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pedros-mustache · 3 years ago

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nighthawks (8)

series masterlist || previous chapter

word count: ~8k+ (there is no plot until the last 2k of this i am ashamed)

warnings: smut (18+): piv sex, hate!sex, fingering/squirting, oral (m!receiving), face fucking. also: canon typical violence and weaponry, use of the word “whore” to refer to sex workers, slight angst, developments maybe???, language, x fem!reader

a/n: surprise shawty! a day early for my lovelies! this chapter is a lil’ different but shit is gettin’ saucy—in more ways than one. 😉 as always, let me know what you think. xoxo!

(beta’d by @pleasedin // gif by @bestintheparsec)

The Mandalorian was not lying when he told you: I’m not finished with you yet.

The Mandalorian was not lying when he found his voice that evening in the cargo hold and said: Yes. It will be a regular thing.

Din Djarin is not a man who lies. He is a man who keeps his word. And for the last fortnight—fourteen days of steering his ship through the stars and his body into yours—he has made good on his promise.

He is by no means finished with you.

DAY EIGHTEEN—THREE DAYS SINCE SETARR

“Do you like it, Mando?”

Din looks up from his place at the annex table when your voice fills the hall and—

His response is juvenile: a sudden rush of blood to his length, a heavy tongue, warm cheeks. He feels like a young man again, caught by the sensual gaze of an older woman who likes the build of his shoulders and the cut of his beskar. He knows he should not be here, letting her—no, it’s you now—toy with the desire for touch and warmth that churns in his gut, but he cannot bring himself to move. He cannot bring himself to look away.

Right arm draped high over your head, ass pushed to the side, you lean against the bulkhead. Your body curves in a gentle s formation, sleek lines hugged by metallic blue-grey fabric. Wide-leg pants and a top that offers nothing to the imagination, the straps criss-cross your neck, leaving your stomach and shoulders exposed to the elements. It’s ridiculous, impractical, counterproductive but all of you glistens beneath the soft glow of the open fresher door and Din cannot be bothered to consider pragmatism in a moment like this.

God-fucking-damn.

He leans forward, gripping the meat of his thigh with strained fingers. “Where did you get that?”

You step away from the wall, and your hips sway to their own heavenly melody. “Daos-Seven. In the market before we left.” You pause in your lithe step, bare feet pigeon toed. When you swing your shoulders back and forth, clasping your hands behind your back, a lump rises to his throat. “I got this and a few others. So… do you like it?”

He huffs; the noise pushes through his voice coder, edges brusque and feral. “No.” Yes—gods, yes.

Your lower lip pouts. “Really?” Twisting, you present your backside, cupped well by the stretchy, velvet-like fabric. “I like it. It wasn’t that expensive either.”

“You look ridiculous.” He stands from the table. “Take it off. Or I will.”

Your pout morphs to a frown as you spin to face him. Your breasts squeeze beneath the meager top when you cross your arms. He swears he can see the outline of your nipples through the woven material. He wants to… Fuck, he wants to bury his face between your soft skin and drench your breasts in his spit and maybe even—

You’re speaking, he realizes, though your words slog through his viscous, honeyed thoughts. The sharp point of your tongue invades his sweet, syrupy mind, scraping whatever pleasure he can squeeze from his pitiful life to the side.

“Honestly, Mando,” you say. “There’s no reason to take it so personally. It’s just a new outfit and a little bit of teasing. My old duds were so gruny you could practically see the sweat stains from space. Can’t have that as a bounty hunter now can I?”

He grinds his teeth against his jaw. “Take it off, girl. I won’t ask you again.”

You scoff and drop your arms. “Has a change of clothes really upset you that much? Maker, you’re unbalanced. I swear…”

Shaking your head, you move to walk away, but Din catches your forearm. He yanks—hard—and you crash into his chest with a murmured expletive. Planting his opposite hand in the small of your back, he folds over you, pushing, pushing, until you must arch your spine to accommodate his body crowding yours. Your chest heaves, tits brushing up against his beskar-clad torso, nipples gone taut from the cold metal. Or maybe—

Maybe you want him as much as he wants you.

This transition from closeted desires to rabid fucking infected with resentment and a struggle for dominance remains new. Din is still able to count on one hand the number of times he’s stripped you bare and plunged his cock in your warm depths: that first time, in the annex, bathed in the light of hyperspace; on Hegora, blanketed by soft grass; after Daos-Seven; once more since then, bent over the galley table. Five times, hardly a habit and certainly not a ritual. Thus he holds this arrangement in his palm like a flower. He knows his strength, knows his uncanny aptitude for crushing what beauty has been offered him by the Maker, and so he holds the flower—the agreement that yes, he can fuck you when he wants, how he wants—with a trembling hand lest he mistakenly clench a fist and break delicate petals.

It has been so long since he felt the pliant embrace of another. So long since he inhaled the scent of their skin, felt his flesh against theirs. None of these things he will give to you; none of these things you deserve. But his cock? That rigid length you’ve taken between your mouth and sucked within your wet center? He can give you that. If you want it.

