AOT Boys As Toxic!Exes That Can't Let You Go || Toxic!Attack on Titan x Reader
Levi Ackerman
You're the one thing in his life he can't seem to think rationally about.
You've been off and on for years, but this breakup? You swore you wouldn’t go back. And for the first few months, it worked. You contacted old friends, started new hobbies. You didn’t forget Levi, but you stopped associating him with love and started thinking of him as background noise, a dangerous form of entertainment.
He did not see it that way. “You’re mine,” he said the first time he cornered you outside the café you’d been hiding in. “Always have been, always will be. These breaks… they’re just part of the process.”
You laughed, but the laugh felt sharp in your chest. You wanted to argue, wanted to tell him to leave, wanted to breathe. Instead you let him watch, arms crossed, hair perfectly messy, the streetlight catching a glint in his cold eyes.
And just when you thought you were free, he came to pick you up after work. You’d arranged an Uber—you weren’t going back, not this time—but when he appeared on the sidewalk, leaning against his motorcycle like it was part of him and part of the city itself, your fingers froze on your phone.
“Levi… I—” you started, because words were easier than turning your back.
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “Don’t. You’re not going anywhere until I say so.”
Your heart slammed in protest, a mixture of irritation and something dark, tempting, familiar. You wanted to tell him to fuck off, but the way he smelled, the way he moved, it was a physical pull you weren’t ready to resist.
And as the Uber drove away, leaving you standing in the glow of the streetlight, you realized: some things weren’t meant to be left alone.
Jean Kirstein
He calls at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday because he had a nightmare about you. He swears it’s not manipulation, but you’ve learned the difference. His timing is impeccable, always exactly when you’ve started forgetting how he twists your heart.
You’ve tried moving on. You’ve tried dating other people, focusing on school, work, literally anything to stop thinking about him—but Jean has a way of making you question your sanity. “You’re really okay with leaving me like this?” he asks over the phone. His voice is soft, almost broken, but the underlying accusation hits you like a punch.
He remembers everything. Every dumb fight, every small insult you regret giving, every time you let him push you too far. And he stores it all like evidence against you. “Remember when you said I was selfish? You hurt me,” he’ll whisper. Not once, but multiple times, carefully, like he’s testing you.
The guilt eats at you. You don’t even want to text him back, but you do, because it’s easier to soothe the screaming feeling in your chest than to let him have it all. And once you reply, the floodgates open:
“I know you’re happy without me, but are you really? Or are you just pretending?”
“I can’t stop thinking about us. I don’t want anyone else to have you.”
“You left me, but I’ll wait. I always wait. You can’t escape me.”
And it’s always framed as care. Concern. Worry. He’s never openly threatening, never physically imposing like Levi, but the psychological grip is just as strong. You start to second-guess yourself: maybe you’re being unfair, maybe you did leave him wrong, maybe you could just… come back.
When he appears in person, casually leaning against a wall outside your favorite coffee shop, hands in his pockets, the world slows. “Hey,” he says. His grin looks innocent, tired, but there’s an edge there. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay. You’re really sure you don’t need me?”
You’re not sure. And that’s exactly what he wants. Because even if you resist, even if you run, Jean Kirstein knows how to make you feel guilty for wanting to be free.
Eren Yeager
He vanishes. One day he’s texting like everything’s fine, the next he’s gone for days, maybe weeks. No explanation. No warning. Just silence. And then, just when you’ve stopped expecting him, he’s there, right in front of you, like he owns the space you’ve built for yourself.
“You think you can just forget me?” he growls the first time he shows up outside your apartment, fists clenching as if the world itself conspired to keep you apart. He’s not asking; he’s accusing. You try to say something, but the words die in your throat. He’s always one step ahead.
He has this way of making you feel responsible for his chaos. If he’s angry, it’s your fault. If he’s distant, it’s your fault. If he storms out, disappears, ignores you—your fault. “You make me feel like this,” he says. “Do you even know what you do to me?”
