirely hyper and talking at the top of their lungs.
"Yo Cody! You gotta get to the green room right now, uce!" Jimmy yelled, skidding to a halt, his arms flailing as he pointed back down the corridor. "The network suits from the television company are wilding out! They're losing their minds over the broadcast script!"
"Yeah, they're losing it big time!" Jey piped up right behind him, bouncing on his feet, his energy completely filling the quiet hallway. "They won't sign off on the rehearsal until you personally walk in there and lay down the law! You gotta go!"
Cody’s expression shifted instantly. The warm, flirtatious smile vanished, replaced in a split second by a cold, impenetrable mask of absolute authority. He didn't flinch or look flustered by the chaos. He simply turned his head slowly toward the twins, his piercing eyes locking onto them with a quiet sharpness that immediately made Jimmy and Jey dial back their shouting, though they were still bursting with hyper energy.
"Tell them I’ll be there in ten minutes," Cody commanded, his voice perfectly calm but carrying an intense, icy weight that brooked no argument. "And clear this corridor. Nobody enters this wing until I’m finished here."
"Alright, alright, ten minutes! We'll hold the line, uce!" Jimmy nodded quickly, flashing a wild, teasing grin at Solange before Jey grabbed his shoulder to drag him back.
"We're on it! Ten minutes!" Jey repeated excitedly, and the two of them sped back down the hallway just as fast as they had arrived, their voices echoing off the concrete walls.
Solange watched them go, deeply fascinated by the absolute control Cody exercised with just a few softly spoken words over his incredibly hyper inner circle. "They certainly have a lot of energy. But you really do run this place, don't you?"
Cody turned back to her, the cold, intimidating exterior instantly evaporating as he looked down at her. The playful, magnetic charm returned seamlessly. "I run a tight ship, Solange. In my line of work, if you don't take complete control, someone else will take it from you."
He reached into his pocket, his silver rings catching the harsh fluorescent lighting of the hallway. He pulled out a sleek, heavy black pen and stepped closer, his presence enveloping her once more.
"Give me your hand," he murmured, his voice a low, commanding request.
Solange hesitated for a fraction of a second before slowly extending her hand to him. Cody gently took her fingers in his, his grip warm and steady. Instead of shaking it, he flipped her hand over, exposing the smooth skin of her inner wrist. With deliberate slowness, he clicked the pen and began to write a series of numbers directly onto her skin, the cool ink contrasting with the warmth of her body.
Solange watched him, her breath hitching as the tip of the pen traced against her pulse point.
"That's my private line," Cody whispered, clicking the pen shut and sliding it back into his pocket, though he didn't let go of her hand right away. His thumb brushed lightly against her wrist, right over her racing pulse, proving he knew exactly what effect he had on her. "No assistants. No management. Just me. When you're ready to let me take you to dinner, you text me. Deal?"
Solange swallowed hard, pulling her hand back slowly, though her eyes remained locked on his. "And what if I decide to just wash it off?"
Cody chuckled, a rich, dark sound that vibrated through the quiet corridor. He stepped back, giving her a slow, appreciative look from head to toe before offering one last, devastating smile.
"You won't," he said with absolute conviction. "Have a good day, love. I’ll be waiting for that text."
He turned and walked down the hallway with that slow, powerful stride, leaving Solange standing entirely alone against the concrete wall, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs as she stared down at the black ink dried against her wrist.
A/N : welcome to KISS KISS KISS ! I hope you enjoy ♥️- PSA this is the only story I’ll focus on I will update have you ever soon though !!
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.
summary: Treasure knew better than to fall for pretty words. She already had a man at home, even if the relationship been dead for a minute. But when quiet, observant Jimmy Uso starts slipping into her space during late nights out with her girls, she finds herself craving the one thing she swore she wouldn’t fall for again: A man who knows exactly what to say. And sugar talking can only sweeten a bad situation for so long.
fanfic is 18+ NO MINORS ALLOWED
warnings: explicit content, oral (m receiving)
word count: 10.k (another lengthy one)
smut warning: it’ll come in the story randomly so PLEASE PLEASE look out for it I’m not really good at writing ✍🏽 smuts but I am improving at the moment
Jimmy Uso x Treasure
comments, likes, repost are appreciated I would love the constructive feedback in what area I need to approve in. 🤍
ALSO! I don’t not want nobody stealing my fanfics or take it as theirs that will be an issue fasho so keep it cute respectfully.
I only own my OC along with the make up scenarios
again mdni you have been warned.
title inspired by the song “Sugar Talking” by Sabrina Carpenter
thanks to my friend @charmed-dreamssss for helping me with the summary 🫶🏽
TAGS ⬇️ lmk if you wanna be tag 🏷️ @pinkwithhearts @sharmelasworld @spiicii @theusotwinzcom @mingisfavgf @trippiexlove @wisteria-bae @yourleogf @555sage @wrestlingprincess80 @jeyseyes @liv4jey @uceyjucey @mikaelsonharem7 @yyaktayak @lyricailove
Morning light filtered softly through the blinds, casting a warm glow across Jimmy’s bedroom. Treasure stirred slowly, her body heavy and deliciously sore in the best way. She was completely naked, tangled up in the sheets and in Jimmy’s strong arms.
He was still fast asleep behind her, spooning her tightly. His muscular chest pressed warm and solid against her back, one tattooed arm draped possessively over her waist, hand resting on her soft stomach. His steady breathing tickled the back of her neck, and she could feel the weight of his thick, soft dick nestled against her ass.
Last night played on repeat in her mind.
After all the reassurance in the car and the intense fingering on the bed, Jimmy had spent what felt like hours between her legs. He ate her pussy like a man starved — slow, deep, and relentless. Tongue fucking her, sucking on her clit, moaning into her like she tasted better than anything he’d ever had. He kept talking her through it too…
“That’s it, baby… let go for me.”
“You never did this with him, did you? Never squirted for that bitch.”
And she hadn’t.
But with Jimmy? She had. For the first time in her life.
The memory made her thighs press together. She remembered the overwhelming pressure, the way her legs shook violently, and then the sudden rush as she squirted all over his tongue and chin. She had cried out so loud she was almost embarrassed. Jimmy had groaned like it was the hottest thing he’d ever seen, licking up every drop and making her do it again before they finally collapsed together.
They didn’t even have sex. He just wanted to take care of her. To prove with his mouth how much she belonged to him.
Treasure smiled softly to herself, a warm flutter in her chest. She carefully turned in his arms so she could face him. Jimmy looked so peaceful sleeping — damp curls messy, full lips slightly parted, those tribal tattoos and Cuban link chain resting against his bare chest.
She gently traced one of the tattoos on his shoulder with her fingertip, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Her body was still sensitive. Her pussy still tingled from how hard she came last night. But more than anything, she felt… wanted. Cherished.
She leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his collarbone, then another on his jaw, careful not to wake him just yet.
