𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: One chance meeting in your dorm room eight years ago has changed your life forever. From girlhood to womanhood, and mother to queen, the blood spilt and time spent between the two of you has already patched what was broken and sealed your fates together.
Your place is by his side.
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 🔞Explicit Sexual Content, Blood & Violence, Toxic Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Intimidation, Occasional use of N-Word, and Monster Fuckery. For more extensive tags, see Ao3 listing below
❥ 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐼𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑥 ❥ || ❥ 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❥
A/N: It's the end of the line for this little one-shot turned ficlet. Thank you for your patience and to everyone who left me comments and checked in once in a while. I take my time with all of my writing, planning ahead and editing to make sure it's a unique and fun when I post it for others to read. Can't say I'll be posting anything like this onto Tumblr ever again, but I appreciate everyone who made the experience actually enjoyable ♡‧₊˚
𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸𝙸 𝚘𝚏 𝙸𝙸: 𝐂𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠
Noise-cancelling headphones were the only things making the muted roar of the plane’s engines easier to endure. Flying never used to bother you, but five hours of it with all your new and improved senses of sight, smell, and hearing was making it a bit…overstimulating.
You’d shut the window, the glare of the sun off the plane’s wings making you painfully aware of why your son needed sunglasses—but beyond the mild pounding of a headache, your mind is still spinning.
It wasn’t exactly shocking to find out that Erik had whisked you and EJ across the country. He’d wanted you both as far away from T’Chaka as possible. The details he’d given were dubious at best, but the fact that he and his uncle weren’t on good terms was a good enough reason for you.
Human or not, the concept of your local alderman wanting you dead doesn’t sit well with you. Even with the agreed-upon law against harming Ongafiyo children, you weren’t going to chance EJ being caught up in all this mess.
That was what prompted you to run in the first place. And the fact that you were somewhat vindicated for seeing the danger surrounding Erik wasn’t lost on you.
he/him pronouns are used for the reader and he’s wakandan!
summary: “Why did you challenge my brother?” you ask.
“I wanted to rule,” N’Jadaka answers.
And there it is. A thirst for power and authority. The same corruptive force that runs rampant in the countries outside your borders. You had always thought Wakanda was different, that Wakandans were above such things.
Yet here you are, standing next to the man who killed your brother. The new king, who knows more of America than he does of the country he’s supposed to lead.
word count: 8.9k | ao3 version
author’s notes: I usually make race ambiguous, but considering the reader is Wakandan & T’Challa’s brother, it’s heavily implied that he’s Black (obviously). Also, he’s shorter than Killmonger, since I looked his height up and learned he was 6’6 and GEEKED THE FUCK OUT. SIRRRRRRRR. Whew. Anyways. The reader also has a brief shirtless scene. Otherwise, no physical descriptors are used for the reader.
I tried my best to do some research on African and Egyptian religions and mythology to make this accurate. But apologies in advance if I messed anything up. In terms of canon, this will be canon divergent and non-compliant.
The title of this fic is a lyric from Disparate Youth by Santigold.
enjoy!
Your brother T’Challa is dead. And Wakanda has a new king. An American, no less. A guy who was born in America to an American mother and a Wakandan father. Now the man has returned, to a country he barely knows… only to become the king.
You stand there at Warrior Falls, water soaking through the fabric at your ankles as you’re overcome with emptiness. There’s a deep ache running into your bones, grief weighing your shoulders down. You can still see the cocky grin T’Challa shot you, a brief flicker of personality through the royal facade he always carried. You can still feel the way your lips quirked at the edges when your brother shot you a wink, as if to say, It’s okay, I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.
Just as you can see those reassuring gestures, you can remember the pain flickering across his face. The way his body tensed as the newcomer—‘Killmonger’, he called himself—dealt blow after blow. The limpness of your brother’s limbs as he was deftly tossed into the rushing waters below.
You approach the edge of the falls and look down, despite knowing it’s a fool’s errand. Indeed, there’s nothing there—his body has already been washed away by the tide. Your brother won’t even get a proper burial. Death in ritual combat is considered honorable, but you think T’Challa deserved better. The other Wakandans may be quicker to embrace the truth, the grim reality that the country is under new rule.
Not you.
“You knew the guy?” a voice says lazily. It’s Killmonger, standing at one of the outcroppings of rock behind you. You swallow past the burning feeling in your throat, your hands shaking at your sides. The way he dismisses T’Challa… It’s beyond disrespectful.
Your nails dig into your palms. “My brother.” That’s about all you can get yourself to say, and even those two words feel laborious. You don’t sound like yourself. You don’t feel like yourself. You feel overwhelmingly empty, devoid of purpose. Everything your brother fought for… it’s all under attack now.
“Oh shit,” Killmonger huffs. You still keep your back to him. Unwise? Probably. But maybe a small part of you is hoping he’ll kill you, if only so you could see your brother again. “Sorry,” he says carelessly.
Your fists clench at your sides. When you can finally summon the courage and fury to turn around, he’s already gone.
You remain at Warrior Falls for hours. Long enough for the sun to set in the sky, blue-grey fading into yellow-green before sinking into a deep blue-black. The stars twinkle above. Supposedly, in dense cities, there are less stars at night from the light pollution. Here in Wakanda, they settle against the backdrop of the sky with unquestionable brilliance.
Sometimes, T’Challa and you would sneak out at night and look up at the stars, imagining what other lives would be like. You’d fashion yourselves as travellers, sailors, architects, historians, knights. Anything and everything. It was fun, even just to spend time with your brother.
Tonight, you look up at the night sky and go on those adventures alone.
Killmonger is already stirring up trouble, and it hasn’t even been a full day since he ascended the throne. You first hear of the commotion when you’re approached by an elder, who tells you of a commotion at the herb gardens. You head over quickly, heart stalling in your chest when you see the new king of Wakanda with his hand around a shaman’s throat. And not just any shaman—Sope, the leader of the group. She grasps at his wrist in a futile effort of resistance and you feel your stomach stew with unease.
“Release her,” you assert, your voice breaking through the painful silence that had settled across the space.
Killmonger turns, his eyes almost gleaming in the dim light of the gardens. Something aches in your jaw as you notice his posture, the disregard with which he crushes the herbs underfoot. He’s standing on one of the plant beds. “You again,” he says coldly. He doesn’t budge.
“Let go of her,” you demand again.
Killmonger makes a show of letting Sope go, splaying his fingers before turning on you quickly. He strides over to you, already too close for comfort.
“Don’t tell me what to do,” he snaps. “I’m the king.”
“And I,” you respond, “am T’Challa’s brother. Royal advisor and prince of Wakanda.” You stand your ground despite your best judgment.
“This isn’t a monarchy, prince,” Killmonger hisses, eyes gleaming with fury. “Your blood doesn’t mean shit. Your brother’s dead.”
You grit your teeth and ignore that attempt at provocation. “These herbs are the only path to the Ancestral Plane,” you insist, motioning to the gardens around you. If he destroys the herbs, he’ll rid you of any connection to your ancestors. It would be sacrilegious and needlessly cruel. “We rely on the wisdom of our elders to move forward, to guide our actions—” you insist.
“The wisdom of your elders?” Killmonger interjects with a scoff. “Your elders killed my father!”
“Your father let a mercenary kill our own,” you assert, glaring at him. “Your father wanted us open to the outside world, open to the same people who have hunted us down for centuries!”
“Don’t speak ill of my father,” he hisses, on you in an instant. There’s a sharpened dagger at your throat, digging into your skin just tight enough to draw blood. “Unless you want to join your brother in the afterlife.”
You take a slow breath, ignoring the sting of the blade at your neck. You lock eyes with the man, the king. The warm sting of the dagger sends blood dripping down your throat sluggishly, dipping beneath your collarbone. Killmonger watches it, and for a moment, you think he’s going to dig the blade in and deliver you a swift end.
But he doesn’t. Seconds pass and neither of you move. “You are not burning down the gardens,” you assert, leaning forward a bit. Daring him to finish what he started. And still, he does not move. Spurred by his indecision, you continue. “If you wish to remain unchallenged, then protect them better. But you will not erase our past.”
You’re not sure how long the both of you stand there, eyes locked on one another, before Killmonger lets out an impatient sound and shoves past you. You don’t follow him as he storms off, instead turning to the shamans.
“Are you all right?” you ask Sope. She’s massaging her throat.
“Yes, thank you,” she responds with a nod. She stands tall and looks around the space, a troubled expression on her face. “That man is dangerous.”
You nod in agreement.
Sope turns back to you. “I’m sorry about King T’Challa,” she says gently, placing a hand on your shoulder.
You take a shuddering breath. “...Me too,” you answer, taking a selfish moment to breathe before stepping away and letting her hand fall back to her side. You can sense the shaman’s eyes on your back as you walk away, but you’re too lost in your thoughts to think much of it.
It isn’t long before your duty is called into question, your allegiance tested. You’re standing in the throne room when Killmonger turns to you, almost seeming to move in slow motion as his head tilts and he fixes you with an expectant look.
“Come here,” he orders.
Your lips are sewn together. You don’t want to answer to the man who killed your brother. But you have no choice. If Wakanda stands even a chance at preserving its culture and values, you have to remain here, at the— the King’s side. And as much as you hate to acknowledge him, when it should be your brother sitting on that throne… Well, you don’t have much of a choice. You approach and stand in front of him.
“You aren’t bowing,” Killmonger observes, regarding you from the throne.
“Would you like me to?” you ask. The words almost burn your tongue. Traitorous, dishonest. You’d rather die than bow to him.
“No,” he responds. Yes, his eyes seem to say.
You swallow past the burning feeling in your throat. “Why have you summoned me?” you question.
“Do I need a reason?” he frowns. “Last time I checked, you’re not supposed to ask questions.”
“I’m the royal advisor,” you remind him. “That’s my job.”
He lets out an unsatisfied noise. “Right,” Killmonger almost scoffs. “Fine. Go. Dismissed or whatever.” He makes a nonchalant hand gesture and you take the proffered opportunity to return to your solitary grief.
You’re almost out of the room when his voice breaks through the silence. “Wait.” You freeze in the doorway, turning back around. He looks at you warily. “Your name.”
That’s right. You never told him. Maybe because you were still holding out hope that somehow, this situation would rectify itself. That he wouldn’t even need to know your name, because he wouldn’t be here, sitting on the throne that your brother is so much more prepared to occupy—
You swallow past your misgivings and tell him your name. He considers you for a moment. “I’m Erik,” he then responds.
“N’Jadaka,” you correct him habitually. You don’t use American names here. There’s no need for them. His name is N’Jadaka, according to what one of the elders whispered to you this morning.
“No,” Killmonger argues. His gaze is piercing as he rests on your brother’s throne, legs spread wide and shoulders pressed tall. “I lost that name when my father was exiled from this land. By your father.”
You don’t know what you’re supposed to say to that. Fortunately, it seems as if he’s done speaking with you. “Go,” he orders.
So you do.
After that fateful battle at Warrior Falls, you visit the shrine of your ancestors frequently. You’re hoping to contact your brother, despite knowing you won’t receive an answer. T’Challa is dead, and his body hasn’t been recovered. Still, you make a point to visit at least once daily—sometimes twice or even three times.
It’s been a week now, and his body still hasn’t been found. Maybe he’s still alive.
No. You can’t dwell on false hope like that. It will only be more painful in the long run. Your brother is dead. You saw Killmonger throw him from Warrior Falls; you saw him plummet to the roaring waters below. He is dead. He must be.
Without a body, though, you’re unable to perform the proper burial rites. Your brother won’t even be granted the dignity of a ceremony. Instead, he’s just… gone. His soul will remain lost in between the realms of life and death, awaiting guidance that may never come.
You bend your head down, your hand finding the cool ground as you kneel in front of the altar.
The irony? The eldest son of the family is tasked with decorating the altar. T’Challa was always the one to do it. Now that he’s not here, that responsibility falls onto you. You are all that remains of your family’s bloodline. Everything your father and brother worked for… it’s starting to fade away. And you’re terrified. Terrified for what your land will become, in the wake of this stranger’s rule.
Tears slip down your cheeks.