Your hot breath fogs his visor. “I like the outfit,” you mutter. “If you rip it, I’ll cut your heart out.”

He tilts his head. “Seems dramatic.”

Lifting your chin, you raise an eyebrow. “Try me.”

He could ignore your request and tear the outfit from your body like he so desires. One hard tug, and he’s sure the top would unravel between his fingers. How sturdy can an outfit from Daos-Seven’s seedy market really be? Only, there’s something about a simple shift to his voice or posture that robs you of your senses, turning you dumb and boneless. He’s seen it here in the annex, once more in the galley. He wants to see it again.

“You want the truth?” He lowers his voice to the pit of his chest, and your eyes widen in quick response.

Keeping you pressed to his abdomen, Din steps forward, one foot after the other until you bump against the edge of the annex table. He drops his hold on your back and frames your body with a hand on either side of your hips. Bent at the waist, his eyes dance between yours. Your pupils swallow the bright color of your irises, mind gone drunk on the room’s mounting tension.

“I like the outfit too,” he admits. “It’s ridiculous for a bounty hunter to wear but...” Dipping two fingers beneath the waistband of your bands, he tugs then releases, letting the band snap against your stomach. “I like it enough I want to fuck you in it. Will you let me?”

Without hesitation, you nod, and suddenly, that iron-clad, haughty tongue of yours vanishes in a puff of want. He smirks. Works every time.

Gently, as though not to disturb the thin ice on which he treads, Din lowers himself to his knees. He guides his palms from your waist over the globes over your ass, pausing to knead his fingertips in the supple flesh there. You suck in a sharp breath. He hooks his fingers in the pant’s waistband, glancing up to see you watch him through hooded eyes, and then he pulls, slow, inch by precious inch. The skin revealed by his sluggish disrobing looks good enough to taste. He wonders if remnants of your soap cling to the crease where your leg meets your groin, and if he might be able to taste flower petals should he swipe his tongue through your depths. He wishes he could—

No. Best not start down that wooded trail. He may lose himself within the brambles of possibility and never return.

Once stripped, the pants pool around your ankles, and your naked cunt stands before him like the lustrous centerpiece of your body. For a moment he considers removing his glove in order to feel your lips part against his fingertips, but he will forgo that pleasure, that carnal, intimate desire… for now.

He presses the pad of his thumb to the apex of your womanhood and studies the way your delicate flesh eagerly invites his fingers between your folds. You lean against the table, hands clutching the edge as though you might free-fall to your death at any moment. The muscles in your thighs tremble with anticipation, and he curves his free hand around the back of your leg to steady you. You aren’t wet, not yet anyway, but he can remedy that quick enough. The leather of his glove catches on your dry cunt as he drags his thumb from your clit to the cleft of your ass. His thumb slips at your opening, and he makes a sound somewhere near a hum.

“There you are,” he murmurs, rubbing his finger through the puddle of slick at your center.

“Mando…” He looks up at the sound of your hushed and heavy voice. “Come on. Quit teasing me.”

“I’m not teasing. Unlike you, I don’t tease.”

To prove his point, he dips his thumb into your cunt. Prodding your tight walls, he pushes until you swallow him to the second knuckle. Your head drops forward on a hitched breath, your stance inching wider to better accommodate his hand. He see-saws his finger through your wet channel, rubbing forward and backward until your hips give an experiment buck.

He pauses to let his gaze roam your face. “I want you nice and ready for me. Can you take another?”

Though a fog of desire clouds your face, you lift your left leg and drape it over his shoulder. Your pussy spreads for him, magnificent, glistening and glossy, an offering he cannot resist. He bites back a grin. Such an obedient girl when you want to be.

He removes his thumb, but is quick to fill your cunt with his first two fingers. You groan. Your heel presses into his back, nudging him closer. He takes the hint and pushes his fingers further, deeper, crooking them forward until he finds the spongy spot in the hidden depths of your center. He coaxes the spot with his gloved-hand, curiosity snatching his focus.

Din can fuck. He knows he can fuck. He’s bedded enough whores to understand a few things: He’s big, he’s thick, and he’s good. But those fleeting connections were born out of desperation, stolen moments between jobs, and he never stayed long enough to truly discover the wonders of a woman’s body. He’s never tangled his lips with someone else; never tasted a pussy; never brought a girl to her knees by his hand alone. But with you—hovering out here in space, wasting time because he can’t bring himself to find yet another sorry, useless bastard—he can do whatever he wants.

And he wants to make you pour over the floor of his ship.

He pulls his fingers out of your tight cunt long enough to adjust his straining cock then he lifts his face. He offers his pussy-soaked fingers to your parted mouth. “Get ‘em wet,” he says. You swallow a lump in your throat before spitting in his hand. The saliva pools in the bend of his knuckles, and he huffs. “Wasn’t what I had in mind, but fine.”