She lay there for a few more moments, savoring the warmth of Jimmy’s body wrapped around hers. His arm was heavy and protective over her waist, his soft breathing steady against the back of her neck. She felt safe. Cherished. Her body still hummed from everything he did to her last night — the way he made her squirt for the first time ever, something Giovanni had never even come close to doing.
But reality started creeping in.
She carefully reached over to the nightstand and grabbed her phone, unlocking it as quietly as possible. The screen lit up.
9:12 AM.
“Shit…” she whispered under her breath. She had to open the salon at 10:30 today. That didn’t leave her much time to get ready and get across town.
As she was about to set the phone down, the notifications caught her eye. Two unread messages.
Two messages from Gio🥱
Her stomach dropped instantly.
Gio🥱: Treasure please… I’m sorry baby. I never should’ve put my hands on you. I was drunk and stressed. You know I love you. Come home so we can fix this. I miss you. Don’t do this to us.
Gio🥱: I’ll do better this time. I swear. You know nobody loves you like I do.
Treasure’s jaw tightened. The familiar manipulation made her skin crawl. The same apologies. The same guilt-tripping. The same “I’ll do better” that never lasted. She could still feel the memory of his hand on her that night — the fear, the humiliation.
She quickly swiped the messages away without replying.
One message from Liv🍬
Liv🍬: Girl call me when you wake up. I know you been staying with Jimmy but I’m worried about you. Giovanni been blowing up my phone too acting crazy. You okay? Love you.
Treasure let out a quiet sigh, thumb hovering over the screen. She didn’t know how to respond to either of them right now. Not while she was still naked in Jimmy’s bed, still feeling the afterglow of the way he worshipped her last night.
She set the phone back down on the nightstand and turned slightly in Jimmy’s arms, careful not to wake him. He stirred a little, pulling her closer in his sleep, his thick dick twitching against her ass as he buried his face deeper into her neck.
Treasure bit her lip, torn between the peace she felt with him and the mess waiting for her outside this room.
staring at the ceiling as the weight of the day started pressing on her. The salon wasn’t going to open itself, and she couldn’t afford to be late. She gently tried to lift Jimmy’s heavy, tattooed arm from around her waist, sliding her body toward the edge of the bed as slowly and carefully as possible.
But the second she created even an inch of space, Jimmy made a low, sleepy sound in the back of his throat and tightened his arm around her like a vice.
He pulled her right back against his chest, spooning her even closer. His strong forearm locked across her soft stomach, fingers splaying possessively over her skin as he buried his face deeper into the crook of her neck. His thick, morning-hard dick nestled firmly between her ass cheeks, warm and heavy.
“Mmm… where you going?” Jimmy mumbled, voice deep and raspy with sleep, lips brushing against her skin. He didn’t even open his eyes fully — just held her tighter, one leg draping over hers, completely caging her in.
Treasure’s breath hitched. The feeling of his naked body pressed flush against hers — warm skin, hard muscle, that Cuban link chain cool against her back — made her want to melt right back into him. Her pussy still felt sensitive and a little swollen from how hard he made her squirt last night.
“Jimmy…” Treasure whispered softly, trying again to gently lift his arm. “I have to open the salon soon. It’s already after nine.”
He made another grumpy little noise and nuzzled his face into her neck, kissing the spot right below her ear before sucking on it lightly.
“Nah,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep but growing more awake with every second. His hand slid lower, cupping her pussy possessively, two fingers resting against her warm, bare folds. “You ain’t going nowhere yet. Stay.”
Treasure bit her lip hard, fighting the moan that wanted to escape as his fingers slowly rubbed against her. Her legs were still a little shaky from last night, and feeling him hard and pressed up against her ass was making it impossible to focus on leaving.
“Baby, I’m serious,” she breathed, even as her hips twitched slightly against his hand. “I have clients…”
Treasure tried once more to shift out of his hold, but Jimmy wasn’t having it.
He smacked his teeth in that sleepy, irritated way, his voice still thick and raspy from sleep as he pulled her even tighter against his body.
“Them clients can wait,”
His hard dick was fully awake now, thick and heavy, rubbing slowly between her ass cheeks with every small movement he made. The upward curve pressed hot and insistent against her, making her pussy throb even though she was trying to be responsible.
“Jimmy…”
He groaned low in his throat, one hand sliding up to cup her breast while the other stayed possessively between her thighs.
“I need something from you before you leave,” his voice deep and needy. “I need them pretty lips wrapped around my dick, mama.”
Treasure’s breath caught. The way he said it — all sleepy and hungry — sent a fresh rush of heat straight to her core. She could feel him leaking pre-cum against her ass as he slowly rocked against her, teasing her pussy with the head of his curved cock.
His arm tightened around her waist again, holding her flush against him as he kissed and sucked lightly on her shoulder.
“Just a little bit, baby,” Jimmy coaxed, voice dropping even lower. “Let me feel that mouth before you go run off to work. I been thinking about it since last night… how good you looked with your hand around me yesterday morning. I wanna see them lips stretched around me.”
Treasure bit her lip hard, torn between the clock ticking in her head and the way her body was already responding to him — getting wetter, nipples hard, legs pressing together around his hand.
Her heart raced as Jimmy’s thick, hard dick kept rubbing slowly between her ass cheeks, the curved head occasionally brushing against her wet folds from behind. His sleepy, raspy voice and those dirty words made her stomach flutter with both desire and nerves.
“I… I don’t know how to do that,” Treasure admitted quietly, voice shy and hesitant. “I only tried it once with Giovanni and… it was bad. He said I didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t wanna mess it up with you.”
The insecurity from that memory hit her again — Giovanni getting frustrated, pushing her head away, making her feel inadequate. She froze a little in Jimmy’s arms, even as her pussy throbbed from how hard and warm he felt against her.
he made a low sound in his throat and gently turned her onto her back so he could look at her. His eyes were still heavy with sleep but soft and hungry as he hovered over her, one hand cupping the side of her face.
“Hey… look at me, mama, you ain’t gotta worry about none of that shit with me. That fool didn’t know what the fuck he was doing if he made you feel bad about it.”
He leaned down and kissed her slow and deep, his morning hardness pressing against her thigh as he settled between her legs.
“I’ll guide you,” he murmured against her lips. “You don’t have to know everything. Just use that pretty mouth on me. I already know you gon’ feel good. I been thinking about these lips wrapped around my dick since yesterday.”
Jimmy sat up against the headboard, pulling her gently with him until she was kneeling between his spread thighs. His thick, curved cock stood heavy and proud right in front of her face, veins pulsing, the head already glistening with pre-cum.
He reached down and gently brushed her hair out of her face, looking at her with that intense but patient stare.
“You don’t gotta deepthroat me or nothing crazy,” he said softly, thumb stroking her bottom lip. “Start slow. Kiss it. Lick it. Put it in your mouth when you ready. I’ll tell you what feels good, aight? Just relax… it’s just me and you.”
He gave her a small, encouraging smirk, his hand resting lightly on the back of her head, not pushing — just resting there.
“C’mon, baby. Let me feel them lips. I need it.”