And yet, when he softens, when the anger fades, it’s magnetic. He’ll sit close, lean in, touch your shoulder, whisper “I can’t let you go. Not again.” You know he’ll hurt you again, but something in you aches to stay, even for a second.
Eren is storms and fires, a constant threat wrapped in the illusion of protection. He’ll push you to the edge of your patience, make you scream, make you cry, make you want to run—and then pull you back like it’s inevitable. “You’re mine,” he says, voice low, tense, almost pleading. “I don’t care what you say. You can try, but you can’t leave me behind.”
He doesn’t ask permission. He doesn’t negotiate. He disappears. He returns. He destroys and rebuilds. And somehow, some horrifying part of you waits. Because you remember the moments where he loved you so fiercely it left scars of longing as deep as his anger.
Armin Arlert
He acts like he is the only one thinking clearly. You left him, but in his mind it was your mistake not his. He talks to you like every choice you make outside of him is wrong. “I just don’t understand why you would leave me like this” he says, voice soft but insistent. You start to question yourself, wonder if you were too harsh, too impulsive, too selfish.
He remembers every detail of your relationship and uses them like weapons. Every argument, every small slight, every time you cried. “Do you remember when you said you hated how I worried about you?” he asks, tilting his head, almost innocent. “Do you know how that hurt me” he adds quietly and you feel your chest tighten because yes you do, but now he’s holding it over you.
He shows up at places you thought were safe, always with some excuse, always soft, always apologetic, always just enough guilt to make you reconsider walking away. “I didn’t know you were upset with me I thought you were okay” he says, eyes wide and honest but sharp in his intent. You tell yourself you are done, but his presence makes the weight in your stomach pull you back.
He manipulates your empathy. Every sigh, every quiet frown, every word he says is loaded. You want to be the bigger person, to tell him no, to walk away, but every time you try he has a way of making it feel like betrayal. “You used to care about us, what happened to that” he whispers and suddenly leaving him feels cruel.
Armin never storms, never raises his voice, never forces you to obey. His poison is quiet. He waits for your guilt to grow. He waits for your conscience to fail. He waits until you are so tangled up in what you owe him that you forget what freedom felt like.
Connie Springer
He is chaos wrapped in a grin. You broke up and thought it would stick, but Connie has a way of showing up in the most inconvenient moments, always smiling like nothing is wrong. “Hey, you’re really not gonna talk to me?” he asks, voice light, but there is tension under it, an expectation that you will cave.
He uses familiarity to wear you down. Every inside joke, every nickname, every memory you shared becomes a chain. “Remember that time we stayed up all night talking? You laughed so hard you cried. That was us. Are you really okay leaving that behind?” You want to argue but your chest tightens and the words die.
He is persistent. He calls. He texts. He shows up outside your new favorite hangouts. Each time it feels like a test. “I just want to see you. Just for a minute. Is that too much to ask?” And somehow it never is, because your walls crumble a little each time.
He doesn’t even realize the hold he has over you. He smiles, shrugs, acts casual, but everything about him screams ownership. You know it is toxic. You know you should resist. But he’s everywhere you are, and every time you try to resist, your heart betrays you.
Reiner Braun
He is the guilt you can never shake. Reiner shows up as concern, as protection, as someone who just wants to help, and before you know it you are questioning your own choices. “I just don’t understand why you won’t let me in” he says, voice steady but heavy with accusation.
He uses responsibility to trap you. Every time you fail, every time you hesitate, every time you falter, he reminds you, subtly, painfully, that you owe him. “I carried so much for you back then. You don’t think that matters?” He says it as a statement not a question and you know you cannot argue.
He disappears for days at a time and when he returns it is always with some excuse and a heavy expectation of forgiveness. “I didn’t want to bother you. I just thought you’d understand why I had to leave.” And of course you do, because that is the problem. You always do.