You remain there long enough for your knees to ache when you stand back up. Distracted enough to not notice Killmonger pass by, lingering in the doorway for a few minutes before leaving.
Days later, you open your eyes and sit up, soil cascading down your clothing as you look around the Ancestral Plane. You’ve been here before, though it was years ago. Back when your father passed. You came with T’Challa. Now you’re alone. Seeking guidance, just as you did before.
A savannah stretches as far as your eyes can see, grasses rustling around you. The sky is descending into twilight, a vivid blue and purple streaked across blue. Here, there is everything… and there is nothing.
You get to your feet and approach the tree in front of you, its dark branches blinking back at you. Black panthers prowl on steady feet, their eyes bright and eerie in the shadows. You feel yourself starting forward, taking a few more steps to approach the trunk of the tree.
Before you can make it, a panther leaps down, its form briefly fading before your father appears before you. Your breath hitches in your chest. You embrace him immediately, arms wrapping around him in a hug like you’re a child again.
“My son,” T’Chaka remarks, his hand cradling the back of your head as he speaks in Xhosa.
“Father,” you respond, fingers clutching at the fabric of his tunic for a selfish moment. You take a shuddering breath and pull back to meet his eyes. “I need your guidance.” He nods ever so slightly, a nonverbal gesture for you to continue.
“T’Challa… He’s gone.” Uttering the words is even more painful, ushering in the reality. You wanted to pretend as if he were just away, as if he was magically fished from the rivers and brought back to life. But your brother is as good as dead. And now you can’t even visit him in the Ancestral Plane, because his body was never found.
You try to push past the burning feeling in your throat. “A stranger on the throne, the tribes fractured… This isn’t what you meant for Wakanda.” You shake your head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to do,” you admit, your voice breaking. Your hand trembles at your side and you clench your fist.
“Don’t you?” T’Chaka asks.
“...No,” you answer. You look around the savannah as if it will give you answers. Your father waits for you to continue, patient as always. “I fear the worst. Our very culture is in danger. This newcomer… He tried to burn the gardens, he— There is nothing that can be done.”
“Wakanda is still very much alive,” T’Chaka reassures you. “A ruler, even one as misguided as this one may seem, does not define our country.”
“I just… It feels wrong,” you whisper. “To be serving him.”
“No,” your father corrects you. “You do not serve him. You serve your country.”
“I know,” you sigh.
“Then act like you do,” T’Chaka responds. That was one thing you always valued about your father: He never pulled his punches. “Do not let him crush your spirit. Wakanda needs you, now more than ever.”
You nod, struggling to get words out. Your father had been keeping pace with you as he walked, but now he lingers behind you. Frowning, you turn around to find his visage fading. Choking on a helpless breath, you try to reach out to him again, but your hand slips through thin air. The scenery around you is melting, shadows briefly flitting across your vision.
Your eyelids flutter and you soon return to the waking world with a harsh gasp, breathing hard. Your arms are still crossed over your shirtless chest, fists clenched. Your ears are ringing, everything feels too sharp and dull at once. You slowly loosen your fists, getting up to a sitting position despite your muscles’ protests.
You’re back in Wakanda. The real world, where your father is dead, your brother is missing, and an exiled Wakandan has returned and taken the throne.
“You’re all right,” Sope reassures you, a comforting figure in light of your panic. It takes you several moments to catch your breath, to ground yourself in this existence. Coming back from the Ancestral Plane always feels jarring. You push yourself to your feet, wobbling a bit. The shaman steadies you with impressive speed, a gentle hand on your waist as your vision spirals.
“Lightweight,” a familiar voice scoffs.
You startle, turning to find N’Jadaka standing in the far corner of the room with his arms crossed over his chest. You hadn’t even heard him approach. How long was he lingering there? Did he arrive when you were already in the Ancestral Plane? How long did he stand there, looking down at you with your arms crossed over your chest and wondering what you were seeing? The thought unsettles you.
“Show the prince respect,” Sope says sharply, shooting daggers at N’Jadaka. Her courage is commendable, but ultimately wasted on you.
“It’s fine,” you reassure the shaman, stepping away from her and nodding. “Thank you, Sope. I appreciate your assistance, as always.”
“Of course,” she responds, stooping into a bow. You incline your head in return, before fetching your tunic. You turn your back on N’Jadaka as you put it on, but you can still feel his staring like a physical weight on your spine. Once you straighten up, you give Sope another nod before exiting the room.
You’re only given a few moments to yourself before the sound of footsteps graces your ears. You walk a few more steps and pause, turning to find N’Jadaka standing across from you.
“Thought the Heart-Shaped Herb was limited to the Black Panther,” he says languidly, his eyes sharp.
“And the royal family,” you correct him. “I do not seek the power it gives. Only our ancestors’ wisdom.”
“Not very bright,” N’Jadaka says with an arched eyebrow.
You don’t respond to the jab, instead turning your back on the king and walking away.
…His gaze sears through your skin regardless.
Safe to say, you and N’Jadaka do not get along well. You were raised Wakandan, born into royalty. You always respected traditions, values passed down from generations. You never knew such— such insolence. Speaking out of turn, ordering the Dora Milaje around as if they’re mere props. Stomping on holy ground without so much as a passing thought of decency.
No. N’Jadaka is a representation of everything about the modern world: He’s aggressive, impatient, hungry for power, thirsty for violence, and downright blasphemous. He waltzes into Wakanda, dethrones the king, and sits upon the throne of a country he doesn’t know the first thing about. It makes you sick to your stomach.
While you try your best to be deferential, there’s only so much you can tolerate. Because, as your father said, your duty isn’t just to your king—it’s also to your country. And you will put the needs of your people over the fleeting whims of a tyrant every single time.
You’re in the throne room when N’Jadaka turns his attention to you once more. That’s another thing you’ve learned: He’s combative. He enjoys provoking people. And though you’ve done well to avoid his attempts so far, you’re starting to break. Your patience isn’t infinite.
“You’ve been kinda rude,” N’Jadaka says. He turns to you expectantly. “How do you address your king?”
You keep silent. You won’t indulge his flights of fancy, his misguided power trips.
“Foolish,” he mocks you, “just like your brother.”
That statement makes your blood run cold. “Shut up,” you hiss before you can stop yourself, stiffening like a worn-thin thread about to snap.
“Oh?” N’Jadaka hums. He’s starting to grin. “Is that a hint of personality I see? You’ve been bland as hell until now.”
“Shut up,” you seethe again, eyes burning with unshed tears as you level him with the most malicious glare you can muster. It’s probably a pathetic effort. “You killed him.”
“I can’t undo the past,” N’Jadaka reminds you. He shrugs. “I wish it could’ve been different.”
“No, you don’t,” you insist. The guy got exactly what he wanted. “You don’t even care. T’Challa didn’t want to fight.”
“He knew the risks,” N’Jadaka says. “A king needs to be powerful. And if he isn’t, then he shouldn’t be a king at all.”
White-hot rage prickles down your spine. Everything around you seems to blur and fade in the wake of that remark. You’re moving before you can stop yourself, lurching forward and pulling your arm back.
You punch the king of Wakanda in the face.
Silence immediately descends on the air, thick and cloying. N’Jadaka’s head is bowed. You can’t see his expression.
Then your endless years of training kick in, and you’re genuflecting before him. “Your Majesty, I sincerely apologize, I don’t know what came over me—” you stammer, the words nearly crawling from your lips as your throat burns. You’re immediately hit with a profound sense of regret. Regardless of what this man has done to you, he is your king first. You never should’ve struck him. You stare down at the ground, your head bent low as tears threaten to slip down your face for an entirely different reason than before.
“Get up,” he says.
You don’t hear him. You’re lost in memories, drowning in the likelihood of your dismissal. This advisory position is your pride. It’s what convinces you to keep fighting when everything feels hopeless. Without it… you’re nothing, no one. And without you here, the remnants of your family’s advances in legislation and leadership will fall apart.
“Get up!” N’Jadaka yells. His voice echoes through the walls of the otherwise silent room. You look up at him. Sitting on the throne, glaring at you with fury in his eyes… He really does look like a king. (Just not yours.) “Now!”
You quickly get back to your feet. And this time, you don’t need him to dismiss you—you just leave.
Wakanda comprises five tribes: the River tribe, the Merchant tribe, the Border tribe, the Mining tribe, and the Jabari tribe. The first king of Wakanda, Bashenga, had sought to unite all the tribes; the Jabari tribe was the only one that refused to comply, and the members instead retreated to the northern mountains. Your brother, you, your father… You’re all descendants of Bashenga.
The tribes frequently meet under the direction of the king at the Tribal Council, where each tribe’s elders are given a voice in domestic and foreign affairs alike. The Jabari tribe is the only one that remains uninvolved, considering their stance on vibranium. That’s almost a good thing—four tribes is more than enough to create circular conversations.
Truthfully, the Tribal Council meetings were disorganized before N’Jadaka. Now, they’re a complete and utter mess. N’Jadaka seems to almost enjoy the chaos, as he consistently pokes and prods at each tribal elder for his own amusement. He doesn’t take anything seriously, he’s constantly questioning tradition. For every second that passes, you feel like you’re slipping further and further away from the Wakanda your family fought for. The Wakanda you love.
You try to keep your composure as you sit there passively, allowing a few of the leaders to argue. Killmonger spectates, though you can feel him sneaking frequent glances at you.
And that’s when you see him. The chair that sits across from you is no longer empty. Instead, a man stares back at you.
For a second, you’re too shocked to do much more than stare back. Then, as you scrutinize the newcomer, you come to one realization: he is not human. The man’s dark skin seems almost endless, no blemishes or pores in sight. His beady eyes are a deep inky black, entirely unblinking. He tilts his head to the side questioningly, and two more eyes emerge from his temples.
You think your breath stutters a bit, but you can’t be sure. You suppose it doesn’t really matter, in the end. All you know is this: Anansi has just paid you a visit. The trickster, a symbol of chaos and change. He possesses both an infinite knowledge of the world and a seemingly childlike proclivity for mischief. Completely paradoxical, but his presence here confirms what you had already dreaded: Things are changing. Wakanda will no longer be the same as it has been.
As if sensing your thoughts, Anansi inclines his head slightly, toward the head of the table. He tilts his head at N’Jadaka curiously.
Not trusting yourself to keep your composure any longer, you promptly get to your feet and leave the room without another word.
You end up fleeing to one of the balconies overlooking Birnin Zana. You cross your arms over the railing and try to take a deep breath. Anansi’s visit isn’t necessarily a bad thing, but it does promise a complex and uncertain future. The trickster can be a symbol of much-needed change, but that can also inflict harm on existing structures.
You sigh, rubbing a hand across your face.
“It’s funny,” N’Jadaka says. You don’t have to turn around to know it’s him—you’re used to his voice by now. You remain standing at the edge of the balcony, arms resting on the railing. “I don’t remember telling you to leave the meeting.”
Your jaw clenches. “You didn’t,” you manage to say.
“What was so important?” he questions, taking unhurried steps toward you. “You always take your princely duties so seriously.” There’s definitely some mockery in his voice. He’s taunting you, like usual. You know better than to respond. You’re not falling for the same trick twice.
You remember he’s waiting for an answer and snap back to reality. “Nothing,” you respond quickly. Too quickly. You can tell he notices, because he stops at the railing next to you and gives you a look.
“Oh, really?” N’Jadaka asks, arching a brow. “What could warrant keeping a secret from your king?”
You’re not my king. You’re not my anything.
You keep silent instead of uttering the words. Your emotions are probably visible on your face, but you find yourself too worn out to care. The king already knows you distrust him, already knows you don’t approve of his attempts to uproot your country’s traditions.
It’s silent for a while, just the two of you looking out at the lush jungle in the distance. You give N’Jadaka a sidelong glance. He’s already looking at you. You turn your head and return your attention to the trees.
“Why are you here?” you eventually ask.
“I deserve to be here,” he responds. Immediate, free of hesitation.
It’s quiet. “Yes,” you relent. You can feel him shift at your side, his shoulder brushing yours as he looks at you in surprise. You decide to take advantage of his momentary lapse in attention. “Why did you challenge my brother?”
“I wanted to rule,” N’Jadaka answers.