Treasure stared at his dick, nervous but turned on by how patient and gentle he was being. Her small hand wrapped around the base, feeling how hot and heavy he was as she leaned in closer, her warm breath ghosting over the tip.
She knelt between Jimmy’s spread thighs. His thick, curved dick stood right in front of her face, heavy and throbbing. She wrapped her small hand around the base, feeling how warm and hard he was. The upward curve still fascinated her.
She leaned in slowly, nervously, and pressed a soft, shy kiss right on the tip. Then another. Her lips lingered there for a second before she flicked her tongue out, tasting the salty pre-cum that had beaded at the head.
Jimmy groaned softly, his hand gently resting on the back of her head, fingers threading through her hair but not pushing.
“That’s it, baby… just like that,” he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and lust. “Take your time. Fuck… your lips feel good already.”
Encouraged by his words, Treasure opened her mouth a little wider and slowly wrapped her lips around the head of his cock. She sucked gently, shyly, only taking the tip into her warm mouth at first. Her tongue swirled awkwardly around him as she tried to figure out what to do.
She bobbed her head slowly, taking a little more of him on each downward motion, but she was clearly nervous — movements hesitant, cheeks hollowing as she sucked softly.
Jimmy let out a low, pleased groan, his abs flexing.
“Shit, mama… just like that. Use your tongue more on the underside… yeah, right there. Good girl.”
His praise made her pussy throb. She got a little bolder, sucking him deeper into her mouth, her hand stroking the part she couldn’t fit yet. Her movements were still slow and shy, but she was trying — lips stretched around his thick girth, eyes flicking up to look at his face for reassurance.
Jimmy’s head tipped back slightly, his hand tightening gently in her hair.
“Fuuuck… you look so pretty with my dick in your mouth. Don’t worry about doing it perfect, baby. Just keep sucking me like that… yeah. You’re doing so good already.”
Treasure moaned softly around him, the vibration making his cock twitch in her mouth. She was getting wetter between her thighs just from the taste of him and the sounds he was making.
She kept sucking him slowly, her head bobbing with shy, careful movements. She was trying her best, tongue swirling around the head of his thick, curved cock, but she still felt unsure — like she might mess up at any second.
Jimmy noticed.
He let out a low groan and gently tightened his grip in her hair, guiding her head with more purpose.
“Relax your jaw a little more, baby,” Jimmy murmured, voice husky. “Yeah… just like that.”
He started moving her head up and down on his dick with slow, controlled motions, fucking her mouth gently. Not forcing her too deep, but enough that she felt him sliding between her lips with more rhythm. The thick head of his curved cock brushed against her tongue and the roof of her mouth with every gentle thrust.
“Fuuuck… that’s good, mama Look at me while you suck it.”
Treasure looked up at him with wide, watery eyes, her lips stretched around his girth as he guided her. The gentle but firm way he was using her mouth made her pussy drip down her thighs. She moaned softly around him, the vibration pulling another deep groan from Jimmy’s chest.
He kept one hand in her hair, setting a slow, steady pace — sliding her mouth up and down his cock while his hips rocked gently upward to meet her.
“You’re doing so fucking good,” his eyes locked on hers. “This pretty mouth feels even better than I imagined. Just let me use it a little… that’s it. Nice and slow.”
His free hand reached down to caress her cheek, thumb brushing away a little drool at the corner of her mouth as he continued fucking her mouth with gentle, deep strokes.
“Relax your throat when I go deeper, baby. Breathe through your nose. You got this… good girl.”
Treasure whimpered around his dick, her hands resting on his thick thighs as she let him guide her. The mix of his gentle dominance and constant praise was making her head fuzzy with arousal.
Jimmy’s grip in her hair tightened just a little more as his hips started moving with more intent. He pushed her head down further on his thick cock, sliding a little deeper into her warm, wet mouth.
“Fuck… take a little more for me, baby,” He went deeper. Faster.
Treasure’s eyes widened as the head of his curved dick hit the back of her throat. She gagged instantly — a wet, choking sound escaping around his shaft as her throat constricted. Drool spilled from the corners of her mouth, dripping down his length and onto his balls.
She instinctively tried to pull back, but Jimmy held her there for just a second longer, savoring the tight squeeze of her throat before easing her up slightly.
“Shit— that’s it,” Jimmy moaned, breathing heavier. “Good girl… just like that.”
He didn’t stop though. He kept guiding her head up and down, fucking her mouth a little faster now, pushing just past the point that made her gag every few strokes. The wet, sloppy sounds of her mouth and throat filled the room as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.
“You’re doing so good, mama,” he thrust a little deeper. “Relax your throat… breathe through your nose. That’s my good girl. Look at me while you choke on it.”
She looked up at him through watery eyes, lips stretched wide around his thick, curving dick as he fucked her mouth. She gagged again — louder this time — when he pushed a little further, but she didn’t pull away completely. Her hands gripped his thighs tightly, nails digging into his skin as she tried to take him.
Jimmy groaned deeply, his abs flexing as he watched her struggle so prettily.
“Fuuuck, you look so sexy gagging on my dick,” he rasped, slowing down just enough to let her catch her breath before going a little deeper again. “You’re already better than she ever was… this mouth was made for me.”
He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb, still gently but firmly guiding her head, fucking her warm, sloppy mouth with controlled strokes.
Despite the way her throat tightened and her eyes watered every time Jimmy pushed a little deeper, Treasure didn’t pull away.
She kept going.
Wet, gagging sounds filled the room as she let him guide her head faster, taking more of his thick, curved cock into her mouth. Her throat convulsed around him every few strokes, drool spilling messily down his shaft and dripping onto his balls. Tears slid down her cheeks, but she stayed focused — sucking harder, hollowing her cheeks, trying her best to relax her throat like he told her.
“Fuuuck, baby…” Jimmy groaned deeply, his hand firm in her hair as he fucked her mouth with steady, deeper strokes. “You really not stopping, huh? That’s my good fucking girl.”
He pushed a little further, the head of his dick sliding into her throat again, making her gag hard around him. Her nose pressed against his pelvis for a brief second before he pulled her back just enough to breathe.
“Shit— breathe through your nose, mama,” he coached, voice strained with pleasure. “You’re doing so good. So fucking good. Look at you… taking this dick even when it makes you gag. That’s sexier than anything.”
Treasure whimpered around his length, the vibration pulling another deep moan from him. Her jaw was starting to ache, her throat raw, but the constant praise and the way he looked down at her with pure lust kept her going. She bobbed her head faster on her own now, sucking sloppily, gagging every time he hit the back of her throat but refusing to stop.
Jimmy’s hips started thrusting up gently to meet her mouth, fucking her face with more rhythm.
“You’re already better than she ever was,” his eyes half-lidded as he watched her struggle so eagerly. “This mouth is mine now. You hear me? Mine. Keep going just like that… fuck, I’m not gon’ last long if you keep choking on me like this.”
Treasure looked up at him through teary eyes, lips stretched wide, drool running down her chin as she kept sucking him despite the gagging. Her pussy was dripping down her thighs from how turned on she was by his reactions and filthy praise.