Dragging your spit over the pads of his fingers, he positions his hand at your opening once more. He doesn’t look up when he says, “Hold on to my shoulders.”

As soon as your trembling hand latches onto his pauldron, he plunges his fingers into your cunt, searching for that buried pleasure spot. He finds it with ease and nudges the spot until you gasp, eyes shut and jaw limp. He drags his hand down, removing the pressure for an instant before he surges forward to press against it again. Forward and backward, an unchanging rhythm, a dance of his own making.

You squeeze him; the leg thrown over his shoulder, your pussy around his fingers, your own grip on his armor, all of you holds him tight. Little squeaks catch in your throat and tumble past your lips as he picks up speed. Faster now, hitting that spot with unrelenting determination.

He drives into your cunt with his fingers alone, and he has to hold his breath to stop himself from wrenching his hand free and tearing off his glove. The warmth seeping through the old leather is enough to make his cock throb, and the slick bubbling at your opening makes his mouth water. But all he can do in this vulgar moment is fuck you hard and fast with his fingers. He will fuck his fingers into you until you gush for him, and even then, he will fuck his fingers into you harder.

He can feel it growing. Your hips writhe against his hand, and he can feel the ultimate burst of pleasure rising in your center as you toss your head back, at last releasing a strangled and cracked moan. The sound sends his cock into overdrive, the front of his flight suit drenched with his own excitement. Your muscles quiver around him, thighs trembling as you hit your first peak, but he keeps going. Not there yet; he can feel it around the corner, but you aren’t there yet.

Faster, harder. He’ll get you there if it’s the last thing he does.

He adds his thumb to your swollen clit, and you keen as he drags it in a slow circle, so at odds with the swift slide of his fingers. The numb swells against his finger, and he pushes inward, flicking it back and forth as he fucks your cunt.

“Oh…” You lean forward on an inward plunge, and his helm hits the hot skin of your stomach. “Oh—oh my god—I think…”

You bite down on your lip, spine curling, and there, there—he knows it’s there—he can feel it—you tighten—you sob—and you release.

Liquid gushes from a concealed reserve, spraying over his forearm, splashing onto the floor of the ship. A wide grin breaks the pull of his concentrated frown. He keeps rubbing—rubbing and rubbing—as your body quakes around him.

“Fuck. That’s a girl. Look at you.”

He drags the liquid gold from your body until you’re begging for him to stop, until you pull your leg from his shoulder and kick his helmet with whatever energy you still possess. He falls to his ass, and his hand slips in the fluid scattered and glittering on the floor. He drops further to his elbow, legs propped, a firm tent in his pants revealing he enjoyed pulling that orgasm just as much as you enjoyed receiving it. Smug and satisfied, he searches your face and yeah…

You both know he’s good.

But you bend to grab your pants from the ground. You fold them over your arm with careful reverence, smoothing any wrinkles he created. He can see the twitch in your thighs and the ooze of cum painting your legs, but you hold yourself with composure, as though he hasn’t just rung you dry.

You clear your throat and step over his recumbent form. Flicking your hair over your shoulder, you head for the fresher, an unnecessary sway to your hips as you go. Still, he does not miss the wobble of your gait nor your foalish legs. You put on a good show, attempting to appear more poised than you are, and it makes him shake his head and grumble to himself.

Obstinate, headstrong girl.

You pause in the hall and spare him a fleeting glance. You point to your own juices with a disgusted finger. “I’m not cleaning that up.”

He rolls his eyes. Figures.

DAY TWENTY-TWO—FOUR DAYS LATER

He’s cleaning the contents of the weapons cabinet when you find him in the cargo hold of the ship.

It’s been a quiet day of traveling, a lonely day of thinking about Grogu and how much he would have liked the Sunder. The Sunder’s flight deck offers more space than on the Razor Crest where the curious boy could wreak havoc. An entire panel of buttons waits for his grabby fingers. A nice couch, too; a place he could rest his head but still be near, never too far from his father. The hallway echoes without the sound of his awkward footsteps or gentle coos, and the galley feels barren without his assorted belongings. And though the ship glides through the stars with a regal air, her head crowned with Din’s achievement of besting Moff Gideon, everything on-board feels… hollow. A puzzle missing a piece, a heart missing a valve, a life without breath.

Din could not stand the swirl of memories and wonderings as he set a course for the next bounty. The disconnected feeling choked him until he imagined himself untethered from his ship, floating through nebulous space, guided by his intense desire to find something or someone to care for again. Grogu—the Child—he gave Din a taste of more than, and now Din starves without it. So, he buried himself here, in the dim cargo hold, gorging himself on the routine motions of prepping his utensils for their next meal.

You find him sitting on an overturned crate, elbows braced against his knees as he wipes down his beskar spear. Feeling your gaze dig beneath his helmet, he hesitates, cloth rag slowing as he avoids your obvious scrutiny. He imagines you have a host of questions for him, but none of them he wants to answer. The universe has asked too much of him already, and all he needs from you is your focus on the mission at hand and the squeeze of your cunt around his cock from time to time.