And there it is. A thirst for power and authority. The same corruptive force that runs rampant in the countries outside your borders. You had always thought Wakanda was different, that Wakandans were above such things.
Yet here you are, standing next to the man who killed your brother. The new king, who knows more of America than he does of the country he’s supposed to lead.
“Why?” you ask.
“In here, we thrive,” N’Jadaka says. He shifts a bit closer, as if willing you to look at him. Eventually you do look up at him, and you’re almost surprised to find the sincere expression on his face. It seems uncharacteristic. He’s a man governed by hatred, vengeance, bloodlust. Or so you thought. “Out there, we’re suffering. We were exploited for centuries, and even now, we’re killed for the color of our skin.”
The weight of that statement settles in the air and stays there. “So, yeah,” he scoffs. “Forgive me for wanting to save our siblings with the weapons we’re not even fucking using.”
The passersby below, the glint of metal in the sunlight. There is nothing to distract you from the accuracy of that statement. You take a slow breath, crossing your arms over the railing again. “I understand,” you say.
“...You do,” he says disbelievingly.
“I do,” you continue. “You think we haven’t considered that before? But it wouldn’t just stop at helping others. Assuming we helped people like us, used our weaponry… That would inform the world of the existence of our country, the vastness of our resources. We would be at risk of more exploitation, and history would be reversed.”
“So we’re just supposed to lay down and take it?” N’Jadaka argues harshly. “Just sit there while people die?”
“No.”
N’Jadaka scoffs. “You’ve never even left Wakanda, have you?”
“I have not,” you admit.
“Thought so,” he says. “Too high and mighty.”
“At the moment,” you remark, ignoring that dig, “I find myself more concerned with domestic affairs.”
The implication is clear. “So, me, then,” N’Jadaka huffs, a dark sound leaving his lips. He almost sounds amused.
“Yes,” you agree. N’Jadaka is the bigger problem at the moment. You can worry about the citizens of the world later—right now, the lives of your people are in danger. The traditions of your country and your ancestors… It’s all under threat. You can’t save anyone else if the very essence of Wakanda is at risk.
N’Jadaka exhales in dry amusement, before turning and walking back into the Citadel. You don’t follow him.
When you walk out of your bedroom in the Citadel one morning to find N’Jadaka on the ground, being choked by your brother… you assume you’re having a lucid dream. You dig your nails into your arm hard. Nothing happens. The sight before you remains: T’Challa, your brother—thought to be dead. Here, pushing the new king into the ground and looking unquestionably alive.
Then you process just what is happening: the absolute lack of resistance in N’Jadaka’s form, as he simply lies there; the fury on your brother’s face; the ear-piercing roar of your heart thudding in your chest. Something’s wrong here.
“Brother!” you say sharply. “Don’t!”
At the sound of your voice, T’Challa’s head whips around and his eyes are wide. He stares at you in complete disbelief, as if you were the one who vanished in supposed death and then reappeared like nothing happened.
“Don’t,” you insist, looking at him expectantly. As much as you loathe some of N’Jadaka’s ideas, you don’t want his blood on your brother’s hands. That would only reflect poorly on T’Challa. What’s more, after your last conversation on the balcony… Well. You’re starting to think there’s more to the guy than what meets the eye.
T’Challa’s grip loosens as he processes your remark.
“Looks like you do have a heart under there,” N’Jadaka chuckles at him, his lips quirking into a grin that reveals bloodied teeth. T’Challa punches him in the face again, before his jaw clenches and he gets to his feet and turns to you.
“T’Challa,” you breathe. Your brother’s infuriated expression quickly melts, and the two of you nearly crash into each other as you hug.
N’Jadaka gets to his feet. You don’t notice, too preoccupied with embracing T’Challa. “I thought you were dead,” you say as you break apart, eyes flitting about your brother’s face.
“As did I,” T’Challa responds smoothly. He sends a dirty look to Killmonger before turning back to you. There’s a fond smile on his face. “I missed you.”
“I missed you too,” you answer. “How did you…?” you try to ask.
“Enough with the waterworks; Jesus,” Killmonger interjects impatiently, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. “This isn’t a Hallmark movie.”
Your brother’s shoulders draw tight again. “You will not let me kill him,” T’Challa then says, bringing the tension right back. He looks at you expectantly.
“Killing the king would brand you a traitor,” you remind him. “You know better.” The truth goes unsaid: You can best him in combat and take back the throne.
“Listen to your baby brother,” N’Jadaka says tauntingly. T’Challa glares at him.
You sigh, resigning yourself to a long day.
N’Jadaka is still the king, but with your brother back from the dead, the question of true power has to be raised. T’Challa hasn’t challenged N’Jadaka for the throne just yet, though you know he’s preparing for it. He must be.
You’re not the only one who has noticed Wakanda’s current… instability. The Merchant, Mining, River, and Border tribes still serve on the Tribal Council. The Jabari tribe continues to be a distant, unpredictable force. A looming threat on the horizon. Until one morning, when the Dora Milaje warily flank a group of Jabari as they enter the Citadel.
It’s the first time you’ve seen any of the tribe in a long time. They don’t approve of the country’s use of vibranium, instead relying on natural materials. This city is a giant contradiction to everything they stand for. Their very presence here is nothing short of shocking, and extremely suspicious. They must want something.
“What do you want, M’Baku?” T’Challa demands, evidently thinking the same thing you are. Your brother, N’Jadaka, and you all stand in the throne room, faced with the leader of the Jabari and some of his companions.
“Such a frosty reception,” M’Baku, the leader of the Jabari, says slowly. “We saved your life, did we not?”
T’Challa’s jaw clenches, but he remains silent.
“Thought so,” M’Baku says somewhat smugly. He considers your group for a moment, the three of you standing there: the American who ascended the throne; the old king, thought to be dead but revived; and you, T’Challa’s brother and royal advisor.
M’Baku’s eyes settle on you, before he begins to speak in Igbo. As you process his words, your eyes widen and you stare at him in disbelief.
“What’s he saying?” N’Jadaka demands, noticing your shock.
“He’s saying…” you try to answer, your eyes still wide. You’re not sure what to do. Well, scratch that. You know what you should do. But you’re not sure if you should tell your brother. He won’t accept it—you know he won’t.
“What?” N’Jadaka persists, before turning to T’Challa expectantly. Your brother shrugs slightly, appearing concerned but more patient.
“They’re here to collect their reward,” you recite, eyes still locked on M’Baku. You can’t convince yourself to look away, unable to shake the strange conviction that something will happen if you do. “Our prince. A royal for a royal.”
“No.” That wasn’t your brother—it was N’Jadaka. And he looks furious.
“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’ll go.”
“No!” T’Challa exclaims, an uncharacteristic panic to his voice.
“Brother, I can handle myself,” you reassure him. “It’s a small price. You’re alive.”
T’Challa doesn’t look convinced, his eyebrows furrowed and his shoulders drawn tight. Then you look over at N’Jadaka. “Don’t kill him again,” you order fiercely. The last thing you want is to return to Birnin Zana to find your brother dead, not when you just got him back.
“Bossy,” N’Jadaka mutters under his breath, arms crossed over his chest.
“Glad we’ve come to an agreement,” M’Baku says, nodding at the men flanking him. The Jabari are quick to absorb you in their ranks, hands on your upper arms as they guide you out of the building and toward the mountains in the distance. You don’t look back to see the tormented expression on your brother’s face, or the tense scowl on N’Jadaka’s face.
In hindsight, it was optimistic of you to think you’d be treated nicely. But you didn’t expect to be thrown into a holding cell and chained to the wall like a prisoner. You take a slow breath and try to bend your wrists, but they don’t budge against the unyielding metal of the cuffs around them. Your arms are left hanging above you, numbness trickling down your forearms and into your shoulders.
You want to say you don’t know what this is about, but you do. The Jabari tribe is trying to use you as leverage, provoking Wakanda and the other four tribes into battling them and starting a war. M’Baku wants Wakanda weak, because that would benefit him. For centuries, the Jabari have remained on the outskirts of Wakanda—almost forgotten.
Do you think it’s right? No.
Do you think a civil war is the best solution? Also no.
Surely there’s a way out of this mess that doesn’t involve unnecessary bloodshed. And if a war can be stalled by you rotting in a cell, then so be it. You were trained for royalty—you’ve always known that you may have to make uncomfortable or even painful sacrifices for your people. This is nothing new.
Minutes bleed into hours and days. The only way you can even discern the passage of time is by the sun’s movements in the sky. Day to night to day and back again. As time stretches on and nothing changes, you start to wonder if you were forgotten.
You drift in and out of fleeting slumber, never long enough to feel well-rested. You haven’t been given a single drop of water or crumb of food since you were first thrown into this cell, nor have you seen any visitors. It’s almost miserable.
But, again. Your brother is alive. The Black Panther lives on. At this point, that may be all you can ask for. You trust T’Challa, trust that he’ll be able to handle any problems that may arise. And if you were given a choice between him and you, well… You’ve already made that choice, haven’t you?
You huff in amusement, leaning your head back to rest against the cool wall. Your wrists are rubbed raw now, dried blood crusted along the edges. Your arms are pretty much completely useless at this point, and your vision is swimming. Falling in and out of consciousness for days on end probably isn’t doing much for your mental state or your awareness.
So when there’s a harsh thud outside, you barely even notice. It isn’t until the door of your cell is kicked in that you begin to understand what’s happening. Light floods into the dark room, immediately forcing you to squint as a solitary figure stands tall in the doorway.
“Hey, prince,” N’Jadaka says flippantly, brandishing a dagger at his side. It glows with vibranium as it catches the light. You blink sluggishly; he looks you up and down. “You look like shit.”
You want to laugh. The most you can do is exhale in an amused huff. Your wrists ache, your stomach hurts, your head is pounding, your vision is blurry, and your throat is extremely dry. You have no idea how many days it’s been since that encounter with M’Baku—you lost count.
You must really be out of it, because you blink and N’Jadaka is suddenly crouching before you. He’s a bit closer than you expected him to be, and you blink hard as you try to keep yourself awake. He makes quick work of the cuffs on your wrists with the vibranium weapon.
You can’t even begin to celebrate your freedom or move your wrists before N’Jadaka is latching his hands on your forearms and yanking you to your feet. You have no choice but to go with the movement, and immediately you’re thrown into a world of grainy fuzziness. Darkness swarms into your vision and you crumple right back down to the ground as your vision fades to black.
You wake to a dull ache crawling through your bones. You groan and push yourself up, the walls of the Citadel a source of comfort. You’re back home. You rub your eyes roughly and take a slow breath, wincing as your wrists sting and burn. A quick glance down gives you a glimpse of bandages wrapped around your forearms, likely to prevent infection. Other than the wrist pain, some muscle stiffness and a growing headache, you feel… fine. Mostly. Just exhausted.
Another slow breath leaves your lips just as the door swings open. N’Jadaka stands firm in the doorway, quickly making his way through the room before halting at your bedside. “The Wakandan Royal Guard is ready for battle,” he informs you, in lieu of a greeting.
Your brain stalls for a second. “Wait, what?” you then ask. What happened?! “No, no—” you say panickedly, nearly stumbling in your effort to scramble off the bed. You’re stopped by his hand on your shoulder, which lingers for a moment before falling away.
“The Jabari tried to kill the king of Wakanda,” N’Jadaka informs you tersely.
“My brother—?” you ask desperately, your heart starting to pick up again.
“No,” he answers.
“You?” you blink, your head spinning. N’Jadaka looks entirely fine. He is an incredibly capable combatant, though—you suppose it makes sense that he doesn’t even have a scratch on him.
But he still shakes his head. “No,” he insists, leveling you with an unflinching look. “You.”
“Me?” you repeat in confusion. You’re not really following this turn in conversation. “...I’m not the king.”
“Yes, you are,” N’Jadaka insists. And then he kneels before you.
“What are you doing?” you ask disbelievingly. Your voice sounds like a stranger’s. You find yourself sitting up and getting to your feet habitually, ignoring the residual aches in your muscles. “Get up.”
“No,” he insists. “You are the king of Wakanda now.”