Jimmy’s hand tightened in her hair as his breathing grew ragged.
His grip in her hair grew firmer, his breathing getting heavier and more ragged as he fucked her mouth with deeper, faster strokes.
“Don’t stop, baby,” voice thick and desperate. “Keep going just like that. I’m close… fuck, I’m so close.”
She whimpered around his thick cock but didn’t pull away. Even as her throat spasmed and she gagged loudly every time he pushed into the back of her throat, she kept sucking him — sloppy, wet, and eager. Drool poured down her chin and onto his balls as she bobbed her head, eyes watery but locked on his face.
“That’s it… that’s my good girl,” Jimmy praised through gritted teeth, his abs flexing hard. “Take it. Take all this dick. You’re making me feel so fucking good, mama.”
He started thrusting up into her mouth more urgently, holding her head in place as he used her warm, wet throat. The wet gagging and slurping sounds grew louder and filthier as he chased his orgasm.
“Fuck— I’m about to nut mama,” he warned, voice strained. “Don’t pull back. I want it all in that pretty mouth.”
Treasure moaned around him, tears streaming down her cheeks as she kept sucking through the gagging. Her jaw ached, her throat burned, but the way he was falling apart because of her made her so wet she could feel it dripping down her thighs.
Jimmy’s hips stuttered. His hand tightened almost painfully in her hair as he pushed deep one last time.
“Shit— Treasure— fuckkkk—”
He came hard with a deep, guttural groan, thick ropes of hot cum shooting straight down her throat. His cock pulsed and throbbed in her mouth as he kept her head held down, making her take every single drop. She gagged hard around him but swallowed as best she could, some of his cum leaking from the corners of her stretched lips and dripping down her chin.
Jimmy kept groaning her name as he emptied himself completely, hips twitching until he finally started to come down.
He slowly pulled his still-hard dick from her mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva and cum connecting her lips to the tip. Treasure gasped for air, coughing and breathing heavily, her face a messy, teary, drooly wreck.
Jimmy looked down at her with pure lust and affection, gently wiping the mess from her chin with his thumb before pushing it into her mouth for her to suck clean.
“Fuck, baby…” he panted, still catching his breath. “You did so good. So fucking good. Come here.”
He pulled her up into his lap and kissed her deeply, not caring about the mess, tasting himself on her tongue as he held her tight against his chest.
Treasure was still gasping for air when Jimmy pulled her up into his lap, her chest heaving, face messy with tears, drool, and cum. Her throat felt raw and used, her jaw ached, and her eyes were still watery — but the way Jimmy was looking at her made something warm bloom in her chest.
He cradled her face with both hands, thumbs gently wiping away the tears and the mess on her chin. His eyes were soft now, full of pride and affection.
“Come here, baby,” pulling her against his chest and kissing her deeply. He didn’t seem to care at all about the taste of himself on her tongue. The kiss was slow, tender, and full of praise.
“You did so fucking good, mama, I know that was a lot… especially for your first real time doing it like that. You took me so well. I’m so proud of you.” he said.
Treasure buried her face in his neck, still breathing hard, feeling a mix of emotions — shy, proud, overwhelmed, and incredibly turned on. Her pussy was soaked and throbbing from the whole experience. She had actually made him lose control. She had taken all of him despite gagging and struggling.
“I… I gagged a lot,” she whispered shyly against his skin, voice a little hoarse.
Jimmy chuckled softly and rubbed her back in slow circles, holding her tighter.
“And you still kept going, That shit was sexy as hell. You didn’t quit on me. That means more than you know.”
He reached over to the nightstand, grabbed a bottle of water, and handed it to her.
“Here, drink this slowly,” Jimmy said gently, helping her take a few sips while still holding her in his lap. His free hand kept stroking her thigh and back, soothing her trembling body.
After she drank, he laid her back down on the bed and grabbed a warm, damp cloth from the bathroom. He carefully wiped her face, her chin, and her chest, cleaning her up with gentle touches. Then he pulled her right back into his arms, skin to skin, letting her rest her head on his chest.
“You okay?” kissing her forehead. “Was I too rough with your throat?”
Treasure shook her head, snuggling closer to him, feeling safe in his arms.
“I’m okay… it was intense,” Treasure admitted quietly, “but I liked it. I liked making you feel good.”
Jimmy smiled and tilted her chin up so he could kiss her again, slow and sweet.
“You made me feel better than good, baby. That mouth is dangerous now,” he teased lightly, then got more serious. “Next time we’ll go slower if you want. Or I can teach you more. Whatever you need. I just want you to feel good doing it.”
He held her close, one hand gently massaging the back of her neck where it was sore, the other resting possessively on her ass.
“Take your time getting ready for the salon; I’ll make you some breakfast while you shower if you want. Or you can stay in bed a little longer… I’ll take care of you.”
Treasure smiled softly against his chest, the insecurity from earlier slowly fading under his gentle aftercare.
By the time Treasure finally dragged herself out of Jimmy’s bed, it was almost 9:45. She took a quick shower while Jimmy made her a quick breakfast — eggs, toast, and fruit. He kept stealing kisses every time she walked past him, still shirtless in just his sweatpants, looking way too good for the morning.
He walked her to the door when she was finally dressed and ready to leave, pulling her into a deep kiss that made her knees weak all over again.
“Don’t work too hard today, mama,” Jimmy murmured against her lips, hands squeezing her ass. “And text me when you get to the salon. I might pull up later.”
Treasure smiled, still feeling the slight ache in her throat and the pleasant soreness between her legs from last night and this morning. She gave him one last kiss before heading out.
✎ᝰ.
Treasure unlocked the doors to her salon right at 10:30, flipping the sign to “Open.” The familiar smell of hair products, shampoo, and the low hum of the AC greeted her as she turned on the lights and prepped her station.
Her first client wasn’t due for another twenty minutes, so she sat in her chair and finally checked her phone properly.
One message from Gio🥱
One message from Liv🍬
Gio🥱: I know you seeing these. Stop playing games Treasure. We need to talk. You really gon’ throw away everything over one mistake?
Liv🍬: Bitch answer me 😭 I’m serious. Giovanni called me crying last night talking about how he’s changed. I told him to fuck off but I need to know you good.
Treasure sighed, rubbing her temples. The high from this morning with Jimmy was starting to clash hard with the mess waiting for her in real life.
She quickly texted Liv back.
Treasure🧘🏼♀️: I’m okay. At the salon now. I’ll call you on my break. Promise.
She left Giovanni on read.
Just as she was putting her phone down, it buzzed again.
Jimmy🩶: You make it safe? Don’t let them clients stress you out today. And remember what I said… that mouth is mine now 😏 Miss you already.
A small smile crept across her face despite everything. She bit her lip and started typing a reply when the salon door chimed — her first client walking in.
The salon was buzzing by 11:30. The familiar scent of relaxers, shampoo, and vanilla candles filled the air as Treasure worked on her third client of the day — Mrs. Williams, a regular who loved to talk.