Reiner is slow, deliberate, relentless. He builds guilt like walls, surrounds you with it, and waits until you are trapped under the weight. And even when you try to walk away, he does not need to chase. He knows you will feel responsible enough to stay.
Erwin Smith
He is strategy, control, and inevitability. Breakups with Erwin feel like you are defying logic, like every action you take to separate from him is a mistake you cannot explain. “You really think you can do this without me?” he asks, sharp, commanding, and the question makes your stomach twist because yes you think you can, but there is an edge of fear in his tone that makes you pause.
He studies you. He knows your patterns, your weaknesses, your defenses, and he waits for the exact moment to strike. “I’ve seen how you handle things alone. You falter. You struggle. Why make it harder than it has to be?” He frames his obsession as guidance. You feel like a fool for arguing, for even considering your freedom.
He uses logic and charm like weapons. Every plan, every observation, every “concerned” word is designed to make you doubt yourself. “It is clear you think leaving is the right choice. But have you thought about what that truly means? About what you lose?” You know he is right. You know it terrifies you.
With Erwin, the toxicity is calm, methodical, suffocating. He makes you feel like running is impossible because he has already calculated every step you would take. And when he steps close, calm, collected, hand brushing yours in some small, casual gesture, you realize freedom was always a lie.
Dark!Bucky this, Possessive!Bucky that... what we need is more unhinged reader!!!
So bear with me... Bucky becomes awfully distant one day, and reader is worried that he's growing tired of her and is secretly meeting someone else behind her back. So she figures that if she has his child, he'll stay with her, and she baby-traps him (spoiler: it works). Anyway, in actuality, Bucky was ‘distant’ because he was busy looking for a house for them to live in so they could start their family.
He doesn’t kiss her goodbye anymore.
Not like he used to—slow, lingering, like he’s memorizing her mouth for the day ahead. Now it’s a distracted brush of lips, a hand already reaching for his keys, eyes somewhere over her shoulder. He’s late more often. His phone is always face-down. He smells like the outside world when he comes home, not her sheets.
Bucky Barnes is pulling away.
That’s the truth her brain feeds her at three in the morning while she stares at the ceiling, counting every way she’s ever been too much. Too needy. Too intense. Too eager to build a future with a man who spent most of his life running from one.
He doesn’t touch her in bed some nights. He turns onto his side. Breathes evenly. Pretends not to feel her staring holes into his back.
So she does what any rational, deeply unstable woman in love would do.
She panics.
The thought crawls in quietly at first—soft, poisonous, irresistible.
If I had his child… he wouldn’t leave.
It blooms into obsession frighteningly fast.
She watches the way Bucky softens around kids at the grocery store, how his shoulders loosen when a toddler waves at him, how his eyes go distant and aching when he sees fathers lifting their children onto their shoulders. He never says anything, but she knows that look. It’s the same one he wears when he thinks she’s asleep.
Longing. Fear. Want.
So she stops taking her pills.
She doesn’t tell him. She tells herself she’ll only do it once. Just one month. Just to see. She times it meticulously, reads everything she can, tracks her body like it’s a mission briefing. There’s something darkly empowering about it—about deciding her future with a certainty she’s never felt before.
When Bucky finally touches her again, it’s desperate.
Like he’s been holding himself back for days.
He pulls her into his lap on the couch, mouth hot and hungry against her throat, hands gripping like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he lets go. She clings just as hard, nails digging in, heart racing with a secret that feels too big for her chest.
This will fix it, she tells herself.
This will make him stay.
Weeks pass. Bucky is still distant—still distracted—but now he’s gentler. Watching her closely. Asking if she’s feeling okay. Rubbing her back when she’s nauseous in the mornings, brow furrowed with concern.
She almost breaks a dozen times.
When the test turns positive, she sits on the bathroom floor and laughs until she cries. It’s manic and hysterical and terrifying all at once. She presses a hand to her stomach, something feral and triumphant blooming in her chest.
Mine. Ours. Forever.