“According to what?” you huff. “I haven’t even fought anyone—”
In the blink of an eye, you’re wielding his dagger. N’Jadaka’s hand grasps yours, guiding the blade to hover over his throat.
“You have bested me in battle,” he declares.
“That’s not—” you break off helplessly.
“You care about tradition,” N’Jadaka says, his eyes locked on yours. “I get it. But Wakanda needs you.”
Wakanda needs you. That’s what your father said too. You swallow hard, fighting off memories of T’Chaka. You instead regard N’Jadaka kneeling before you, looking for a hint of deceit or trickery on his face. There’s only honesty, desperation.
“Please,” he implores you. N’Jadaka leans forward more and the blade nicks him a bit. You immediately try to pull your hand back, but his grip remains steady. For a long moment, you remain there: you, on unsteady feet, grasping his blade; N’Jadaka kneeling at your feet, his hand guiding his dagger to his own throat.
“Okay,” you agree, “but I’m not killing you. And get up.”
Just as N’Jadaka starts to relinquish his grip on the blade and get to his feet, there’s a new presence in the doorway.
“Brother,” T’Challa says, his eyes glimmering with relief. This time, he’s the one to cross the distance and hug you. You lean into his embrace immediately, your eyes burning with unshed tears. You thought you would never see him again. You had just gotten him back, but you were worried you would meet your end in captivity.
“What should we do?” you ask him once you break apart. It’s habit: asking your brother what to do. He was the king and you were his advisor.
“What you should do,” T’Challa corrects you with a gentle smile, resting a hand on your shoulder, “is follow your instinct. I will support you every step of the way. As your advisor, if you’ll allow me.”
“Thank you,” you respond relievedly. “Yes, of course. That would be wonderful.”
T’Challa studies you for a minute, his hand finding your cheek and his gaze flitting about your face. “How you’ve grown,” he remarks. A rare smile graces his lips. Pride flickers in his eyes. “Father would be so proud.”
“Not to ruin the vibe, but,” N’Jadaka drawls, “we gotta figure out what to do with the Jabari.”
“We?” T’Challa repeats with scorn. You can practically hear his thoughts: There is no ‘we’.
You place a hand on your brother’s forearm, giving him a pointed look. “Yes, we,” you say, attempting to stifle any of his arguments. Against all odds, N’Jadaka surrendered the throne to you. He wouldn’t have done that if he were intent on destroying Wakanda or changing it altogether. That gives you some hope for the future, even if you know you’ll need more proof than that as time passes.
N’Jadaka shoots T’Challa a victorious smirk, just quick enough for you to miss. T’Challa scowls, before shaking his head. “You are right; there are bigger problems at the moment,” he nods to you.
Past grievances momentarily pushed aside, the three of you summon the tribal elders and get to work.
Against all odds, you manage to avoid a war with the Jabari tribe. Thankfully. You’ve been hoping to cement their presence in Wakandan affairs for some time now, and with a new seat at the Tribal Council and an influence on legislation—in addition to several other concessions—M’Baku was satisfied. T’Challa and N’Jadaka both seemed displeased in their own ways, but then again, the two men are warriors. They were ready to defend Wakanda, which you’re grateful for. But as the king of Wakanda, it’s your job to ensure things don’t get to that point.
Between the new treaties, legislative ventures, and responsibilities that you take on in the coming time, you manage to make time for a small act. An olive branch. Something that should have been done a long time ago. (And idly you wonder, just how many other people have slipped through the cracks.)
“N’Jadaka,” you say, placing a hand over the man’s heart as tradition mandates. The two of you stand in the throne room, an elder from the River tribe and a few Dora Milaje warriors as witnesses. N’Jadaka wears Wakandan clothing: a deep burnished orange accentuating the sharp lines of his form, the strength of his broad shoulders. You can’t deny it: he looks very good. But that is not the thought a king should be having, especially in this moment. You pull yourself back to attention, a smile twisting the edge of your lips. “I grant you naturalized citizenship from this point forward. You are afforded the rights and privileges of a Wakandan.”
“Thank you,” he responds, eyes looking suspiciously bright. N’Jadaka stares at you for a moment before, without breaking eye contact, stooping low into a genuflect.
You feel the breath leave your chest for a long moment. “You… don’t have to do that,” you manage to say. The weight of his attention, the sight of him bowing to you… It is quite something.
“Maybe I wanted to,” N’Jadaka replies with a lopsided smirk. That gesture shouldn’t be as attractive as it is.
You huff and avert your eyes for a moment. “Well, thank you for your dedication,” you say wryly, hoping you don’t look as flustered as you feel. “You may get up.” You have to fight off the urge to give him a helping hand—he doesn’t need it, and it would appear too friendly in current company.
“Thanks, Your Majesty,” N’Jadaka responds, standing up to his full height once more.
You roll your eyes and he grins.
Surprisingly, your life doesn’t change much as you adjust to your role as the king. You’d been in your brother’s shadow for so long… You didn’t quite realize just how well-prepared you really were. In reality, the decisions you’re faced with are ones you’ve already seen: whether through watching your father, guiding your brother, or standing against N’Jadaka.
T’Challa is still the Black Panther, and he takes on a role somewhat similar to your old one as royal advisor. His insight is still invaluable, and the two of you have always worked better as a team. He doesn’t seem particularly disappointed to be relieved of his kingly duties—in fact, he eventually expresses to you late one night that he’s grateful for the chance to spend more time with Nakia. After all, T’Challa has always been the warrior. And, as he says, you have always been the royal one.
Of course, you’re quick to fight off that accusation, because it makes you sound like some sort of disconnected rich kid or fool drunk on power. T’Challa reassures you that isn’t what he meant, shaking his head in fond disbelief before wrapping an arm around your shoulders and smiling. Your brother has been doing more of that lately: smiling. It’s nice to see.
As for N’Jadaka, he’s still around. You can tell he sees Wakanda as home now, which makes you happy. You were quick to enlist him in helping to train Wakandan forces on the martial arts techniques he learned during his time abroad, so that you’re better equipped to defend yourselves when the time comes. And of course, thanks to his initial insights—that conversation on the balcony after the Tribal Council—you’ve been thinking more about your country’s isolationist policy. T’Challa and you will consult your ancestors about it soon enough.
Something you do have to get adjusted to… is N’Jadaka’s staring. He stares a lot. At first, you put it down to being on opposite sides of a fledgling conflict: him as the new king, you as a remnant of royalty. But even after the events of recent weeks—your brother’s return; agreement with the Jabari tribe and captivity; his rescue; your new position as king—he is still watching you. You’re not sure if it’s different now, or if it’s always been like this. It’s hard for you to tell. Sure, he held animosity toward you before. You could explain the constant attention then; he was wary of you. But now? His eyes follow you around the room, latching onto you and not letting go.
T’Challa has certainly taken notice, as he asks you about it one afternoon. You admit that you’re not sure what the purpose of N’Jadaka’s attention is, and your brother gives you a pretty weird look—something between exasperation and irritation.
You don’t really understand what his reaction was for until a few weeks later. You’re standing on another one of the Citadel’s balconies, looking over Birnin Zana’s gleaming skyscrapers as the warm air greets your skin.
“Thank you.”
“For what?” you ask habitually, blinking and turning around to find N’Jadaka in the doorway. He regards you for a moment before stepping out onto the balcony, hands clasped behind his back. You hadn’t expected to see him today—though he does reside in the Citadel now (much to your brother’s irritation).
“Giving me a second chance,” he responds.
You smile slightly. “You’re welcome,” you say with a nod. It’s quiet as he settles at your side, standing at the railing just like you were all that time ago. It’s ironic—the cityscape looks exactly the same. It feels like so much changed, and yet a brief glimpse at the buildings has you thinking that hardly anything changed at all.
“I’m sorry about your father,” you venture to say, hoping the remark won’t be unwelcome.
N’Jadaka stills for a second. “Me too,” he then says, eyes set on the sun climbing down the horizon. The afternoon light casts a warm glow on his skin, just a hint of amber sparkling in his deep brown eyes.
As you study him, you remind yourself: Neither of you can change the past. But maybe that doesn’t matter. Accepting it, learning from it, is enough. Maybe it isn’t about what you can’t do, but what you can do. How to prevent stories like N’Jadaka’s from happening again.
“So how does a Wakandan citizen court his king?” he asks, apropos of nothing.
“What now?” you ask incredulously, eyes blown wide.
“If I want to court you,” N’Jadaka repeats slowly, eyes still not leaving your face, “how do I go about it?”
Your fingers jitter at your sides. “If you wanted to be king again, you could’ve just said that,” you say in mild amusement.
“Nah, that king shit is a lot of work,” N’Jadaka huffs jokingly. A pause. “Looks better on you, anyway.”
You huff in disbelief. It’s quiet for far too long, and you realize he must not have been joking. You gave him plenty of time to rescind that remark, but he didn’t.
“Making an offering to Oshun,” you blurt out, “down at the river.”
He blinks at you.
“...If you were serious,” you add quietly.
“Is that before or after the kiss?” N’Jadaka asks with a lopsided smile. Again, he’s stupidly handsome. It’s almost irritating, and definitely nerve-wracking.
“......After,” you manage to say, barely getting your thoughts sorted out in time to process what he just said. The kiss? Surely he doesn’t mean…
“Good to know,” he hums.
The two of you soon gravitate toward one another, and N’Jadaka kisses you. Your hand rests on his shoulder; his hand briefly dances up your neck before finding your jaw, his thumb resting on your cheekbone. It’s a surprisingly tender movement, and you can’t help but lean into him.
Of course, just before you start to believe it’s actually happening, the moment is swiftly broken. “Good afternoon,” T’Challa says, appearing out of nowhere. He’s standing in the doorway with a knowing expression on his face. He looks far too smug.
You flinch so hard you nearly fall backwards. N’Jadaka steadies you with a hand at your waist, which probably only makes things look worse. You glare at your brother. “You scared me,” you remark, scowling at him.
You resist the urge to throw something at him. “Did you need something?” you frown instead.
“Not yet,” he answers, leveling N’Jadaka with a long silent look. T’Challa stands there long enough for things to become truly uncomfortable, the tension in the air sharp enough to draw blood. Then, as if nothing happened, he turns around and walks away.
“Forgot about him…” N’Jadaka nearly groans, shaking his head in disbelief.
“It’s okay,” you reassure him. “He’ll warm up to you……… eventually.” Maybe.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he notes.
“I’m not,” you respond with a laugh. Your brother can hold a grudge like no one’s business. And considering N’Jadaka nearly killed him, well. Safe to say that animosity won’t be going away any time soon. Civility will likely be a miracle. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he tries to kill you,” you joke.
“Cross that bridge when I get there,” N’Jadaka shrugs, before gently pulling you forward and kissing you again.
author’s notes: GUYS there’s fanart. omg. it’s so beautiful. thank you so much @abhorrentanathema <33333
Here’s an alt scenario that I found funny.
You, a few months after you started to date N’Jadaka: Brother, I have to tell you something. And you may not like it.
T’Challa, dryly: You’re dating N’Jadaka.
You, shocked: Wha— How did you know that?
T’Challa: I have eyes, brother.
You: Okay. You’re not… mad?
T’Challa: That the man who tried to kill me is courting my little brother? …Perhaps.
You, scowling: I’m not little.
T’Challa, continuing unimpeded: I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It has been very obvious.
You: *standing there in stunned silence*
T’Challa: And you have been happier as of late.
You: I—
T’Challa: That’s the most you will ever hear me say on the matter.
You, still reeling: …Fair enough.
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Erik “Killmonger” Stevens x Reader (Complete - NSFW 🔞Warning list in chapters)
You were young, dumb, and in love. You didn’t know what—or who—Erik was until it was too late to back out. Too late to undo the results of that positive pregnancy test. He might look human, but there was a monster under the brown of his skin. Refusing to allow the possibility of yourself becoming ‘like him’, you took your son and ran.
For two years, you live in peace, tucked away in a neighborhood where no one knows your name. Things are fine until they aren’t. You start noticing the signs pretty early on. By the end of preschool, you can see the changes every time your baby smiles up at you. Then, during the summer of his sixth birthday, Erik makes his return.
And this time, he’s not letting go.