“Girl, you looking a little glowing today,” Mrs. Williams said, eyeing her through the mirror with a knowing smile. “New man got you walking different?”
Treasure nearly dropped the flat iron. She forced a small laugh, carefully curling a section of the older woman’s hair.
“I’m just well-rested, that’s all,” she replied, but her mind immediately drifted back to this morning.
Jimmy’s thick cock sliding between her lips.
The way he groaned her name while he fucked her throat.
How he held her afterward, wiping her face and calling her his good girl.
Her pussy clenched at the memory. She could still feel the slight soreness in her jaw and the rawness in her throat. She pressed her thighs together under the styling chair and tried to focus.
The drama didn’t take long to start.
Her 12 o’clock client, Keisha, came storming in twenty minutes late, already on ten.
“Treasure, I need you to fix this mess right now,” Keisha snapped, throwing herself in the chair. “My last stylist gave me these weak-ass highlights and they already brassy. I got a date tonight!”
Treasure kept her tone professional, but inside she was already tired. The next forty minutes were filled with Keisha complaining about everything — the temperature, the music, her baby daddy, and how “these hoes ain’t loyal.”
Treasure’s mind kept wandering back to Jimmy. The way he looked at her when she was gagging on him. How patient he was. How he praised her the entire time. How different it felt from Giovanni’s frustrated sighs and criticism.
Her phone buzzed on her station. It was Liv.
She stepped away during a quick rinse to answer.
“Finally, bitch!” Liv’s voice burst through the speaker. “I’ve been blowing you up. You good?”
Treasure leaned against the back wall, smiling despite herself. “Yeah… I’m good. Just been busy.”
Liv paused, then let out a loud, knowing laugh.
“Mhm. Busy getting that back blown out, huh? I told you so, girl! I told you Jimmy was gon’ have you walking funny. Don’t even try to lie — I can hear it in your voice. You sound dickmatized already.”
Treasure covered her face with her free hand, cheeks burning even though no one was around.
“Liv, stop,” she whispered, laughing quietly. “It’s not even like that… well… okay, it kinda is. But we didn’t even have sex last night. He just… took care of me. Real good.”
Liv squealed. “Bitch, details! Did he eat the soul out you again? I knew that man was a munch from the way he looked at you.”
She bit her lip, glancing toward the front of the salon.
“He did more than that this morning…” she admitted softly. “I gave him head for the first time — like, really tried. I was gagging and everything but he kept praising me the whole time. Made me feel… wanted.”
Liv let out a dramatic gasp. “I told youuuu! Giovanni had you thinking you couldn’t do shit in bed. Jimmy out here healing your throat and your confidence. I love this for you, sis. Just be careful with Gio though. He been on my line acting crazy.”
Treasure’s mood dipped slightly at the mention of Giovanni.
“Yeah… he’s been texting me too. I’m not replying.”
“Good. Leave that dusty ass bum where he at,” Liv said firmly. “Enjoy that fine man that’s actually treating you right. Now go handle them clients before they tear your shop up. Call me later for the real tea!”
Treasure laughed and hung up, feeling a little lighter. She went back to Keisha, who was still complaining, but Treasure’s mind kept drifting to Jimmy’s hands in her hair this morning… and the way he looked at her like she was the only woman in the world.
The drama with Keisha finally died down after Treasure finished her hair. She was just about to take a quick breather when Liv texted her again.
Liv🍬: I’m outside. Came to get my nails done real quick and snatch this tea in person 😂
Treasure smiled and told her to come in. A few minutes later, Liv walked through the door looking cute as always, immediately pulling Treasure into a hug at the front desk.
They were standing there chatting and laughing when the salon door chimed again.
Both of them turned at the same time.
Treasure’s stomach dropped like a rock.
Giovanni walked in, looking clean in a fresh outfit, holding a big bouquet of red roses and a box of her favorite chocolates. The entire salon went quiet for a second as heads turned.
Liv’s eyes widened. “Oh hell nah…”
He spotted Treasure immediately and gave her that familiar soft smile — the one he always used when he was trying to reel her back in.
“Treasure, baby…” Giovanni said, voice loud enough for everyone to hear. “I had to see you. I brought these for you. Can we talk? Please?”
The clients who were under dryers and in chairs started whispering. Mrs. Williams raised her eyebrows so high they almost disappeared. Keisha was straight-up staring with her phone out like she was ready to record.
Treasure felt her face burning. Her hands clenched at her sides as Giovanni stepped closer, holding out the flowers and chocolate like some grand gesture.
“I know I fucked up, But I love you. I’m sorry for putting my hands on you. I been stressed, but I’m working on myself. Just give me a chance to show you I changed.”
Liv crossed her arms, stepping slightly in front of Treasure.
“Boy, you got some nerve showing up to her place of business like this,” Liv snapped. “She don’t want your dusty roses or your lies. Take that shit and go.”
Giovanni ignored Liv, his eyes locked on Treasure.
“Treasure… please. You really gon’ do me like this? After everything?”
The salon was dead quiet now, all eyes on them. Treasure’s heart was racing. Part of her wanted to scream at him. Another part felt embarrassed that this was happening in front of her clients and coworkers.
She finally found her voice, keeping it as steady as possible. “Giovanni… you need to leave. I’m at work.”
He looked hurt, but she knew that look too well. It was all an act.
Treasure’s heart was hammering in her chest, but she forced herself to stand tall. The entire salon was watching, and she refused to let Giovanni turn her place of business into a circus.
She took a small step forward, voice firm and steady despite the anxiety swirling inside her.
“Giovanni, you need to leave. Right now,” she said clearly, looking him dead in the eyes. “I’m at work. I have clients coming in and I’m busy. This is not the time or the place.”
His face shifted — that pleading expression cracking into something more frustrated. He still held the roses and chocolates out like they were supposed to fix everything.
“Treasure, come on,” he pleaded, lowering his voice but still loud enough for everyone to hear. “I drove all the way here for you. Just talk to me for five minutes. I love you, baby. I brought all this for you—”
Liv cut him off sharply. “She said leave, bitch. Damn, read the room!”
Treasure held her ground, refusing to take the flowers or even look at them.
“I don’t want them. I don’t want to talk. You need to go. Now.” Her voice was calm but ice-cold. The clients were whispering louder now. Mrs. Williams sucked her teeth loud enough for the whole shop to hear.
Giovanni stared at her for a long second, jaw tight, before he finally let out a bitter laugh and shook his head.
“Aight… I see how it is" his voice laced with hurt and anger. “You really out here playing me for that other nigga. Cool.”
He dropped the bouquet and chocolates on the front desk with a loud thud and turned to leave, but not before shooting her one last look.
“This ain’t over, Treasure.”
The door chimed loudly as he walked out. The second it closed behind him, the salon erupted into whispers and “mm-hmms.”
Liv shook her head, rubbing Treasure’s arm. “You handled that well, sis. But damn… he really came in here with flowers like this a movie.”