Stars, he is so fucking tired.

Sighing, his shoulders slump as he shakes his head. “Scout…” he murmurs, gaze sliding to where you stare at him, clad only in a simple shirt. The butt of the spear clatters against the floor as he loosens his grip.

You take a cautious step forward. “I’ve been waiting for you all day.”

“I’ve been… busy.” Busy—busy avoiding ghostly memories and terrifying inclinations.

Your eyes roam the pile of weapons at his side. “Hmm. Yes, I can see.”

“I didn’t really want you to come down here.” He sits straight and plants a fist on his thigh. Under his helmet, his face hangs heavy, exhaustion turning his eyes gritty. “There’s nothing for you to do right now.”

Simpering, your eyelashes flutter against your cheekbones. “Isn’t there?” Your eyes drop to his crotch, and your tongue peeks out, swiping across your lower lip. “I was waiting for you. Well… your cock, mostly. You haven’t fucked me in a day or so, and I miss it. I want it.”

Oh fuck. Din drops his head back against the wall, and a booming thud reverberates through the ship’s frame. Maker, he can’t resist that soft, girlish admission. How long has it been since he felt wanted for something other than his brawn?

You want him. You want him. Just him and all his human parts.

Desire flooding his senses, he withdraws his cock from his pants with quick movements, and you scamper across the floor, dropping to your knees between his legs. You slide your palms over his thighs, back and forth, the material rustling in the quiet of the room. He’s half-hard at the thought of you actively wanting him—or at the very least his cock—and when you wrap your fingers around his base, he shoves a short breath through his nose.

“Gods, Mando. I swear you’ve laced this thing,” you say, licking around his tip. “As much as I hate to admit it, it’s the best I’ve ever had.”

His hips shift upwards at the praise, and you grin. You glide him into your hot, dripping mouth. His hands unfurl at his sides. The tense muscles in his back relax; his jaw drops from its tight hold; and the racket in his mind stills, suspended in motion, as you suck his cock, bobbing your head over his length as though you were made to do it. Sparks of pleasure radiate from his core to his limbs, igniting a fire in his belly that will not abate until he floods your mouth with his hot seed.

He swipes his fist around the curtain of hair that falls before your face. He holds it to the side, skimming the thumb of his free hand over the bulge in your mouth as you take him deeper. “Good girl,” he whispers and then, hushed, forbidden: “Make me feel so good.”

You moan as you drag your tongue back to his weeping head. Eyes closed, you angle your face and flutter your lips over his cock as you say, ��Always wanna make you feel good like this, Metal Man.”

It takes everything in him to not cum in response to such a… sweet… confession.

Something feral and wanting, desperate for release, clutches the beating heart in Din’s chest. He needs you; he wants you bad enough he can taste your lips on his. You smell fragrant, and the scent invades his helmet, clogging his head with flower petals and honey.

With a rough grunt, he jerks your head back, and you pull from his cock with a surprised cry. Staring up at him with wide, confused eyes, he grips your jaw until it lowers. He scoots to the edge of the crate, angling his length at the edge of your mouth, then he thrusts.

On instinct, you gag. The garbled noise spurs him onward.

“Take it,” he grits. “Take the fuckin’ cock you want so bad.”

He thrusts into your throat with wild abandon. Your mouth is wet, your tongue a devilish fiend along his thick vein. Hollowing your cheeks, you suck as much as you can, but gag more often than not. Spit slides out of both sides of your mouth and hangs off your chin like the jowls of a dog. Your nails bite the flesh at the back of his calves as you hold onto him.

He pulls from your mouth before he can spill down your throat. You gasp for air, choking on spit as you steady yourself. Breathing heavy, he rubs a pool of saliva off of your chin, and you shudder.

He nods to his aching cock. “Finish me off. Just a bit more.” When you hesitate, glancing between his dick and his helmet, he gestures to the hand clutching the hem of your shirt. “Use your hands, sweet girl.”

You nod and sit up, wrapping both hands around his cock, one stacked atop the other. Twisting your wrists in opposite motions, you pull on the flesh of his length. You pump him—up and down, up and down—and the spit lingering from your mouth slap, slap, slaps in the silent hold.

He dips his head back, groaning when you drag the flat of your tongue over his leaking slit as you continue to steadily pump him to orgasm. “Don’t—dank farrik, that feels good,” he mutters. “Don’t stop.”

You hum against his tip, and the vibrations send him over the edge. He spills ropey strings of cum down your throat, shuddering through his orgasm, moisture pricking the corners of his eyes, until you pull off of him. You tap his sensitive tip with your finger, and he hisses, hips drawing inwards.

Grinning, you cock your head with a playful glint in your eye. “See. There’s always something for me to do.”