❥ Chpt 1 ❥ Chp 2 ❥ Chpt 3 ❥ Epilogue: Part I ❥ Epilogue: Part II
Please consider leaving a comment. Feeback is the only way you get more 💕
𝚃𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎: 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐤 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸 𝚘𝚏 𝙸𝙸: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐢
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: You might be broken into a million pieces, but it takes nothing for Erik put you back together. The questions that once formed fractures in your heart begin to mend. The lacquer soldering the shards of you mind and soul back together is painted gold.
There's beauty in flaws and imperfection, and each crack tells a story. Each one of its branches is a lesson learned—a life lived.
Each fork shines like gold.
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 🔞Explicit Sexual Content, Blood & Violence, Toxic Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Intimidation, Occasional use of N-Word, and Monster Fuckery. For more extensive tags, see Ao3 listing below
❥ 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐼𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑥 ❥ || ❥ 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❥
A/N: Hey y'all, welcome back to Indelible! This took a lot longer than I intended. Enjoy your read✨
𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝙿𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝙸 𝚘𝚏 𝙸𝙸: 𝐊𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬𝐮𝐠𝐢
Everything hurts; every muscle tightens in cramps, and all your nerves scream in agony—right down to the roots of your teeth. If you could breathe, you’d scream, but it feels like your lungs are paralyzed behind your ribs. In spite of the terrifying pain, confusion is the most prominent emotion echoing through your skull. You didn’t understand.
Why were you hurting?
Who was hurting you?
Where was your son? Was he okay? Was he being forced to endure this same torture?
The thought frightens you even more. There was nothing you could do about it; more than just your lungs were being paralyzed by the shock to your system. But even as fear crescendoed, your mind went to the only other person you knew could keep him safe.
You reach out, likely grasping for something that was no longer there. You try anyway—looking for him, looking for–
“It’s okay, B…I got you.”
The low voice rises over the noise in your head. Finally, you suck in a painful breath…
𝚃𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎: 𝑰𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆
𝙿𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝐄𝐫𝐢𝐤 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫
𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝙸𝙸: 𝟖𝟎𝟖
𝚂𝚞𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚢: As the sun sets on the block party, you do some quiet self-reflecting that brings about some unsettling revelations. They prompt questions that Erik will listen to, but doesn't seem to want to answer. It leaves you with half-truths and suspicions that you don't intend to risk anyone's life on.
But as the moon rises, and the streets go cool and quiet, the truth begins whispering to you in your dreams. Then honesty holds your eyes open, while fate sings and sears her gospel upon your skin.
𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜: 🔞Explicit Sexual Content, Blood & Violence, Toxic Relationships, Emotional Manipulation, Intimidation, Occasional use of N-Word, and Monster Fuckery. For more extensive tags, see Ao3 listing below
❥ 𝐶𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝐼𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑥 ❥ || ❥ 𝑀𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡 ❥
A/N: Please, go grab a snack and a drink, and enjoy the ride💕
𝙲𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝙸𝙸𝙸: 𝟖𝟎𝟖
It was suspicious just how normal Erik was actually being. Or maybe you should call him N’Jadaka? You honestly weren’t sure what to think anymore. Almost eight years in, and you’ve just got a name for what he was.
Ongafiyo. Immortal.
It was as fancy and dramatic as one could get. Were these people truly immortal? You had no idea.
With a sigh, you try to stave off the nonsensical urge to let dread paralyze your thoughts. Ramonda had graciously pulled out something much harder than a simple wine cooler and poured a hefty helping into your cup. But what you really wanted was some real wine and a nice warm shower.
Or maybe a soak in the tub.
With the block party still going, you didn’t have time for either just yet, but you did wipe down in the bathroom sink and put on a fresh pair of unsweaty clothing. A tank top and a pair of cotton shorts seemed like a safe option for the rest of the evening. You waved off the worried questions of your friends and neighbors when you came back to join them.
You were fine, all things considered. The brief escape to the relative safety of the bathroom had done you some good. After a good, long staredown in the mirror, you gave your reflection a harshly whispered pep-talk and pulled yourself together. You’d seen your mother do the same many times as a child, and if there was anything you’d learned from her that proved to be useful to you as an adult, it was faking your confidence.
After all, you were a mother now, too; you couldn’t afford to worry.
“Shit — You grippin’ me baby…I knew all that badmouthing was just an act — This pussy so good…”
Obscene sounds of skin on skin filled the room, echoing through the wide halls of the palace. The Wakandan heat was palpable, emitting sweat from your pores that ran down your skin, tricking down and mixing at your privates.
Your ass was in the air, and Erik Killmonger – the new king of Wakanda – was behind you. His hands were firm on your waist, pressing into the small of your back as he thrust into you. The carnal act was set under the golden sunset, which perfectly illuminated the ripples of the flesh of your ass with every thrust.
Killmonger had always been ambitious; ruthless even, and now that he’d conquered entire lands, it was time for him to focus on you.
He wanted an heir.
And as his bride, you were going to give it to him.
Horny was an understatement. Erik took you anywhere and everywhere; once in sacred waters, with your back against stone walls and one leg around his waist as he held you up, dew from the waterfall tracing the patterns on his back. Another time he had you on his lap, thighs spread as you rode him on the throne, right into the morning sun.
And now you were face down gripping the sheets, fully nude except for the antique wedding ring on your finger. With a sharp smack, you lurched forward, losing your balance.
“You runnin’ from me?” He leered, baring his teeth as he smirked. “You ain’t never had no dick like this, huh?”
Between moans, you shook your head, throat dry as you tried to find the words.
“N-No—“
“Nuh-uh, none of that mumbling shit,” he cut you off. “Lemme hear it. Tell me who owns this.”
Clamping down on your lip, your chest constricted as the weight of his words weighed on you. The sex was good – painfully good – and Erik was undoubtedly hot, but your submission hadn’t come easy. Though you had no ties to Wakanda, you were one of Xavier’s mutants and had heard of the destruction he’d caused to those of the nation, simply for disagreeing with him.
That was why he’d sought you out; a mutant and a mercenary-turned-King would make a powerful baby…essentially ensuring the country’s status for generations.
Protection was one thing, yes, but your freedom was far more important, especially when it came to a man like Erik. You’d resisted him at first, to which he’d replied with a strong hand around your throat and a dagger pressed against your back as he held you against him.
“You might be all high n’ mighty now, but those people ain’t your friends. You belong here with the rest of us. I ain’t gonna let you forget where your real family is, princess. Never.”
You hated giving him the satisfaction, but you inevitably ended up eating your words.
“Shit…” you groaned, torso heavy as you felt Erik raise one leg, thrusting into you harder. His balls were heavy on your soppy wet cunt as he grunted profanities of his own, a thumb lingering dangerously close to your star of your ass. “ ‘S good…So good…Nobody could fuck me like you can—“
“That’s right,” he hummed, voice smooth. Sneakily, he pressed his thumb against your hole, the pressure sending a tingle through your loins. “Say it again. Say my name this time.”
“E-Erik—“ you breathed, the lower half of your body seemingly on fire. “T-This fucking dick is so good, Erik…”
“You just eatin me up…This ass’ so perfect—“ he sneered, brown eyes ravenous as he spread the fat of your cheeks, admiring the way your tight cunt swallowed all six-something inches of his cock.
He was balls deep now, but he could see his cock glistening with your juices at his base, vein throbbing as he felt himself beginning to lose control. His thick black locs blurred his sight as they fell in his face, unruly, forcing him to sit back and let your ass envelop him once more.
Each of his bulging muscled seemed to twitch, and you could’ve sworn that you felt your pussy quiver with anticipation as he called out the words:
“Fuck, babygirl. You drivin’ me crazy. ‘M gonna fill this pussy up, hm? You gon’ give me a baby?”
“Yes, w-whatever you want — ugh!”
You garbled, unable to comprehend the words that were leaving your mouth. Your walls clenched as his fat tip hit that sensitive spot, sending you crashing down almost instantly as he came with you with a loud groan.
Hot and heavy, he shot ropes of white ribbons into your sensitive cunt, languid strokes making pornographic squelching sounds as he fucked it into you, ensuring that you didn’t waste a drop. Erik’s grip on your skin was certainly enough to leave a bruise on you tomorrow, combined with the soreness of your ass cheeks.
Somewhat uncharacteristically, Erik leant down to place a chaste kiss along the small of your back and up your spine; chest dense and heaving as he practically collapsed on you, cock still inside.
“You doin’ so good for me, mama…” he cooed, briefly glancing at the sunset in-front of him, now casting brilliant shadows within the bedroom. You couldn’t see it, but there was a smug gleam in his deep brown eyes that would’ve told you instantly that he probably wasn’t done for the night.
🕯️ Pairing: Erik “Killmonger” Stevens(| Grim Reaper!Erik) × Black Plus Size OC (Roux)
🕯️ Summary: She went to the park to clear her head — but the night was already waiting for her.
He came wrapped in darkness and devotion, the reaper cloaked in flesh and sin. What began as temptation turned to worship, and by the end, she wasn’t just touched. She was claimed.
It was the kind of night where even the wind stayed quiet.
The trees along the edge of the park didn’t sway. No crickets chirped. No headlights passed along the far end of the street. The moon hung low and silent above the clearing, draped in cloud gauze like it knew better than to bear witness. There, tucked between the sycamores and soft earth, Roux knelt in the grass with a circle of candles flickering around her.
Their flames didn’t crackle. They whispered.
She moved like a ritual—slow, certain, her hands dusted with ash and salt, her eyes sharp but swollen. The hem of her long, black skirt dragged slightly through the dewy blades beneath her knees. Her chest rose and fell with calm reverence, but her mouth was trembling.
Not from fear.
She wasn’t scared. Not of this.
The small ceramic bowl in front of her steamed faintly, casting a shimmer of heat that bent the air above it. Rosewater. Wormwood. Black honey. She’d learned the mix from her grandmother’s old grimoire—passed down through hushed hands, rewritten over gospel pages.
“Papa Legba ain’t answering,” she whispered, more to the dirt than to the dark. “Neither is your Son. So who do I ask now?”
No reply. Just the low hum of the ground swallowing her voice.
Then… a shift.
A ripple.
The kind of weightless hush that comes before something breathes down your spine.
She didn’t move. But the back of her neck prickled. The flames bowed inward.
Behind her, branches rustled—not like wind. Like footsteps. Measured. Deliberate. No crunch of leaves. No drag of boots. Just the air getting thicker.
Her pulse didn’t race.
But she sat up straighter, smoothing her hands against her thighs, feeling that familiar ache bloom behind her sternum. She didn’t even flinch when a voice slid out from the dark behind her.
“You talkin’ to ghosts, pretty girl?”
It was warm. Dark. Too human to be safe. Too smooth to be kind.
She turned her head over her shoulder, slow like syrup. And there he was—half in the shadows, half in the moonlight, and none of him belonging to the world she knew.
Black-on-black hoodie. Gold glinting at his throat. Locs pulled back into a neat, brutal tail. He wasn’t armed—not that she could see. But his hands stayed in his pockets, heavy with intention.
Erik “Killmonger” Stevens wasn’t a man people summoned.
But he answered.
Roux’s lips parted, but no words came. Because something in her chest recognized him. Like an old bruise touched just right. Like the crack in her altar finally saying thank you.
He stepped closer. The grass didn’t bend under his boots.
“You out here sayin’ prayers to the dead,” he said, voice dipping as he stopped just outside her circle of light. “But you callin’ for somethin’ darker.”
“I didn’t call for you.”
He smirked, crouching just enough to drag two fingers through the candlelit dirt, eyes locked on hers. “You sure?”
She didn’t blink. Just looked at him the way a storm watches the sea.
“I asked for something real,” she said, voice steadier than it should’ve been. “Something that don’t need white robes or empty promises. Somethin’ that can hold pain like it was born with it.”
A beat passed between them. He held it. Stretched it.
Then he rose. Stepped into her circle.
And none of the flames dared move.
“I’m real,” he said lowly, the heat of his body folding into the space between them. “And I don’t ask for forgiveness.”
She didn’t shrink away. Didn’t bow.
But her knees pressed tighter together. And her breath caught in the cradle of her throat.