Treasure let out a shaky breath, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up the roses and chocolates and immediately walked them to the trash can behind the front desk. She dropped them in without hesitation.
She turned back to her clients with the most professional smile she could manage.
“I’m so sorry about that, y’all. Let’s get back to these appointments.”
But inside, her stomach was in knots. The peaceful high from this morning with Jimmy felt very far away now.
✎ᝰ.
The rest of the day dragged on in a steady rhythm of clients coming in and out. Some wanted quick styles, others were there for full sew-ins or color touch-ups. The gossip about Giovanni’s dramatic entrance had mostly died down by early afternoon, though Mrs. Williams still brought it up every chance she got.
Treasure was focused on her last big client of the busy stretch — finishing up a fresh set of locs. She was twisting and retwisting with careful precision, the familiar scent of shea butter and loc gel in the air.
The salon had finally started to slow down. Only a few clients remained, the hum of dryers and low music filling the space. Liv was a few stations over, braiding her client’s hair while talking shit under her breath about “some men having zero shame.”
Treasure’s phone started vibrating on her station.
She glanced over quickly. It was buzzing repeatedly — not just texts, but an actual call. She couldn’t see the screen clearly from where she was standing, but her stomach tightened anyway.
Please don’t be Giovanni again…
She finished the final twist on her client’s locs, sprayed some holding mist, and stepped back.
“All done,” Treasure said with a professional smile. “Go ahead and check the mirror.”
While her client got up to look, Treasure quickly wiped her hands and grabbed her phone. The screen lit up with Jimmy’s name.
Incoming Call: Jimmy🩶
She bit her lip, a small smile tugging at her mouth despite the earlier drama. She stepped toward the back for a little privacy and answered.
“Hey…” she said softly, trying not to sound too relieved.
Jimmy’s deep voice came through, warm and smooth.
“Hey, mama. How’s your day going? You been on my mind heavy since you left this morning.”
Treasure leaned against the wall, one hand playing with the hem of her apron. She could still feel the faint ache in her throat from earlier.
“It’s been… eventful,”, glancing toward the front where Liv was still working. “Giovanni showed up earlier with flowers and chocolate trying to make a scene. I told him to leave.”
There was a short pause on Jimmy’s end.
“He did what?” His tone shifted, a little sharper now. “You good? He touch you or anything?” Treasure leaned against the back wall of the salon, one hand gripping her phone a little tighter as she spoke softly.
“No, no. He didn’t touch me or anything, Jimmy. I’m okay,” she reassured him quickly, trying to keep her voice calm. “He just walked in with roses and chocolate, trying to make a big scene in front of all my clients. I told him to leave and he got mad, dropped the stuff, and walked out. That’s all.”
There was a brief silence on the other end. She could hear Jimmy breathing, like he was trying to stay calm.
“You sure?” his voice low and serious. “He didn’t put his hands on you? Didn’t say nothing crazy to you?”
“I’m sure Liv was here too. She went off on him a little. I handled it… but it was embarrassing as hell in front of everybody.”
Jimmy let out a slow breath.
“Damn. I should’ve pulled up on you earlier. I don’t like that fool thinking he can just show up at your job like that.” His tone softened a bit. “You really good though? You sound a little stressed.”
Treasure glanced toward the front of the salon. Liv was looking over at her with raised eyebrows, clearly trying to eavesdrop.
“I’m okay now,” Treasure said, smiling a little. “Just… tired. It’s been a long day. But hearing your voice is making it better.”
Jimmy chuckled lowly, that deep sound sending warmth through her chest.
“Good. ‘Cause I been thinking about you all day. Especially this morning… how pretty you looked with my dick in your mouth.” His voice dropped even lower. “You still a little sore in that throat, mama?”
Treasure’s cheeks heated up instantly. She turned further toward the wall, lowering her voice.
“A little,” Treasure admitted shyly. “But I liked it…”
“Yeah?” Jimmy’s tone turned playful but still full of heat. “Good. ‘Cause I’m not done with that mouth. Or the rest of you. What time you getting off?”
“I get off at 6:30, It’s been pretty busy today, but it’s slowing down now. I should be done cleaning up and out of here by then.”
Jimmy hummed approvingly on the other end.
“6:30… aight I’ll come scoop you up. Don’t worry about catching a ride or nothing. I want to see you.”
Treasure’s stomach fluttered. She bit her lip, glancing over at Liv who was now openly staring and making exaggerated faces at her.
“You don’t have to do that…” she started, but Jimmy cut her off.
“Nah, I want to. Plus, after the shit Giovanni pulled today, I’d rather pick you up myself. Make sure you get home safe.”
His tone left no room for argument. Protective. Possessive. But in that way that made her feel safe instead of trapped.
“Okay,” she said quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I’ll text you when I’m almost done.”
“Good girl,” Jimmy murmured, voice dropping low again. “And Treasure?”
“Yeah?”
“Keep that throat warm for me,” he said with a light chuckle. “I might need it again later.”
Treasure’s face instantly heated up. She turned fully toward the wall so Liv couldn’t see her expression.
“Jimmy!” she whispered, half-scolding, half-laughing.
He laughed deeply. “I’m playing… mostly. I’ll see you at 6:30, mama. Be safe.”
They hung up and Treasure let out a long breath, still smiling as she walked back toward her station.
Liv immediately wheeled her chair closer the second Treasure sat down.
“So?” Liv asked, grinning like a shark. “What time is Mr. Fine coming to pick you up? And why do you look like he just said something nasty?”
Treasure shook her head, laughing as she started cleaning up her tools.
“6:30… and mind your business, Liv.”
But the smile on her face didn’t fade for the rest of the afternoon.
The salon had finally emptied out. It was a little after 6:30 PM and Treasure was in her zone, cleaning up her station. She had her AirPods in, music turned up loud — currently playing SZA, something smooth and sensual that matched the low, tired energy she was feeling after a long day.
She wiped down her chair, organized her tools, and swept around her station, hips swaying lightly to the beat as she worked. She was completely in her own world, still thinking about this morning with Jimmy… and trying not to think about Giovanni’s dramatic appearance earlier.
Unbeknownst to her, Jimmy had just walked in.
He stood near the front entrance with his arms folded across his chest, muscular frame looking good in a simple black tee and jeans. His eyes were locked on her — watching the way she moved, the way the salon smock hugged her body, the little sway in her hips. A small smirk played on his lips as he admired her, completely focused.
Liv came out from the back lunch room, drying her hands. She spotted Jimmy immediately and grinned. She gave him a little wave. Jimmy nodded at her with a small smile and waved back, but his eyes quickly returned to Treasure, unwilling to look away for long.
Treasure finished sweeping, still nodding her head to the music. She turned around to grab something from her station counter……and nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Ahh!” Treasure yelped loudly, clutching her chest when she saw Jimmy standing there, arms still folded, staring right at her with that intense, amused look.
Her AirPods nearly fell out as she pulled one from her ear.
“Jimmy! You scared the shit out of me!”
Jimmy’s smirk widened into a full grin as he finally unfolded his arms and walked over to her slowly.