DAY TWENTY-EIGHT—SIX DAYS LATER

The night is old. An inky black sky gives way to a deep blue horizon as, somewhere, the sun lifts its face and begins its ascent. A harsh wind catches the hem of Din’s cape, sweeping it to the side, where it brushes your arm and ignites the last of your frayed nerves like a match to dried kindling. You lengthen your stride with a muttered curse, and Din can’t help but agree:

Two days away from the Sunder in pursuit of a slippery bounty, and he is sick to death of you too. Your incessant mouth, anyway. Your cunt on the other hand…

The bounty’s head—himself immobile, bloodied, and broken—catches on a jagged stone, and Din turns, his delirious train of thought derailed. He jerks his arm with a frustrated grunt. The bounty skips over the stone, tender flesh at the back of his head torn as a result, and a new trail of blood flows as he skids behind heavy steps.

Breaking through the edge of Yoiter’s thick forest, Din presses a series of commands on his vambrace when at last, at last, at last his ship comes into view, a shiny beacon in the waxing morning. The loading ramp groans out of sleep as it descends and spills bright yellow light into the ebbing darkness. Two pairs of footsteps and one clunking head trudge up the ramp, silent otherwise, fatigue and sedation rendering all parties mute.

Yet—

All you can offer is a nanosecond of peace—a gift from above, as rare as a Coruscan gem—before unfurling your displeasure. Fucking brat. You don’t know when to quit.

You spin on your heel before Din has the chance to dispose of the bounty in the carbonite chamber. “If I had known your plan included using me as live bait, I might have reconsidered agreeing to it.”

“If I had known you would fuck the plan up, I wouldn’t have tried it.”

“Mando”—you follow him into the hold where he corrals the limp bounty into the freezer—“you could have gotten me killed. They were going to take me to Maker-knows-where and cut me into little bits. And why? Because you were under the impression they wanted girls like me. Not thought they are spawns of some—”

“Dank farrik! Would you shut up?!”

With shaking fingers—fingers tight with rage and disappointment and some sick sense of relief—Din punches the freezing combination into the control panel and allows the whirring machine to drown out your tirade and his shrieking thoughts. He presses a hand to the chamber’s frame, dropping his head as the freezing cycle’s minute ticks by and your angry breathing subsides. When the control panel beeps, signifying the end of the cycle, he looks up and finds your pinched face.

“I was wrong. My info was wrong. But I wasn’t—I wouldn’t let them hurt you.”

You cross your arms. “You hesitated too much when that one Ga’ark had me.” Tilting your head back, you point to a slash of open flesh on your throat, edges jagged and uneven. “This could have ended badly.”

Averting his eyes, he winces. “Yeah, I suppose it could have.”

“Thank the Maker it didn’t.” You step around him and guide the frozen carbonite block across the overhead track to hang with the others, grumbling as you pass, “Kriffing idiot.”

Turning away from the freezer, he tosses his arms in exasperation. “What do you want me to do?” he asks. “It’s over now, and you can live to drive me insane another day. I said I was wrong.”

“But not that you’re sorry!”

“I’m not.” The words grind between his teeth, low and gravel-flecked, slingshotting forward to smack you in the face.

A thick blanket of silence, fringes woven with stubborn pride, turns the perpetually-chilly carbon chamber warm. He eyes you and the cut drawn across the side of your neck. It stopped bleeding on the trek back from wooded mudpits, but it looks painful. He grimaces. You’re right—that could have ended badly. And he’d be at fault.

After a tense moment of reticence, you are first to speak. “Fine, don’t apologize. You can still make it up to me, though. You did almost get me killed. I think it’s the least you can do.”

He says nothing. No confirmation, no denial. He simply waits, curious as to what you’ll ask of him.

Dropping your hands to your hips, you puff your chest as a wave of confidence lifts you from your beach of self-pity. “Fuck me. Make it better.”

Din almost scoffs in surprise. Of all the things you could have asked of him, this—his cock—is what you want most. Unorthodox. He likes it.

It’s been days since he last fucked you. Hiking through the undergrowth and bracken of Yoiter’s forest offered little in the way of comfort, and he had no time to push you up against the trunk of a mossy tree when hunting after the latest quarry. He aches to pummel his length into your cunt and release the last two days of stress and irritation and discomfort in the dip of your spine. So your request? Your arrogant command that he drive his cock into your pussy in lieu of an apology for his negligence?

Yeah, he can fuck you. Of course he can fuck you.

He shakes his head on a snort. “Bossy little thing.” He stretches out his hand, cocking his head to urge you to come closer. “Come here.”

You close the space between you with a self-satisfied smile and tug your top over your head as you mold your body against his. Your bare skin feels like fire against his armor, and he wonders if you’re always this kriffing warm.

He drops his hands to the small of your back, giving you a moment—a single moment—of steady contact. Your nipples pebble against his chest-plate, and your slot his thigh between your legs, arms wrapped lazy around his shoulders. The warmth of your cunt creeps through the soft material of your trousers. He can feel your pulse in the unarmored part of his thigh, a hurried thrum of want and desire.