She waits three days before telling him.
Three days of rehearsing every possible reaction. Rage. Betrayal. Silence. Walking out the door.
She tells him in the kitchen, hands shaking, voice too bright.
“I’m pregnant.”
The world stops.
Bucky stares at her like she’s spoken a foreign language. His face drains of color. His hands brace on the counter.
“You’re… what?”
Her heart slams against her ribs. “I—I know it’s a lot. And I know you’ve been distant and maybe you don’t want this and maybe I messed up and—”
He crosses the room in two strides and grips her shoulders.
“Distant?” he repeats hoarsely. “You think I’ve been distant because I don’t want you?”
Tears spill over before she can stop them. “I thought you were leaving. I thought there was someone else.”
His expression crumples.
“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.
He pulls a folded packet of papers from his jacket pocket with shaking hands. Mortgage listings. A printout with a little house circled in red. A sticky note in his messy handwriting: extra bedroom. nursery?
“I’ve been trying to surprise you,” he says quietly. “I wanted it to be right. I wanted to be sure I could give you—give us—something stable. I didn’t want to say anything until I knew I could do it.”
Her stomach drops.
“Oh.”
He presses his forehead to hers, eyes wet, voice breaking. “I was gonna ask you if you wanted to start a family. I just didn’t know how.”
Guilt twists in her chest—but beneath it, something darker hums with satisfaction.
She cups his face. “You don’t hate me?”
He lets out a broken laugh and sinks to his knees in front of her, pressing his ear to her stomach like he can already hear something there.
“Hate you?” he whispers. “I’m terrified. I’m in love. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He looks up at her then—soft, reverent, ruined.
“I’m yours,” he says. “Both of us are.”
And as she cradles his head against her, fingers threading through his hair, she thinks—
coddle me, pamper me—brain wash me into being so dependent on you that i forget how to function on my own. i’d need your approval for the few thoughts i could muster up.
Summary / Info: Seven months into a quiet, tender relationship with Chrollo Lucilfer, you discover the truth about his role as leader of the Phantom Troupe. When you try to ghost him, he finds you and is unwilling to let you go.
Warnings: Dark themes / unhealthy relationship, Emotional manipulation & gaslighting, Kidnapping / forced cohabitation (non-graphic), Angst with no fluffy resolution, Chrollo being calmly possessive and controlling, Brief descriptions of canon-typical violence (Troupe activities), Reader is afraid and heartbroken
You had been together for seven months.
Seven months of quiet evenings in hidden safehouses, his fingers turning pages while your head rested in his lap. Seven months of rare, genuine smiles when you quoted obscure books back at him. Seven months of him watching you with that unreadable depth, like you were the only thing in the world not yet catalogued in his mind.
You thought you knew him. Until the night you found the book.
It wasn’t his usual stolen tome. This one was smaller, leather-bound, tucked behind a false panel in the bookshelf he’d told you never to touch. You’d only been looking for a lighter. Instead you found detailed records; names, locations, stolen artifacts, body counts written in neat, elegant handwriting. And the symbol. A spider with twelve legs.
The Phantom Troupe.
Your hands shook as you flipped through page after page of atrocities. Massacres. Heists that left cities bleeding. The man you loved the calm, soft-spoken, book-obsessed Chrollo wasn’t just a thief. He was the head of the spiders.
You closed the book with a soft click and put it back exactly as you found it. That night when he returned, you smiled like nothing was wrong. You let him kiss your forehead. You let him pull you into bed and trace lazy circles on your back while he read aloud. But the next morning, you were gone.
You ghosted him for six days.
No texts. No calls. You changed the location of the small apartment he’d set up for you. You avoided every café he knew you liked. Every instinct screamed that disappearing was the only way to survive. On the seventh night, he found you anyway.
The knock on your new door was soft. Polite, almost. You froze with a mug of tea halfway to your lips, heart hammering so hard you felt dizzy. You didn’t answer. But the second knock came anyway, patient.