“Sorry, mama,” Jimmy said, voice low and teasing. “You looked too good moving like that. Didn’t want to interrupt.”
Liv laughed from behind the front desk. “I tried to warn her with my eyes but she was in the zone. Y’all two are cute though. I’ll lock up the back real quick.”
Treasure’s cheeks were warm as Jimmy reached her. He pulled her into him by the waist, leaning down to kiss her forehead, then her lips — slow and deep, like he’d been waiting all day to do it.
“You good?" his eyes searching hers. “After that bullshit with Giovanni earlier?”
Treasure looked up at Jimmy, still a little flushed from the scare. She reached up and gently played with his damp curls, twisting one around her finger as she smiled softly.
“Yeah, I’m good Jimmy,” she said quietly, voice sincere. After the long day and the Giovanni drama, just being close to him was already making her feel better.
She continued running her fingers through his hair, admiring how his curls were growing out a bit. “Looks like someone needs their hair done,” she teased lightly, tugging one of the curls playfully.
Jimmy let out a low chuckle, his hands resting comfortably on her waist as he pulled her closer.
“Oh yeah?” he grinned, looking down at her with that charming smirk. “You volunteering? ‘Cause I’ll sit in your chair right now if it means you putting your hands on me.”
He leaned down and kissed her again, slower this time, one hand sliding down to squeeze her ass through her work smock.
Liv cleared her throat loudly from the front desk, smirking. “Y’all need a room or nah? I’m still here!”
Treasure laughed against Jimmy’s lips and pulled back slightly, still playing with his curls.
“You really came to pick me up…” she said softly, looking up at him with warm eyes. “Thank you.”
Jimmy’s expression softened as he stared down at her.
“Always. Now let’s get you out of here. You’ve been on your feet all day.” He glanced toward the front. “You done, or you still got stuff to finish?”
✎ᝰ.
Treasure kept playing with Jimmy’s curls for a second longer, enjoying the way he leaned into her touch. She smiled up at him softly.
“I just need to make sure things are good and then we can head out,” she told him, glancing around at her station.
Jimmy nodded, giving her waist one last squeeze before letting her go.
“Take your time, mama. I’m not in a rush,” Jimmy said, leaning against the counter beside her station, arms crossed again as he watched her move.
Treasure quickly finished wiping everything down, organized her tools, and made sure her chair was straight. Liv gave her a knowing wink from across the room before heading to the back to finish locking up.
As Treasure bent over slightly to grab her bag from under the counter, she felt Jimmy’s eyes on her. When she straightened up, he was right behind her, hands sliding around her waist again, pulling her back against his chest.
“You moving like that while I’m trying to be patient…” he murmured against her ear, voice low. “Hurry up before I bend you over this station.”
Treasure laughed softly and turned in his arms, playfully pushing at his chest.
“Behave. There are still cameras in here,” Treasure whispered, but she couldn’t hide her smile.
A few minutes later, everything was finally done. Liv waved goodbye as she left through the back door.
“Text me when you get home safe, hoe!” Liv called out teasingly.
Treasure locked the front door, flipped the sign to “Closed,” and turned back to Jimmy.
“Ready?” she asked, looking up at him.
Jimmy took her bag from her shoulder and slung it over his own, then grabbed her hand, lacing their fingers together.
“Yeah. Let’s get you home, baby.”
He leaned down and kissed her once more before leading her out to his car, arm draped around her shoulders protectively.
The drive back to Jimmy’s place was quiet but comfortable. Jimmy kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting on her thigh, thumb gently stroking her skin the whole way. Every so often he’d glance over at her, checking in without saying much. She appreciated the silence. After the long day and Giovanni’s surprise appearance, her mind needed the break.
When they pulled into his driveway and stepped inside the house, something shifted inside her.
The moment the door closed behind them, it hit her like a wave.
This place… it felt like home.
The familiar scent of Jimmy’s cologne mixed with clean linen and that warm, masculine smell that was just *him*. The soft lighting, the big comfortable couch where they’d cuddled, the kitchen where he’d made her breakfast this morning. Everything felt safe. Peaceful.
All the stress she’d been carrying — the anxiety from Giovanni showing up at the salon, the old memories of their toxic apartment, the constant name-calling, the walking on eggshells, the fear — it all melted away the second she crossed the threshold.
She stood in the middle of the living room for a moment, just breathing it in.
Jimmy noticed. He set her bag down and walked up behind her, wrapping his strong arms around her waist and pulling her back against his chest.
“You good, baby?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to the side of her neck.
Treasure leaned into him, closing her eyes as she placed her hands over his.
“Yeah…” she whispered. “It feels like home here. I don’t even think about that apartment with him anymore. All that stress, the arguing, the way he used to talk to me… it’s just gone when I’m with you.”
Jimmy turned her around in his arms so she was facing him. He looked down at her with those intense eyes, one hand coming up to cup her face.
“That’s ‘cause this *is* home now,” thumb brushing her cheek. “You don’t gotta go back there. Not ever. Not while I’m breathing.”
He leaned down and kissed her — slow, deep, and full of reassurance. When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I want you here. With me. Every night if you want. Fuck that old life. You deserve peace, Treasure. And I’m gon’ give it to you.”
Treasure felt her eyes sting with emotion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him tight, burying her face in his chest.
“Thank you,”
Jimmy rubbed her back soothingly, holding her like he never wanted to let go.
“You hungry?” he asked after a moment, voice gentler. “Or you just wanna shower and get in bed? I can run you a bath if you want.”
He pulled back slightly to look at her again, fingers still playing with the ends of her hair.
“Whatever you need tonight, I got you.”
She stayed wrapped in Jimmy’s arms for a long moment, letting his warmth sink into her. She pulled back just enough to look up at him, her hands resting on his chest as she played with the fabric of his shirt.
“Jimmy…” she started softly, voice a little shaky. “It’s been a while since a man has actually taken care of me. Like… really taken care of me. Not just the surface stuff. With Giovanni, it was always empty promises. He’d do something nice one day and then tear me down the next. Name calling, blaming me for everything, making me feel like I was too much or not enough.”
She swallowed hard, eyes dropping to his chest for a second before meeting his gaze again.
“Spending time with you… getting to know you more… it makes me feel conflicted if I’m being honest.” Her voice got quieter. “Because this is all I ever wanted with Gio. The peace. The way you check on me. The way you touch me. The way you make me feel safe and wanted. You’re giving me everything I begged him for… and you do it without me even having to ask.”
Tears welled up in her eyes, but she didn’t let them fall.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For you to switch up like he did. But you haven’t. And that scares me a little… because I’m falling for this. For you. And I don’t know if I’m ready for how good this feels.”
She let out a small, vulnerable laugh, wiping at her eyes.
Jimmy stayed quiet for a second, just holding her. Then he cupped her face with both hands, thumbs gently brushing away the tears that escaped.
“Treasure…” Jimmy said, voice deep and steady. “Look at me.”
She did.