You hum, eyes fluttering shut as your head draws backwards, exposing the line of your throat and the injury he caused. “You’re so big, Mando,” you whisper. “I like how big you are.”

It’s difficult to keep pride from inflating his chest, so Din focuses on maneuvering you backwards, crowding you into the carbonite freezer inlaid in the bulkhead. Your back hits the wall with a thump, and your eyes open, glossy with lust. It takes a moment, but when you register your new position, a flood of panic douses the hunger devouring your face.

Din lifts a hand to hold your chin. He slides his thumb beneath your lower lip and says, “You’re safe here. I’m not going to do anything to you.” But then he angles his head with a short laugh. “I mean, I’m going to fuck you, but I’m not going to freeze you if that’s what you’re scared of.”

You inhale, sigh in relief, and his thumb slides deeper in your mouth. You circle your lips and suck. He stifles a grunt.

“Now what was that about how big I am? You like how big my cock is?”

Glassy look returned to your face, you nod, swirling your tongue over the tip of his thumb, hands searching for his back. You pull him to you, close enough your breasts fold against his armor, squeezed tight. He shuffles and lifts his chest so that your taut nipples drag upwards. On a gasp, you drop his thumb from your mouth.

“Gods, all of you, Mando,” you breathe. Your hands crawl from his back over his shoulders to the cowl at his neck, and he is vaguely aware of your cunt dragging over his thigh as he loses himself to your touch. Slowly—back and forth; your slick dampens his pants. “Your cock, but also your shoulders and your back and your hands. All so big and so broad and… Shit.”

Smirking, Din shucks your pants to the floor as you praise him. He kicks your feet apart and nudges the fabric away before carding two fingers through your dripping pussy. He finds you wet—flooded and pulsing around his fingertips. Opposite hand braced to the wall above your head, he glances down and watches his fingers disappear between your legs.

“Damn, girl. You’re soaked.”

“Mmm. You always make me this wet.” You grin, pushing your hips forward. His fingers slip inward with ease. “Now… give me what I want. Fuck me.”

Din doesn’t need to be told twice.

Dragging his fingers from your cunt, he shuffles with the belt at his waist. You move to assist, your fingers scrabbling for purchase between his, but he swats your wrists away. He pushes the waistband of his pants down far enough to let his aching cock spring free, and he pumps himself a few times, moving to angle himself at your entrance.

But you stop him with a hand on his chest. You stare in the direction of the floor, and at first he thinks you’re staring at his cock, but you’ve seen it before, and what’s so different about it now, crowded in the corner of the carbon freezer? It’s only when your hand drops to tease the line of hair descending from his belly button that he realizes.

Fuck. Too much skin. He’s getting sloppy.

“Oh my god. Is that… Is that a tattoo? On your hip? It’s huge! Is it—”

He slaps a hand over your mouth, forcing your head back, before you can say another word.

Holding the base of his cock, he wets himself with your slick then prods your fluttering hole. Your mouth moves against his palm, and he slides his hand away, anchoring himself at your collarbone.

“What?” he bites.

You pout. “Why do I always have to be naked? You get to leave everything on.”

“This is the Way.” It falls from his mouth before he can think otherwise. The phrase sounds hollow, void of any meaning, but you don’t know that. He won’t tell you that.

“Way schmay.” You huff, irritated, but lift your legs to wrap around his back anyway. The adjustment sends the head of his cock forward, stretching your cunt around his girth; and though your eyes roll skyward in response, your tongue keeps complaining. “I want to feel your hands.”

He pauses, and something in his chest lurches. He wants… He wants to feel your hands too.

Shoving the desire aside, he plunges forward, impaling your tight core around his cock. You squeak and slap a palm against the side of the chamber, mouth gone slack. He grits his teeth, grinding his hips against yours.

“Is this not enough for you?”

Withdrawing once, he thrusts again. He holds himself within you, studying the wrecked expression of your face, until you squirm, writhing against him.

“Oh fuck. Okay. It’s enough. Forget I said anything. Keep going, keep going. Please.”

He complies with ease, jerking his cock into your cunt until you are a slobbering mess. He drives into you without reserve. He welcomes your warm, sticky, wanton embrace, and he fucks you hard. Fucks you until you forget about his screw up with the Ga’arks. Fucks you until you forget about the tattoo on his hip, the one you were never supposed to see. Fucks you until you forget about ever wanting anything more from him than what he has already given.

He fucks you until you are screaming his name, and it clatters through the hold like an anthem.

Mando—Mando—Mando.

Not his name. He fucks you harder.

Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you bend your face into his neck as you tremble. Your hips cant upwards in a sloppy rhythm. Somewhere beneath the surface, you’re close.

“Fuckfuckfuckfuck, I’m gonna cum.”

Your hot breath tickles the skin of his neck where his cowl has slipped, and he moans, pausing long enough to grind against your mound. He grips the underside of your thighs with a ferocious pinch of his fingers. “Go on,” he growls. “Fuckin’ cum. Cum.”