He leaned in, lips ghosting just above her cheek. “You wanna kneel for somethin’, Roux,” he murmured, “I’ll give you somethin’ worth worshiping.”
Her name in his mouth sounded like a sermon.
And the air, for the first time all night, breathed.
The candles flickered again, this time like they were listening. Roux stayed on her knees, spine straight but slow to rise, like her body knew moving too fast would stir the wrong kind of hunger in the air.
Erik stood just behind her, the heat of him tangible now, like fire wrapped in skin. He didn’t touch her. Didn’t need to. His presence alone curled down her back like the edge of a blade warmed in coals.
“You know,” he said, low and deliberate, “you don’t gotta kneel if you ain’t sure what you’re beggin’ for.”
Her lips parted again, but no sound came. The moonlight caught the glint of ash still smudged at the corner of her mouth, like a mark left by someone else’s prayer.
He tilted his head. “What did you come here for, then?”
A breath. Then two.
“To be seen,” she finally said. “By something real. Something that doesn’t look away when I’m not soft.”
That pulled a smirk from him. Crooked. Dangerous. Beautiful.
“I don’t do soft,” he said. “Not unless I’m breakin’ it in my hands.”
She turned fully now, still on her knees, her chin lifted like a dare. “You sound like a man who thinks God’s afraid of him.”
He took a step forward. Just one. Close enough for her to see the hunger in his eyes—not lust, not yet. Possession.
“God ain’t ever come lookin’ for me,” he said, voice dark velvet. “But you did.”
Her chest rose sharply, breath catching on the edge of something unnamed.
“You ain’t scared of what I am, are you?”
She looked up at him, eyes burning like embers dragged through oil. “No.”
“Good,” he murmured, stepping close enough now that his boot touched the edge of her knee. “’Cause I don’t show mercy. I show purpose.”
The silence held.
And then:
“Stand up, Roux.”
She didn’t hesitate.
When she rose, she felt his eyes move over her the way a storm watches the coast—measuring where to break first. Her chest. Her mouth. Her throat.
He didn’t touch her.
But he stepped around her, slow, until he was facing her fully in the glow of the candles. And the look on his face was not one she’d ever seen in a church.
It was reverent.
It was hungry.
He reached out then—fingertips grazing her wrist as he took her hand like a man preparing to lead her into darkness. Or across a threshold.
“I ain’t gonna ask again,” he said softly. “Why’d you call me?”
This time, she didn’t lie.
“Because I wanted someone to ruin me,” she whispered. “But not with shame. With meaning.”
He smiled.
And in that moment, every candle blew out.
Roux stood still.
Not out of fear.
But because she could feel it now—the moment cracking open like a pomegranate, thick with something ripe and red and waiting.
Erik’s hand was still wrapped around hers, but he didn’t pull. He just watched her. Watched everything. The pulse in her throat. The tremble in her fingers. The way her lips parted like a question she wasn’t ready to ask out loud.
And then he stepped in.
Closer.
Close enough that she had to tilt her head just slightly to keep meeting his gaze. The air thickened—dark wine and thunder—and for the first time, she swore she could taste what he was.
Not of this world.
Maybe not of the next either.
“Breathe,” he said.
It came out like a growl, low and velvet-edged, his thumb brushing the side of her hand where he still held it.
She did.
Then Erik leaned in, slow as a god choosing who to bless—and pressed his forehead to hers.
It wasn’t a kiss.
It was a claim. A silent anointing. Their breath mingled, shallow and unsteady.
Her breath stuttered in the space between them.
Forehead to forehead, his hands on her hips now, Erik didn’t move—not yet. He just breathed her in. Like incense. Like blood. Like something unholy that still made his mouth water.
“Say it,” he murmured, voice low and thick as sin.
“Say what?”
“That you want this.”
“I came to the park—”
He growled, quiet but rough, and slid one hand from her hip to the nape of her neck.
“No more games, Roux. You came for me.”
She swallowed. The pulse beneath her jaw tapped against his fingers, soft as a prayer.
“I came…” Her eyes closed for a second. “Because I couldn’t stop dreaming about you.”
That was enough.
His lips crushed hers like he’d been starving for them, like this was owed.
No hesitation. No easing in.
His mouth devoured hers.
And Roux? She folded into it like prophecy being fulfilled. One leg slipping between his. Her hands grabbing tight to the front of his shirt. Like she needed to anchor herself to the moment before it dragged her under.
He kissed like he didn’t have time left on this earth. Like he’d already died once and knew what loss tasted like.
Teeth. Tongue. Heat. All of it poured into her mouth until her head spun.
Her knees gave, but he caught her. One arm around her waist, the other gripping her jaw as he tilted her head just enough to kiss her deeper.
Erik presses her back against the nearest stone bench, the cool night air biting at her exposed skin, sending shivers down her spine. His hand slides under her shirt, his rough fingertips tracing a path across her ribs, eliciting soft, shocked moans from her throat. She arches into his touch, her body craving more, her breath hitching as his fingers skim the underside of her breasts, teasing, promising.
“Been thinkin’ about this too,” he muttered against her mouth. “The way you’d sound when I finally touched you. Could damn near hear you in my sleep.”
She whimpered.
He nipped her bottom lip, then soothed it with his tongue.
“You wanted to be corrupted, right?” he rasped, voice dark silk. “Wanted to feel what it’s like to pray with your legs open and your hands shakin’?”
Her whole body trembled.
“Let me show you, mama.”
Roux’s fingers had curled into the front of his hoodie like a prayer and a dare all at once. She didn’t know what part of him she was clinging to — the devil, the god, or the man caught between both.
His forehead leaned against hers, heavy with meaning. Close enough that her lashes grazed his when she blinked.
Erik didn’t move to kiss her again. Not yet. Instead, he let the silence throb between them like a second heartbeat.
“You still trembling?” he asked quietly.
She nodded — a bare twitch of her chin — and he inhaled like the answer fed him.
“Good,” he murmured. “I like my women honest when they’re this close to ruin.”
His hand slid behind her neck again, thumb stroking beneath her ear. The grip was firm. Possessive. Like she’d already been claimed and the paperwork was just for show.
“I watch you walk around with all that softness like it ain’t a weapon,” he said, voice low and lethal. “But I see you. You came here wantin’ me to take it. To pull all that holy outta you slow.”
Her stomach clenched. Her thighs ached.
“You scared?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered, though her pulse was thundering like it wanted to flee.
He smirked. “Lie again, and I’ll make you confess it. Out loud. While I got two fingers inside you and my name sittin’ on your tongue like a sin.”
The wind passed through the trees above like a breath being held too long. Her lips parted, but no words came. Only heat. Only need.
Still, he didn’t kiss her. He dropped his hand, dragging his knuckles down the zipper of her jacket. Teasing the space between her breasts but never crossing the line.
“I want you scared,” he said at last, his voice a rasping edge. “Not of me. Of how bad you ‘bout to want me. Of how far you’ll fall once I got my hands on you.”
Her legs nearly gave out right there. But Erik caught her wrist before she staggered, tugging her forward gently. He didn’t lead her toward the bench. Or the trees. Or the shadows.
He led her toward surrender.
He stopped when the moonlight kissed a patch of wild grass — long blades swaying slow in the cool night wind like it knew what was coming.
Erik turned to her.
“Take off the jacket.”
Roux hesitated. Her eyes swept the trees, the cracked path behind them, the streetlamp flickering one bench away. But it was late. And the world felt… still. Like it was watching.
“Now, baby,” he added softly. “Let me see what you brought to the altar.”
Her hands moved, nervous but obedient, peeling the jacket down her arms. Beneath it: black tank top. Thin, tight. He could see the rise of her heavy breasts, the slope of her belly, the outline of every breath she tried to control. She looked like temptation dipped in moonlight.
He stepped into her space again, chest to chest. And without asking, dropped his lips to the skin just beneath her jaw.
“Pretty,” he murmured. “Like a holy offering.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. But when his hand wrapped around her throat — not to choke, just to hold — they opened again.
“I ain’t the kind you light candles for, Roux,” he whispered. “I ain’t the kind you pray to. I’m the one you pray about.The one you beg forgiveness for once your knees get sore and your mouth is too full of sin to speak.”
She whimpered. A raw sound. Soft and caught between her ribs.
He kissed her again — slow, deep, ruinous. Like her soul tasted like honey and regret. His tongue brushed hers with precision. Like he wanted to learn her. Break her open. Rewire her.
Then he dropped to one knee.
Not for worship.
For work.
His palms pressed to her thighs and dragged them apart. She gasped when he guided her legs over his shoulders, balancing her body against the tree behind her, her ass just above his chest, her cunt soaked and waiting.
“This where it lives, huh?” he said, mouth inches from her. “All that goddamn goodness you tryna protect?”
She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her breath hitched when he exhaled warm against her folds.
And then—
Erik's tongue dips into her slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the most exquisite delicacy. He doesn't rush, taking his time to explore every inch of her, his tongue sliding along her folds with a practiced, teasing precision. He tastes her like communion—a ritual of hunger and praise, his low moans vibrating against her sensitive flesh, sending waves of pleasure coursing through her body.
He flattens his tongue, sliding it up her folds, the wet heat of his mouth enveloping her, his tongue circling her clit with slow, deliberate laps. He sucks her clit into his mouth, his lips wrapping around the sensitive nub, drawing it deep, his tongue flicking and teasing, sending jolts of electricity through her body. His hand grips her thigh firmly, his fingers digging into her soft flesh, holding her in place, keeping her from shaking too hard as her body trembles.
His other hand presses against her belly, his palm flat and firm, grounding her to him, anchoring her as her body threatens to float away on a cloud of pleasure. Every lap is slow, measured, corrupt, designed to push her to the edge of ecstasy and keep her there, teetering on the brink, her body aching for release. His tongue moves with a purpose, his mouth hungry, his breath hot against her skin. The world around her fades away, leaving only the sensation of his mouth on her, his hands on her body, his presence filling her completely.
Roux cried out softly, her head thumping back against the bark.
He pulled back just enough to speak again, mouth wet, voice darker than before.
“Say it,” he demanded. “Say you came out here wantin’ this.”
She trembled. “I did.”
“Say it louder.”
“I came out here for you,” she whispered. “For this. I wanted—fuck—”
Erik's tongue moves with renewed fervor, his licks harder, more insistent, his tongue plunging deeper into her folds with each stroke. He creates firmer circles around her clit, his tongue swirling, teasing, drawing out her pleasure. His nose nudges her clit while his tongue plunges deeper.
She's dripping, her arousal coating his tongue, her body responding to his touch with a fervor that leaves her practically sobbing, her moans turning into desperate, pleading cries. Her hands find his hair, holding him to her, her body begging for more, her hips bucking against his mouth as she chases her release.
Erik hums into her, the vibration of his voice sending waves of pleasure through her body, his moans a testament to his own arousal, as if her pleasure feeds him, fuels him, drives him to push her further, to take her higher. His tongue moves with a purpose, his mouth hungry, his breath hot against her skin. Her body trembles, her thighs clench around his ears, her breath coming in ragged gasps as she teeters on the edge of release, her world narrowing down to the sensation of his mouth on her.
When she nearly breaks — just before she tips into orgasm — he stops.
She wails. Choked. Desperate.
“No,” he says, rising to his feet, gripping her face in both hands. “Not yet.”
He kisses her again — her mouth slick with her own taste. His palms grab her ass, and he pins her against the tree.
Then —
Erik unzips his pants, his movements quick and efficient, his body coiled with tension. His dick springs free, thick and hard, the head glistening with precum, leaking with his desire. He drags the head through her folds, the sensation of his velvet-soft skin against her sensitive flesh sending shivers down her spine. He smears her wetness everywhere, coating himself in her arousal, his touch teasing, promising, yet refusing to push in, to give her what she craves.
He leans in, his breath hot against her ear, his voice a low, dangerous growl as he whispers filth into her mind, his words a dark, seductive promise. "You don’t cum ‘til I let you," he murmurs, his voice laced with a command that leaves no room for argument. "You understand? This ain’t yours anymore. This body belongs to me now. Every scream. Every drip. Every fuckin’ tear."
She nods frantically. Whimpering. Eyes glassy.
And then — finally — he thrusts in.