“Open the door, love.”
His voice was the same low velvet it had always been. No anger. No threat. Just quiet certainty. You stayed silent. Minutes passed. Then you heard the soft click of the lock turning; he had a key, of course he did; and the door opened. Chrollo stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. He looked… the same. Dark coat, calm expression, those grey eyes scanning your face like he was reading every micro-expression.
“You found the ledger,” he said simply. Not a question. You backed up until your thighs hit the kitchen counter. Your voice came out smaller than you wanted. “How many people have you killed, Chrollo?” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “Does the exact number matter?”
“It matters to me.” Your eyes stung with hot tears. “I let you touch me and I told you I loved you. But you lied to me… you’re… a monster.” Something flickered across his face; not pain, definitely not pain, but the shadow of it. He took one step closer and you flinched hard. He stopped. “I never lied to you about who I am,” he said quietly. “I simply didn’t tell you the parts that would make you look at me the way you’re looking at me now.”
Silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating. You wanted to scream. You wanted to throw something. You wanted to beg the universe to let this be a nightmare. Instead you whispered, voice cracking, “I don’t want to do this anymore. I want to leave for good. Please? I can’t… I can’t be with someone who does those things. I thought you were different.”
Chrollo’s expression remained calm, but his eyes sharpened. “You thought I was different,” he echoed, almost gently. “And yet here you are, still trying to reason with a ‘monster’ instead of running. That should tell you something.”
You shook your head, tears spilling faster. “This isn’t fair. You don’t get to decide for me. I trusted you with everything and you hid this Chrollo. How am I supposed to just accept that? I deserve a choice!”
“You had a choice,” he replied evenly, taking another slow step forward. “Every day for seven months. You chose me. You chose my hands, my voice, my bed. The truth doesn’t erase that.” His voice lowered, soft but final. “And now the choice is gone. I’m not debating this with you.”
The tension in the room was as suffocating as a pair of hands closing around your throat. Your body trembled against the counter, the familiar scent of old paper and his cologne now feeling like the bars of a cage. The betrayal cut so deep you could barely breathe. This was the man you had trusted with every fragile piece of your heart.
You whispered, broken and shaking, “You’re going to keep me with you… even though I’m scared of you? Even though I hate what you are?”
Chrollo rested his chin on top of your head, one hand slowly stroking down your back in the same soothing rhythm he used to use when you couldn’t sleep.
“Yes.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your hair, then tilted your face up so you had no choice but to meet his eyes. “You can hate me. You can cry. You can stay silent for months if that’s what you need… but you’ll do it with me. Where I can keep you safe from the world… and the world safe from what I’d become if you disappear again.”
He wiped the last of your tears with his thumb, then leaned down and kissed you slow, deep, and heartbreakingly gentle. The same way he had kissed you hundreds of times before, only now it tasted like possession and finality.
“Go collect what you want to keep. We’re leaving in 10 minutes. I already prepared a new place for you.”
You stood there frozen as he turned toward the bedroom like the conversation was over. The man you loved , the monster you now feared had made his choice. And he would be damned if he let you escape again.
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 ➤ after erik killmonger seizes the wakandan throne, a royal strategist loyal to t’challa is forced to remain in his inner circle.
𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ➤ my sister wanted this, and this is my first Killmonger fic? LIKE HELLO??? definitely making more because why didn’t i think of this BEFORE? enjoy!