“I ain’t him, I’m not gon’ switch up on you. I’m not perfect, but I know what I want. And what I want is *you*. Not just for right now. I see how that nigga broke you down, and I hate that shit. But I’m not here to play games with your heart.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her lips, soft and lingering.
“You don’t have to be scared of how good this feels. Let it feel good, baby. You deserve that. You deserve a man who takes care of you without keeping score. Who eats your pussy till you squirt just because he loves the way you sound when you cum. Who comes picks you up from work because he wants to. Who wants you in his bed every night.”
Jimmy pulled her tighter against him, resting his chin on top of her head.
“I got you. For real. No pressure, no rush… but I’m not going nowhere. And I’m gon’ keep showing you what you been missing. Aight?”
Treasure stayed pressed against Jimmy’s chest, listening to his heartbeat as he held her. His words from earlier still lingered warmly in her mind, but then his tone shifted — still gentle, but more serious.
“And if this is going to work and we really be locked in,” he said, pulling back slightly so he could look her in the eyes, “you need to leave Giovanni. For good.”
He cupped her face again, thumbs stroking her cheeks as he continued.
“He’s not gonna go back to how y’all first started dating. That version of him don’t exist no more. He’s just gon’ keep doing the same shit over and over again — the apologies, the flowers, the manipulation — until something bad happens to you. And I don’t want that. I *won’t* let that happen.”
Jimmy’s eyes were intense, full of genuine concern and quiet anger toward Giovanni.
“I see how he got you scared to even trust something good. How he made you doubt yourself in bed, in life… everything. You deserve better than that cycle, Treasure. You deserve peace. Real peace. Not the kind that comes with conditions and fear.”
He leaned down and kissed her softly, then rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m not saying you gotta move all your stuff in tomorrow… but you gotta cut him off completely. Block him. Stop letting him pop up and stress you out. Because every time he does that shit, it takes away from what we building here. And I’m serious about you, mama. I want this. I want *us*.”
Treasure felt a mix of emotions swirl inside her — fear of fully letting go, relief that someone finally said it out loud, and a deep warmth from how protective Jimmy was being.
She nodded slowly, voice barely above a whisper. “I know… you’re right. I just… I hate that it got this bad.”
Jimmy pulled her back into his arms, holding her tight. “You don’t have to do it alone. I got you. We’ll figure it out together.”
Treasure tried to hold it together. She really did.
But the moment Jimmy said those words — calm, firm, and full of care — something inside her broke open.
Her eyes filled with tears almost instantly. Her lip trembled as she looked up at him, and before she could stop it, the tears spilled over. A quiet sob escaped her throat as she buried her face in his chest, gripping his shirt tightly.
“I know…” she cried softly, voice muffled against him. “I know you’re right. I’ve known for a long time. But it’s just… hard. I stayed for so long thinking I could fix him. Thinking if I loved him harder, if I was better, he would change. And now I feel so stupid for believing that.”
Her shoulders shook as she cried harder, all the built-up emotions from the past year pouring out.
“I’m scared, Jimmy,” Treasure whispered through the tears. “Scared of fully letting go. Scared of what he might do. Scared that I’m moving too fast with you… but being with you feels so right. You make me feel safe and wanted and… seen. I’ve never had that before. Not like this.”
Jimmy held her tighter, one hand rubbing slow circles on her back while the other cradled the back of her head. He didn’t try to shush her or tell her to stop crying. He just let her get it all out, pressing gentle kisses to the top of her head.
“You’re not stupid, baby,” Jimmy murmured against her hair. “You’re loyal. You got a good heart. He took advantage of that. But you don’t have to carry that weight no more. I got you now.”
He rocked her gently in his arms as she continued to cry, letting out all the pain, guilt, and fear she’d been holding inside for so long.
After a few minutes, her sobs started to quiet down into soft sniffles. Jimmy pulled back just enough to wipe her tears with his thumbs, looking at her with nothing but tenderness.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he said softly. “We’ll take it one step at a time. But you gotta choose you, Treasure. Choose peace. Choose this — what we got right here.”
Treasure nodded, eyes still watery as she looked up at him. She felt raw… but lighter. Safer.
“I want this,” she whispered, voice hoarse from crying. “I want you.” Jimmy leaned down and kissed her forehead, then her wet cheeks, then her lips — slow and full of promise.
“I want you too, mama. All of you.”
He held her close again, letting her cry out whatever was left while he rubbed her back, whispering soothing words against her hair.
After her tears finally slowed, Jimmy didn’t say much at first. He just held her close, letting her cry it out against his chest until her breathing started to even out. Then, without a word, he gently picked her up bridal-style and carried her to his bedroom.
He laid her down carefully on the bed, stripped off his shirt, and climbed in beside her. Treasure immediately curled into him, resting her head on his bare chest, right over his heartbeat. His skin was warm, his Cuban link chain cool against her cheek. One of his strong arms wrapped around her while the other gently stroked her back in slow, soothing circles.
Jimmy’s deep voice was low and soft as he whispered against her hair. “I got you, mama… You’re safe here. Ain’t nobody gon’ hurt you while I’m around.”
Treasure sniffled quietly, her eyes already feeling heavy from all the crying. She pressed closer to him, one hand resting on his stomach.
Jimmy kept going, his voice a gentle rumble against her ear.
“You’re so strong, Treasure. Even when you don’t feel like it. You handled today like a boss. And I’m proud of you for choosing peace. For choosing you.”
He kissed the top of her head, then continued whispering.
“You don’t gotta be scared no more. I’m right here. I’m not going nowhere. You hear me? This right here… this is yours. I’m yours.”
Treasure’s eyes fluttered, tears still clinging to her lashes as she listened to him. His words wrapped around her like a warm blanket, slowly melting away the leftover tension in her chest.
“You deserve to be loved soft,” Jimmy murmured, fingers gently playing with her hair. “You deserve to feel wanted every single day. Not just when it’s convenient for somebody. You deserve mornings where somebody wakes up excited to see you. You deserve to be spoiled. Protected. Cherished.”
He kissed her forehead again, letting his lips linger there.
“And I’m gon’ give you all of that. As long as you let me.”
Treasure let out a shaky breath, her body growing heavier by the second. The combination of crying, the emotional release, and the steady rhythm of Jimmy’s heartbeat under her ear was pulling her under fast.
Jimmy kept whispering, voice getting softer. “Sleep, baby. I got you. You don’t gotta worry about nothing tonight. Just rest. I’m right here.”
Treasure’s eyes finally closed, too heavy to fight anymore. Her last conscious thought was how safe she felt — wrapped in Jimmy’s arms, his bare chest warm beneath her cheek, his voice still murmuring sweet promises as she drifted off.
For the first time in a long time, she fell asleep feeling completely at peace.
sugar talkin'
a/n: phew I actually love the fact that Jimmy is caring so much for her, but yall better get some tissues cuz its finna be emotional.
I decided to create some more Boondocks au things and added two extra girls who are twins to the girl scouts. They also join their fellow white girls in raising white hell. If you have any questions about them let me know.