Erik buries himself to the hilt, his cock filling her completely, stretching her to the limit, her body accommodating his size with a gasp that sounds like a prayer turned inside out. He holds himself still, his body tensed, his muscles coiled, giving her a moment to adjust, to feel every inch of him, to accept his presence within her.
Then, with a deliberate, slow grind, he begins to move, his hips circling, his dick swirling inside her, the sensation overwhelming, the pleasure intense, his touch a mix of worship and desecration, his movements a testament to his control, his desire, his need.
Every thrust is deliberate, slow, deep, each movement calculated to draw out her pleasure, to push her to the edge of ecstasy and keep her there, her body trembling, her breath hitching, her moans a symphony of pleasure and pain, her body responding to his touch, her desire building with each stroke, each circle, each grind. His hands grip her hips, their bodies moving in sync, their breaths mingling, their hearts pounding in unison, their pleasure a shared experience, a mutual worship, a mutual desecration.
Roux’s tears streak her cheeks. He kisses them as they fall.
“You cryin’?” he taunts gently. “Shit, baby… why you cryin’? That feel too good to be holy?”
Her answer is a broken sob.
And then — he fucks her proper.
His thrusts grow rougher, more urgent, his body moving with a frenzied intensity. Her hands claw at his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin, her body arching against him, her back bowing, her head thrown back, her moans turning into desperate, pleading cries.
She cums mid-stroke, her body convulsing around him, her inner walls clenching, her muscles spasming, her pleasure a wave that crashes over her, leaving her breathless, her body trembling, her mind spinning. But he doesn't stop, he keeps going, dragging her through overstimulation.
One hand clamps down on her throat, his fingers pressing against her pulse, his grip firm, possessive, his touch a claim, a promise, a command. The other hand presses between them, his fingers finding her clit, rubbing in rough, demanding circles, his touch sending jolts of electricity through her body, his presence pushing her to the edge of ecstasy and beyond.
She squirts, loudly, messily, her body responding to his touch with a fervor that leaves her shaking, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her body coated in a sheen of sweat, her arousal a testament to his skill, his control, his desire. He grins, his eyes dark with satisfaction.
“You baptized now, mama,” he groans. “Ain’t no goin’ back.”
Erik groans through gritted teeth, pulling out just as Roux trembles through another orgasm. He fists his dick once, twice, and spills across the top of her thigh — thick, hot, and reverent. His voice lowers to something ancient, barely human, as he murmurs a chant under his breath — not English, not quite Wakandan, but something older. His fingers swipe the mess along her skin in slow, sweeping strokes, as if sealing her with it. A mark. A rite. A signature.
“You mine now,” he breathes. “Blood and bone.”
She slumps against him, panting. Every nerve raw. Every inch claimed.
The wind settles. Trees no longer sway.
He lifts her like something holy, tucking her into his coat without asking — wrapping her in scent and sweat and smoke.
Her bare legs dangle around his hips as he carries her down the hill, slow. One arm under her thighs, the other stroking gently up her spine. Her fingers curl in the lapel of his jacket, and her head sinks against his shoulder.
Still breathless. But calm now. At peace.
When he reaches the bench where this all began, he sits with her in his lap.
One hand comes up, wiping the tear-track from her cheek with his thumb. The other brushes hair from her temple. He kisses the curve of her shoulder — the same one that trembled when he first touched her there.
“You alright?” he asks, quieter now.
Roux hums into his throat. “Yeah. Just… different now.”
Pairing: Erik “Killmonger” Stevens × Laila “Sunshine” Greene (Black!OC)
Featuring: Baby Kori, toxic baby daddy drama, a protective man who loves out loud
Summary: Laila’s built a quiet life for her daughter, Kori — and Erik has been her peace through every storm. But peace don’t mean silence, and when her ex continues using co-parenting as a way to disrespect her and disrupt their relationship, Erik has one response: step in and stay ready.
He’s not jealous. He’s not insecure. He’s just done watching the woman he loves shrink herself for the sake of someone who never deserved her. And when Dre pushes too far, Erik reminds Laila exactly who she chose — and why he’s not going anywhere.
Warnings: Co-parenting with a toxic ex, emotional tension, light verbal threats (from Erik to baby daddy), cursing, creampie, deep emotional bonding, soft crying during sex, mentions of past emotional abuse, protective themes, found family, soft aftercare.
The smell of brown sugar and cinnamon drifted through the kitchen like gospel. Soft and slow, just like the playlist spilling from the Bluetooth speaker tucked behind the spice rack. SZA humming over Al Green, some old-school beat Erik didn’t even bother to skip. He was busy flipping pancakes with one hand, pouring Kori’s juice with the other, and humming like he didn’t have a single enemy in the world.
But Laila knew better. She always did.
She leaned in the doorway, robe tied low on her hips, coffee warming her palms. Her curls were still a mess, face bare, lips full and untouched by gloss or morning kisses — but Erik’s eyes still dragged over her like sin.
“Staring,” she muttered into her mug.
“Admiring,” he corrected, flipping the pancake like he’d done it a hundred times.
“You only cook when you tryin’ to distract yourself.”
“I cook when I wanna feed my family.”
Laila arched a brow. “And when you’re trying to keep from cussing somebody out?”
Erik didn’t answer.
He didn’t have to.
Kori giggled from her booster seat at the island, little hands smacking the tray while her baby curls bounced. “I want nanners in mine!”
“You already got ‘em, pumpkin,” Erik said, grabbing a fork and sliding a fresh slice onto her plate. “Daddy E hooked you up.”
“Thank you, Daddy E,” she sang out, syrup already smeared across her cheeks.
Laila’s heart pinched. Soft. Sharp. That complicated middle ground.
She moved to wipe Kori’s face, but Erik beat her to it, crouching with a paper towel and pressing a kiss to the girl’s sticky temple.
“Messy little queen,” he said, voice dipped in reverence. “You gon’ run the world one day, huh?”
Kori nodded, proud and sugar-high. “Like Mommy.”
Erik looked up, and his gaze found Laila’s again — softer this time. Full.
That was the thing about him. He didn’t just love loudly; he loved all the way through. No halfway, no parts of her, no conditions. When Erik Stevens showed up, he stayed. And when he claimed you, he didn’t flinch at what came with you — even when that part had a last name he wanted to erase from the planet.
Kori’s last name. Dre’s name.
The name that still sat on her birth certificate like a damn bruise.
Laila swallowed hard and stepped back toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go change.”
“You sure you up for today?” Erik called after her. “We can switch it up. He don’t gotta see you.”
Laila paused. Fingers clenched around the coffee mug tighter than they needed to be.
“I’m good,” she lied.
Erik’s jaw ticked, but he nodded once. “I’ll drive.”
Of course he would. He always did.
Laila took her time dressing, not because she was trying to look good, but because she didn’t want to think too long about what today meant. Every drop-off was the same: tension bubbling just under the surface, Dre trying to twist the knife with slick comments and hollow charm. He didn’t want her back — not really. He just hated that she moved on without lookin’ back.
And he especially hated Erik.
She smoothed her jeans, tugged her sweater down, and slipped on her gold hoops — the ones Erik liked. He called them her “quiet armor.”
By the time she came back down, Kori had syrup in her curls and Erik had her wrapped in a towel, swaying to the music while he cleaned her up like it was second nature. Like he’d been hers since the beginning.
Laila just stood there, quiet.
Watching the man she loved, holding the daughter she made without him, and loving them both like they were stitched from the same bone.
He glanced up. “You good, Sunshine?”
She nodded. “You sure you wanna come?”
His brow lifted.
“Let me say that again,” she backtracked. “You sure you wanna deal with his mouth?”
Erik didn’t blink.
“I deal with worse in my sleep. He don’t scare me.”
“I’m not worried about him scaring you. I’m worried about you… reacting.”
“I always react,” he said simply. “But only when it’s called for.”
He pulled the towel off Kori’s curls and kissed her forehead. “Go get your jacket, shorty. We got a mission.”
Kori squealed and ran off.
Laila turned to Erik, voice quiet. “You know he’s gonna hate seeing you again.”
“I hope he does.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“It ain’t supposed to be.”
He stepped closer, hands sliding to her waist. She smelled like warmth and sleep and that cocoa butter he kept stealing off her shelf.
“Far as I’m concerned, he can hate me all he wants — long as he knows you ain’t his to bother no more. Neither of y’all are.”
Laila exhaled. “You know I don’t need saving, right?”
Erik kissed her, slow and soft, just once. “I know. But I’m still gonna do it anyway.”
The ride was quiet.
Not the strained kind, but the kind where the tension sat in the cupholders and the rearview mirror, taking up more space than Kori’s car seat.
The soft hum of the radio played beneath Kori’s tiny voice in the back, singing off-key to a commercial jingle like she was headlining a stadium tour. Laila half-smiled and adjusted her sunglasses, trying to shake the weight pressing down on her shoulders.
Erik drove one-handed, the other resting casually on Laila’s thigh. Not rubbing, not squeezing—just there. Solid. Warm. Present.
“I should’ve picked a different sweater,” she murmured after a few blocks.
Erik didn’t take his eyes off the road. “You look fine, Sunshine.”
“It’s tight.”
“Still fine.”
She sighed. “It’s just—I don’t want him thinking I’m dressed for him.”
Now Erik did look over, slow and calm. “Ain’t nobody thinkin’ that but you.”
His tone wasn’t sharp, but it cut just the same.
Laila didn’t argue. She just looked out the window, watched the way the sunlight curved around the edges of passing trees. The street signs started to feel familiar, like unwelcome memories clawing back up her spine.
When they turned into the old gas station lot—neutral ground, public and unavoidable—Kori squealed, “Daddy car!”
Erik’s hand tightened just slightly on the wheel.
The silver Dodge Charger sat crooked in the lot like it owned the place. The windows were tinted too dark, the music too loud. Same as always. And just like always, Dre stepped out dressed like he was late to a photoshoot nobody asked for—gold chain, designer belt, and the same cocky little smirk that never reached his eyes.
Laila turned to check on Kori, but Erik was already climbing out.
“E—” she started.
“I got it.”
The door shut behind him before she could finish the sentence.
Erik stood tall beside the car, arms folded, expression unreadable.
Dre clocked him with a grin. “Aw, hell. Thought I might get a break this time.”
“You didn’t.”
Dre rolled his neck, cracking his knuckles like he was bored. “You ain’t tired of playin’ stepdaddy yet?”
“I ain’t playin’ at all,” Erik said evenly.
Laila stepped out with Kori just in time to hear it. She kept her daughter close, letting the toddler walk while she held her hand.
Dre’s eyes dragged over Laila for a second too long.
“That the sweater I bought you?”
Laila didn’t answer.
Erik took a step forward.
Dre grinned. “I’m just askin’. Damn. Can’t compliment the mother of my child?”
“Watch your mouth,” Erik said.
“I ain’t say nothin’ disrespectful—”
“You breathed. That was enough.”
Laila’s pulse jumped. “Okay, that’s enough—Kori, baby, go give your daddy a hug.”
Kori jogged up and wrapped her little arms around Dre’s leg. He bent down, scooped her up, and kissed her cheek.
“Hey, babygirl. You been good?”
“She made pancakes with Daddy E!” Kori beamed.
Dre’s smile cracked for half a second. “Did she now?”
“Yup. And we watched Moana and he braided my dolly’s hair.”
Erik didn’t flinch. Just stood there, jaw set, letting Kori speak freely.
Dre kissed her again and set her in the car seat in the back of his car. Then he straightened and turned to Laila with that smug little lean in his stance.
“You let her call him that now? ‘Daddy E?’ You cool with that?”
Laila held his stare. “I’m cool with her being loved.”
Dre scoffed. “You cool with him tryna replace me?”
“Nobody’s trying to replace you,” she said, voice tight. “But you damn sure ain’t about to disrespect the man who shows up for her every day.”
Erik stepped in. Voice low. Dead calm.
“You ever use Kori to come at her mama again, I’ll make sure you regret it. You hear me?”
Dre laughed like it didn’t rattle him, but his eyes said otherwise. “She still yours? Or you just babysittin’ what I left behind?”
That was it.