With a final thrust, you break on a sob. Your tight walls squeeze and release, squeeze and release, as you drench him with your orgasm. He stutters, thrusts turning shallow and weak as you ride your high. But he’s close behind. You need only clench around him, murmur a request to feel his cum on your belly, for him to tear out of you with a strangled groan and pump himself to completion. He oozes over your belly, milky strands of cum dripping to tangle in the hair over your cunt.

You smile and raise an eyebrow. “I think that makes us even, then. You are forgiven.”

DAY THIRTY—COURSE SET: NEVARRO

You lunge out of your bedroll as if woken from a nightmare. Fragmented horrors, dripping with fear and loss, writhe in the back of your mind like rotting slugs. You crawl after them, chest heaving as you pull yourself through the fading memories, the screams and the smell of ash and—

“We’re going back to Nevarro.”

This time you jump from your bedroll with a startled inhale, taking your blaster with you. Fearful tears blurring your vision, you unclick the safety and aim. Fuck—it’s them, isn’t it? Back for more and ready to plunge you beneath the dirt beside your long-dead sister. Well, not today. Not fucking likely. You’d rather—

“Scout.” A gloved palm settles on your cheek and tilts your face upwards. You blink away the haze of terror and adrenaline when a thumb swipes away an errant tear. A mountain of silver builds before your eyes, and a deep voice uproots your frozen thoughts. “It’s me.”

You register him at last, relief flooding your senses. Just Mando; only Mando.

“Oh.” Lowering your blaster, you step back. Mando’s hand falls from your face. “I was dreaming about my… family… I think.” You scrub a hand down your face, ashamed to feel a line of tears on your cheek. “What did you say when you came in?”

Mando remains quiet, watching you through the dark visor, before he says, “We’re going to Nevarro. We need to unload the crap in the hull and get new pucks.” Hand flexing at his side, he takes a step toward the door. “Clean yourself up. We’ll be there in an hour.”

You’re too busy gathering scattered belongings from the floor to notice Mando pause at the door and watch you over his shoulder.

It is only after supper with Karga—local delicacies: purple ram’s tongue and watercress salad—that you find a moment alone. Your host pulls Mando into a side room on the promise of a quick return, and you wave them off with a flick of your wrist. There are dishes to be cleaned, new bounties to study, a morning of panic to revisit. Solitude might do your weary mind well.

Gathering the plates and serving dishes, you busy yourself at the sink. Warm water rushes over your hands, easing the thoughts whirling in your head to a gentle sway. You grab a rag, a bar of soap, and set to lathering.

Your dream…

Home—Inora, the wheat field your father planted with his own hands burnt to a crisp, Jeelia. It seems your mind finds amusement in dredging the past from the mud and throwing it in your face. You are powerless against the memories and so you flounder, sinking beneath the bubbling mudpit like hapless prey.

What became of your mother? Your father? Did they live to see another day? You wouldn’t know. You were too cowardly to turn back when you stole the escape pod and flew to safety. As desperately as you miss home, as desperately as you wonder about the fate of your loved ones, your hasty actions force you to remain adrift in space. That is your punishment: exile. You embrace it; you deserve it.

Sniffing hard, you rub a fresh track of tears off of your chin with your shoulder, scrubbing the dried sauce from the main dish’s serving plate.

And Mando… Stars, he held your cheek and wiped away your tears as though he cared. It sets your stomach to a boil. He shouldn’t—he can’t—touch you like that. You hate him, and he hates you, and he might’ve seen you wake from a nightmare for the second time now, but he cannot caress your cheek. You’ll let him fuck you raw, but nothing more. If ever you let him slip beneath your stony cover, he could wind up dead too. Just like the rest of—

“Mind if I dry?”

The knife in your hand slips at Karga’s sudden voice, narrowly missing the flesh of your palm. Lifting your face, you meet Karga’s guilty cringe with a hard stare. He just shrugs, reaches for a towel on the counter, and points to the stack of dishes beside you.

“So can I?”

“Yeah… thanks.”

For a moment, you work in silence, an unlikely pair. You do not feel Mando’s presence swallow the narrow kitchen, and you do not care enough to ask Karga where the brute has wandered off to. You imagine he needs his own space. After thirty days on the Sunder, each other the only company save a few stiffs in the hull, Nevarro’s moderately-fresh air and open landscape is a welcome change of pace.

You break the quiet with a question that has lingered in the back of your mind since Daos-Seven. With calculated movements, you pull the plug at the base of the sink, careful not to appear too eager. The dirty water spirals as it drains, tornadoing down the rusted, exposed pipes.

You grab a plate from Karga’s dry stack and slide across the room to place it on the shelf. “So, what is this about Mando having a kid?”

To your surprise, Karga does not sputter or deflect. He does not even look over his shoulder in alarm. He simply continues wiping down a bowl, nodding to himself. “Ah. The womp rat.”