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ➤ 6.3k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 ➤ dirty talk, hate sex, emotional and psychological manipulation, impact play, mild breath play, throne sex, black!thick!reader (but anyone can imagine themselves), use of african language (xhosa/zulu inspired), mentions of political violence. 𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈! 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!
the halls of the golden city no longer sounded like home. they echoed now. not with the ancient rhythms passed down by your foremothers. not with the low, ancestral chants that once settled over the palace like fog at dawn. no — they echoed with the weight of new boots on sacred stone. boots that did not belong to a king.
they belonged to a conqueror.
erik stevens — no, he called himself n’jadaka now — had taken the throne barely two weeks ago. the blood from the ritual combat had not yet fully dried in the sacred pool, and yet the council already bowed their heads to him, lips tight with fear. there had been no second trial. no challenge. the mountain tribe stood down. t’challa’s body had vanished with the river.
you’d known t’challa since you were children. you used to spar with him beneath the shade of the elder tree, both of you too proud to admit when you’d bruised. he trusted you to hold the long-view strategy for wakanda in your hands — one of the few civilians allowed in the high council chambers. strategist. advisor. loyalist. and now… traitor, by some mouths. prisoner, by others.
but erik hadn’t thrown you to the dungeons.
instead, he kept you close.
“a mind like yours shouldn’t rot in a cell,” he’d said, the day after the coronation. he’d spoken it low in your ear, like a secret only you were worthy of. “nah… i want you right where i can see you.”
and now here you were — standing in the war room, your thick frame wrapped in deep blue and gold robes, tension stiff across your shoulders. the rich fabric clung to the slope of your hips, accentuating the body that no uniform could hide. you could feel his gaze on you before you even turned around.
“what you think, strategist?” erik’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade. deep, deliberate, heavy with that oakland-born bite. “we hit london first? or new york?”
you didn’t look at him right away. instead, you traced the holographic map glowing across the table with your fingers, watching the borders pulse with potential violence. cities were marked in red. colonizer capitals. your jaw tensed.
“wakanda does not conquer,” you said, carefully. not too soft. not too sharp. “that is not our way.”
“yeah,” he muttered, stepping closer. “and where that get y’all? watchin’ while your brothers and sisters got they necks stepped on. wakanda been hiding.”
he circled behind you like a panther. not quite touching. but close enough that your skin prickled where his heat brushed you. you refused to flinch. he wanted to see you rattle. it was the game, now. every day — the game.
“this ain’t about revenge,” he said, lowering his voice. “this about balance. and power.”
“power built on blood doesn’t last,” you replied, turning finally to face him. your eyes locked. his were molten — dark and unreadable, but sparking with something cruel and magnetic. “and what you’re building… it’s made of bones.”
he didn’t blink. just smiled slow, head tilting.
“so?” he asked, tongue dragging across the edge of his teeth. “that bother you?”
he was too close now. tall, broad, shirt open at the chest. gold fangs flashing beneath full lips. skin dusted in the faintest sheen of sweat and sun, each raised kill mark down his chest a monument to pain — and victory. you hated how magnetic he was. how his presence filled the air so fully it pushed everything else out. his scent was warm metal and cedar. his voice was gravity.
“you loyal to t’challa,” he said, voice dipped low again. “i know that. but you still here. still breathin’. still dressin’ like you got somewhere to be.”
his eyes dragged down your figure — from the tight fold of your waist wrap, across the swell of your hips, to where your thighs brushed under soft fabric. you shifted. not out of discomfort — but because you could feel how intently he watched you.
“you tryna prove somethin’?” he murmured. “or you just don’t know where else you fit now?”
you straightened, spine like steel.
“i serve wakanda,” you said. “not the man who sits on the throne.”
his laugh was soft, almost amused. but there was no kindness in it.
“sound like you tryna convince yourself.”
each day after that followed a pattern. you studied maps, advised on diplomatic approaches you didn’t believe in, and fed him half-truths through clenched teeth. still, he kept you near. always asking for your perspective, always testing your loyalty. his soldiers looked at you with suspicion, but they didn’t touch you. not without his permission.
he was possessive like that. even when he didn’t say it out loud.
and slowly — sickeningly — you started to understand him.
not agree. never that. but understand.
how anger had carved itself into him, root-deep. how power was the only language he’d ever been taught. he wielded it like a weapon, sharp and beautiful. and when he wasn’t using it to dominate a room, he used it on you — with whispers, glances, and challenges he knew you’d rise to.
he never tried to force you. he didn’t need to. erik killmonger was more dangerous than that — because he made you want to play his game.
he’d lean close during briefings, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he murmured critiques. he’d stand at the top of the royal steps while you debated councilmen, watching your every word like a test. and when you succeeded — when your voice swayed the elders just enough — he’d nod, slow and proud, like he was claiming you for it.