Erik moved so fast Dre didn’t flinch in time. One step, chest to chest. No raised voice. No threats. Just that quiet violence in his stare.
“She ain’t yours. Not anymore. Not her, and sure as hell not Laila. So if you wanna keep showing up here walking and breathing, you better act like you got some sense in front of both of ‘em.”
“E,” Laila warned softly.
He didn’t move. Just stared.
Dre took a step back, mouth twisting like he wanted to spit words that wouldn’t come.
Erik finally turned. Walked back to the car. Opened the door for Laila like nothing happened.
She slid in silently, heart hammering. When the door shut and Erik started the engine, she didn’t look at him.
But her voice was small. Shaky.
“Thank you.”
Erik stared ahead. “You don’t ever have to thank me for protecting what’s mine.”
The ride back was even quieter than the ride there.
Not peaceful.
Heavy.
Like the weight of everything unsaid was pressing down on the roof of the car, threatening to cave it in.
Laila stared out the window again, this time not watching anything in particular. Just letting the blur of storefronts and streetlights smear into her vision like watercolors left in the rain. Her fingers twisted in her lap. Her jaw clenched. She hadn’t even taken off her sunglasses, even though the sun was slipping lower.
Erik’s hand rested on the gear shift. Knuckles tight. He didn’t say a word. He hadn’t since the gas station.
But she could feel it. The restraint. The rage folded into that calm like a grenade in velvet.
“E…” she started, voice low.
He didn’t look over.
“You know you can’t do that every time.”
“Do what?” His voice was flat. Controlled. A whisper of smoke under pressure.
“Step in like that. You can’t let him get under your skin.”
“He don’t get under my skin,” Erik said, still not looking at her. “He disrespects you. And I don’t tolerate that. Not from him. Not from anybody.”
Laila sighed, head tipping back against the seat. “But you can’t just… threaten him.”
“I didn’t threaten him.”
She looked over, sunglasses finally sliding down her nose. “Erik—”
“I warned him. That’s different.”
She didn’t respond. Just stared, lips pressing into a thin line.
Erik finally glanced over, eyes unreadable.
“You mad at me?”
“No.”
“Disappointed?”
She hesitated.
“…Scared.”
That word sat between them like broken glass. Erik’s hand flexed once. Then again.
“You scared of me?” he asked, voice suddenly fragile.
Laila turned toward him fully, sliding her glasses off.
“No,” she said firmly. “Never you. I’m scared of what happens if he pushes you far enough to do something you can’t come back from.”
Erik’s jaw worked. A beat passed. Then two.
“Sunshine…” His voice cracked just slightly. “He uses that little girl to come for you. To twist you up. I see it every time.”
Laila looked away.
“And I know you don’t wanna make it worse by pushing back. You don’t wanna start nothin’. You just wanna hand Kori off, keep the peace, and come home. But that man don’t know what peace is. He don’t want it. He wants control.And every time you don’t respond, every time you brush it off—he thinks he’s still got it.”
The words hit harder than they should’ve. Because they were true. And hearing them out loud hurt like hell.
Laila blinked, trying to clear the sting in her eyes.
“I just… I hate that this is our reality,” she whispered. “That I even have to see him. That I can’t just move on without dragging that shadow behind me.”
Erik reached for her hand. Held it tight.
“You’re not dragging anything,” he said. “You survived something. And now you’re rebuilding. And that little girl? She’s light, Laila. She’s yours. She’s mine. She’s not his tool.”
Her lip trembled. She bit it hard.
“I feel like I’m always bracing for the next comment. The next jab. He don’t want me, E. He just wants to remind me he could’ve had me still if I didn’t grow up. If I didn’t choose better.”
“You did choose better,” Erik said quietly. “You chose me.”
Laila swallowed.
“And I ain’t never gonna make you regret that.”
By the time they pulled into the driveway, dusk had started to paint the sky in warm streaks of honey and smoke. Erik cut the engine, but didn’t move.
Laila sat still too, hands still locked in his.
“I don’t want you to be the one always fighting my old battles,” she said softly.
“I’m not.”
She looked at him.
“I’m fighting ours.”
Inside, the house was too quiet.
Kori wasn’t there to fill the space with questions and cartoon theme songs. It was just the two of them now, and the tension had nowhere else to go.
Laila kicked off her shoes, dropped her purse on the kitchen counter, and stood in the middle of the floor like she forgot how her own home worked.
Erik came up behind her slow. Wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her against his chest.
Her body melted into his like muscle memory.
“I hate how small he still makes me feel,” she whispered.
Erik kissed the back of her neck. “Then let me remind you who the fuck you are.”
She turned in his arms, eyes glassy, lips parted.
“I’m not asking you to fix it.”
“I’m not trying to.”
“What are you doing then?”
“Loving you through it.”
That was all it took.
The first tear slipped before she could stop it. And Erik was already there — thumb brushing it away, lips on her temple, arms wrapping tighter like he could absorb the pain through contact.
She buried her face in his chest, and for the first time all day, exhaled like she meant it.
The bedroom was dim. Just the last burn of golden-hour light slipping through the blinds and kissing the bedspread like a secret. The kind of light that made skin look like silk and made shadows stretch longer than they should.
Laila sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders low, sweater half-off one shoulder, like even her clothes were tired.
Erik stood in front of her.
He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at her—really looked. The kind of look a man gives when he’s trying to memorize the moment before he breaks it open. His chest rose slow, steady, like he was holding back everything that wanted to spill out.
“You still with me, Sunshine?” he asked, voice low.
Laila nodded. “Barely.”
He stepped forward. “Then let me carry the rest.”
His hands moved to her sweater. Not rushed. Not greedy. Just… present. He peeled it over her shoulders like it was something sacred, like she might break if he moved too fast.
And she did break—a little.
Right there under the weight of his touch. Under the silence. Under the way he was still standing when everyone else would’ve backed off.
“I feel like I’m made of glass today,” she whispered.
Erik leaned down, kissed her forehead, then her cheek, then her collarbone. “Then I’ll be soft with you.”
He sank to his knees in front of her, palms resting on her thighs.
“You been strong all day,” he murmured, “so now you let me be the strong one.”
Laila’s breath caught. Her hand found the back of his neck, fingers slipping into the tight coils there.
“E…”
“I got you,” he said against her skin. “Always.”
Erik kisses down her stomach slowly, his lips tracing a path of fire, each touch deliberate and possessive. His fingers hook into her waistband, a gentle but firm grip as he eases her pants and underwear down in one fluid motion, revealing her completely. She lifts her hips, offering silent permission, her body already responding to his touch, her breath hitching in anticipation. He spreads her thighs, his hands warm and sure, his touch a promise of pleasure to come. He kisses the inside of one knee, a soft, lingering press of his lips, a tease, a promise. Then he moves to the other, his lips just as gentle, just as possessive. And then, with a reverence that leaves her breathless, he buries his face between her thighs, his tongue exploring, tasting, worshiping, as if she is the most precious thing in the world.
Laila gasped, back arching off the bed.
He didn’t rush. He didn’t tease.
He just loved her through it—with his mouth, his hands, his voice humming against her until her thighs shook and her fingers clawed into his shoulders.
Erik holds her down gently, his strong hands firm but tender, anchoring her as she tries to pull away, her body overwhelmed, trembling with the intensity of her pleasure. He presses deeper, his tongue moving with a deliberate, slow rhythm, licking her through the comedown, drawing out waves of sensation that leave her gasping, shuddering. His voice is a low, soothing murmur against her most intimate place, a promise, a comfort. “You’re safe, Sunshine. Let go. I got you.” His words are a balm, a reminder that she is cherished, protected, loved, even in the midst of her vulnerability, her surrender.
She came twice before he even took his shirt off.
When he finally stood, his eyes were glassy too. But not from emotion—from restraint.
“I ain’t done,” he told her.
“You don’t have to—”
“I need to.”
He stripped for her slowly, letting her see the weight he carried in his body, in his presence. His dick was already hard, thick and heavy, bobbing slightly as he stepped out of his boxers. But he didn’t make a move until she reached for him.
That touch—her touch—snapped the last thread of his control.
Erik lays her down gently, his movements careful and reverent, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. He slides in slow, his dick filling her inch by inch, a deliberate, possessive invasion that leaves them both breathless. Her gasp is soft and broken. His is deep and reverent, a sound of awe. He holds her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing gently against her cheeks, his eyes locked with hers as he begins to stroke in, his hips moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm. His voice is a low, intense whisper, a promise. “I love you. I love you. I got you.” Each word is a caress, a promise, a truth that needs no further explanation, no further elaboration.
Laila’s legs wrapped around him like instinct. Her hands cupped his jaw. Her eyes stayed locked to his like she was trying to see the exact moment his soul cracked open.
He fucks her deep, slow, steady. Every stroke a message. Every kiss a promise. He talks to her between thrusts—low, raspy, affirming
“You’re not his mistake. You’re my miracle.”
“You gave life. Let me give you something.”
“You mine, Sunshine. Say it.”
She did.
Over and over, between moans and sobs and yes, yes, yes.
When they finally shattered together, it was quiet. Like the air had paused to listen.
Like the world understood that something holy had just happened.
They didn’t move for a long time.
Erik stayed inside her, forehead resting against hers, hand pressed to the space between her ribs.
“Still made of glass?” he murmured.
“No,” Laila whispered, eyes closed.
“You feel whole again?”
“I feel held.”
He kissed her, soft and long. “That’s all I ever want for you.”
The bedroom smelled like honey and heat. Her perfume still clung to the sheets, but underneath it—him. His skin, his sweat, the burn of cinnamon and cedar he wore like armor and home at once.
Laila lay draped across Erik’s chest, her fingers tracing lazy, absentminded patterns along the tattoos inked down his ribs. He hadn’t pulled out yet. Didn’t want to. She hadn’t asked him to.
It was quiet. Safe. The first time all day she hadn’t been bracing for something.
Erik’s thumb stroked her back, slow and aimless, like he didn’t want to break the silence either.
“You ever think about running?” she asked, voice muffled by his chest.
He blinked down at her. “From what?”
“Everything.”
He gave it a beat. Then shook his head. “Not once.”
“Not even when you found out I had a daughter?”
Erik didn’t answer right away. He just let the question sit there, heavy but honest.
Then: “Sunshine… when I saw Kori sitting on that floor the first night I came over? Holding that busted-ass Barbie and smiling like she ain’t know what broken looked like?” He exhaled. “That was it for me.”
Laila’s throat tightened.
“She called me ‘the man from the pancakes’ the next morning,” she whispered, a small laugh breaking the tension. “Like I was supposed to know what that meant.”
“You did,” Erik murmured. “You always knew.”
Laila shifted slightly, resting her chin on his chest now, eyes searching his.
“Why do you love us the way you do?”
He didn’t blink.
“‘Cause you’re mine.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s everything.”
He smoothed a hand over her curls, gaze soft.
“You didn’t need saving. But I needed purpose. And you—you and that baby girl—you gave me somewhere to put the love I’ve been carrying too long with no place to pour it.”
Laila pressed a kiss to his chest, slow and silent.
“I worry sometimes,” she whispered. “That he’s gonna do something stupid. Try to mess with custody. Try to drag us into some court drama. Use her to hurt me again.”
“If he does,” Erik said, voice steel wrapped in velvet, “he gon’ learn what happens when you come for what I love.”
Laila smiled. “You always this dramatic?”
He grinned. “You always this worth it?”
They stayed like that a while longer. Quiet. Twined together like the bones in a shared body.
Then she sat up slightly, pressing a kiss to his jaw.
“You wanna know something wild?”
“Always.”
“I had a dream last week that you were carrying Kori on your shoulders through a crowd. And I couldn’t see either of y’all. But I could hear you—laughing. Like belly-deep laughing. And I remember thinking… ‘She’s safe.’ Like… even in the dream, I knew.”
Erik didn’t respond at first. Just pulled her down into his arms again, pressing her close.
“I’m not her father by blood,” he said quietly. “But I’ll be what he never was.”
Laila closed her eyes.
“You already are.”
Outside, the streetlights buzzed on one by one. The world kept moving. But inside that room, inside that bed, inside that man’s arms—Laila and Kori had everything they needed.