“look at you,” he’d say, later, while passing you alone in the garden corridors. “still tryna save people who would’ve let you die with the old king.”
you hated how deep those words burrowed. hated how you still walked the halls after dark, pulse racing at the sound of his voice in the distance.
one night, weeks in, you found yourself summoned.
not by a guard. not by a formal scroll.
just a voice in the corridor. soft. direct. one word.
“come.”
when you stepped into the throne room, it was empty but for him. torchlight flickered along the walls, casting long shadows across the black stone floor. the panther statue loomed silent behind the throne.
erik sat on it like he was born there. legs spread. arms relaxed. gaze dark and direct.
you didn’t bow.
you didn’t speak.
he studied you in silence for a long moment, then motioned you forward with two fingers.
“you believe i don’t deserve this,” he said, voice level. “say it.”
your throat tightened. but you forced yourself steady.
“i believe your rule is built on a lie,” you said. “wakanda’s legacy is not yours to twist.”
he didn’t move. didn’t blink. but his voice dropped, slow and rough.
“and yet here you stand.”
your lips parted — to argue, maybe. or to defend yourself. but no words came.
“i ain’t stupid,” he said, rising from the throne. “i know what this is.”
he stepped toward you again, each stride deliberate.
“you hate me,” he said, stopping just inches away. “but you watch me. every time. you listen. you fight back.”
his hand didn’t touch you. but it hovered just near your jaw. his heat was a weight. your breath quickened.
“ain’t no loyalty in that,” he said, eyes burning into yours. “that’s desire.”
you said nothing.
but you didn’t step back.
he smiled. slow. teeth sharp.
“loyal little queen’s dog,” he said, voice dripping heat. “you ever wonder how it’d feel to break?”
your pulse thudded between your thighs.
but your voice stayed even.
“never,” you whispered.
his eyes dropped — from your lips, to your chest, to the curve of your hips.
“we’ll see.”
his fingers ghosted along your jawline, calloused and hot, but still not touching. erik didn’t rush. no — he never did. dominance for him was earned in slow, suffocating inches. he wanted to watch you squirm under your own restraint. test the shape of your resistance until it shattered on him.
“ain’t gotta say yes,” he murmured, voice low and thick like honey-drenched smoke. “but you ain’t leavin’ either. so what that tell me, hm?”
his thumb dragged — barely — across the curve of your lower lip. your breath hitched. he felt it.
you hated him.
but you wanted him more.
you turned your head just enough to break the spell, stepping back one pace. but that inch was his permission — and he followed, advancing like he owned the ground beneath your feet. your back met the edge of the throne before you realized he’d corralled you there. trapped between carved stone and muscle-thick heat, your body buzzed like war drums. your thighs clenched without command.
“mm,” he laughed, low in his chest. “there she go. wakanda’s finest. thick as the land itself, still actin’ like she ain’t dyin’ to break for me.”
you didn’t respond.
not with words.
you reached for him instead — finally, with fingers curling into the front of his open vest. not a surrender. not exactly. just… the beginning of something too old for language.
his mouth met yours like fire. brutal, claiming. teeth clashing, lips hot. it wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t sweet. it was a fight dressed in heat, breath on breath, until you moaned into his mouth and he groaned against your teeth. the taste of him was sweat, blood, and something darker — control.
his hand came down on your ass with a sharp, open slap.
you gasped, clinging harder.
“yeah,” he growled, sliding one thick thigh between yours, forcing them open. “you like that, huh? all that royal pride, but this fat lil pussy tryna talk to me different.”
you rocked against his leg before you even realized it — heat pooling deep between your thighs, clit desperate for friction. the throne room was silent but for your breath and the echo of his voice wrapping around your moans.
“what would t’challa say, huh?” he teased, hand curling around your hip as he pulled you harder against his leg. “his loyal strategist grindin’ on a nigga she swore to kill.”
you bit your lip, tried to turn your face — but he caught your chin in one hand and held you there.
“nah,” he said, low. “you look at me.”
his eyes pinned you in place, molten and unmoving. you couldn’t look away if you tried. not now. not when his fingers slipped beneath your wrap and found your bare skin, dragging slow up the inside of your thigh.
“this what you been hidin’ under all them robes?” he whispered, voice almost reverent. “this fat-ass pussy been waitin’ on me, huh?”
you whined — not in surrender, but need.
he chuckled deep.
“bend over.”
you hesitated.
his gaze sharpened. darkened.
“ngenze njalo.”
the words hit your core like a flame. do as i say.
you obeyed.
hands braced against the throne, you bent for him — thick ass high, legs wide. you heard the hitch in his breath as he stepped back to take in the sight.
then—
smack.
his palm cracked across your cheek again. not too hard. but enough.
“keep that arch,” he muttered, dragging his fingers through your folds from behind. “mm… this shit wet as fuck. and i ain’t even fucked you yet.”
you moaned, low and shivering.
he knelt behind you, breathing hot over your inner thigh. his mouth pressed to your pussy — not kissing, tasting. tongue flat and deliberate, slapping your clit before sucking it with slow precision.
“fuck—!” you gasped, knuckles white on stone.
he didn’t rush. took his time. tongue moving like he owned the rhythm of your body. your thighs trembled, fat and soft against his jaw. he moaned into you like the taste alone was divine.
“you ridin’ me tonight,” he said, rising behind you again, voice thick with hunger. “on my throne. i want them pretty titties bouncin’ while i watch you fall apart.”
you turned as he shed the rest of his vest — then his pants.
his dick hung heavy, thick, the kind of size that made you pause. covered in veins, head dark and already leaking. he stroked it slow while he stared you down.
“come on, queen,” he murmured. “show me what loyalty look like now.”
you climbed onto the throne — his throne — hands braced on his chest, thick thighs spreading over him as you straddled his lap. his hands found your hips, pulling you down so the head of his cock teased your entrance. you both breathed ragged.
then — you sank down.
inch by inch.
his mouth dropped open, teeth grit.
“god damn,” he hissed. “this pussy heavy as fuck.”
you rode him slow at first — adjusting to his size, your walls clenching tight. his eyes never left your face. not once. his hands guided you, rhythm building with every bounce of your thick ass. you bounced harder. louder.
smack.
his palm slapped your ass again. then again. red prints bloomed.
“take that dick,” he growled. “look at you — thick lil loyalist, takin’ a real king’s cock.”
you whimpered, rolling your hips faster, sweat sliding down your throat. your tits bounced, full and heavy, catching his eyes with every thrust.
“say who this pussy belong to,” he demanded.
you moaned, too far gone to think, riding him like salvation. like war. like you hated him — and loved the way he destroyed you.
he grabbed your throat.
“say it.”
you whispered it.
“…you.”
his eyes lit with fire.
he flipped you in one swift motion — your back now against the cold stone of the throne, legs spread as he pounded into you, harder, deeper, cock hitting every spot like he knew you already.
you were nothing now. just gasps. heat. slick. sweat.
he grunted, one hand pressing on your lower belly as he fucked you deeper.
“you feel that?” he rasped. “i’m in there. ain’t no goin’ back now, mama.”
you clawed at him, body coiling tight.
your climax ripped through you like thunder — back arching, mouth open in a silent cry.
he followed seconds later, spilling deep inside you with a growl, hands fisting in your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to earth.
you laid there afterward — still on the throne, legs sprawled, his breath heavy on your neck.