You frown. “Womp rat?”

With a sigh, Karga lowers the bowl and turns around. He braces his hands on the counter and meets your inquisitive gaze with a tired, weary one of his own. The look pulls your curiosity to a screeching halt. First the stuffed animal, then Mando saying he was a father, now Karga’s glum expression. If you didn’t know any better, you might assume something tragic befell the Mandalorian in another life.

“I shouldn’t be the one to tell you that story,” he says.

Rolling your eyes, you return to the counter and take another plate. “You’re just as secretive as him. Why does everything have to be hidden?”

Karga shrugs. “This is—”

You lift a hand, turning your back. “Don’t say it.”

Quiet—thick quiet. You keep your back turned to your host.

“What happened between you two? Something is different. I could tell as soon as you got off of that ship. I may be old, but I’m not blind.”

“Nothing.” The plate you return to the shelf drops with a mite too much force, and you wince as you turn. “I mean we fuck,” you say, ignoring Karga’s raised eyebrows. “But he makes me sleep on the goddamn floor. Does that answer your question?”

“He what?” The old man pushes away from the counter. “The floor? I don’t think he should—”

“There is no telling the Mandalorian what he should or should not do. He shouldn’t be fucking me yet he is, and that’s that.”

“Still…” Karga says your name as you make for the side exit, and you stiffen. How long has it been since you heard your true name? Too long. You hate it now. “I’ll talk to him.”

You grab an oversized jacket from a peg on the wall and shrug it over your shoulders. The collar smells like spiced tobacco and gun grease, one scent a singular remnant of your father. Twisting the knob, you push open the door and allow a sharp breeze to cut the stifled air of the room. You stare into the darkness before offering Karga a smile.

“Don’t bother. The floor is fine for a girl like me,” you say. “Anyway, if he asks, I’ve gone for a walk. I’ll be back.”

It is well past midnight when you return from your ambling stroll. Your cheeks are chilled, your hands stuffed deep in the jacket’s pockets. You walked without purpose, without thought, and the open, starlit sky guided you through the back alleys and passageways of Nevarro’s center. The exercise cleared your mind, gave you a moment to recenter yourself. You began this bounty hunting journey to bring scoundrels to justice, and for the memory of your family, you must continue.

Perhaps… This is the Way…

You find Mando outside of Karga’s hut, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He drops his current conversation with a nod before turning to face you. He leans against the doorframe, irritatingly cavalier.

“Ready to go?”

Lips folded in a line, you nod.

Mando shakes Karga’s hand then treks for the city gate. He does not pause to see if you follow, and when the action needles your chest, you wince. Karga brushes your arm, and you look away from the silver ghost’s retreating form.

“Have a good walk?”

“Yeah. Thanks for dinner, by the way. It was a nice break from the rehydrated shit Metal Man gives me.”

Karga grins. “Any time.”

“I should probably follow before he leaves me here.”

Before you can exit the halo of light surrounding Karga’s front door, he calls your name, and you glance over your shoulder. The old man lifts a hand in farewell. “I’ll see you again soon.”

Chin to chest, you make your way from Nevarro’s walls to the lava field where the Sunder waits for your muted footsteps. Through the hull and up the turbolift, ignoring the whirr of the engines as you pass along the empty annex. It is only when you reach the galley door you remember: you forgot to return Karga his jacket.

“Fuck,” you mutter.

You spin on your heel, but there is nowhere for you to go, nowhere for you to return the stolen property. The Sunder is already in her takeoff patterns, and Mando—he barrs the way, your bedroll tucked beneath his arm as he blocks the hall exit. Your heart clenches as dread freezes it to ice.

“What are you doing? Why are you holding that?” You reach out for your belongings, but he twists to the side to keep the items out of your grasp. “Give that to me!”

“Come here.”

Mando side steps you, his footfalls hard as he heads for the end of the corridor. You drag yourself in a circle to follow him. A day of wearisome travel, poor sleep, and too many unanswered questions threatens to break your resolve. You swallow the lump that rises to your throat.

“Mando, those are my things! What are you doing—”

He pushes the control panel of the room opposite his own, and the door opens on a whoosh. Tossing your things inside, he gestures with a sweep of his hand. “It’s yours.”

One second—two—three—

You gape. “What?”

“The room. Take it. You shouldn’t… sleep on the floor. You aren’t a dog.”

Try as you might, you cannot suppress the tears which flood your vision, a tumultuous blend of relief and gratitude and heartbreak clawing at your insides. You rush past, face lowered, a quiet thank you all you can give before you collapse in a puddle of your own making or he can rescind the offer.

“Wait…” You swipe at your cheeks, clearing your throat before Mando disappears across the hall. “Where are we going? Which bounty are we going after first? I was taking notes when we were—”

“We aren’t going after a bounty yet.” Mando steps out of your doorway and presses a combination into the control panel. As the door slides shut, he says, “We’re going to see my son.”

NEXT CHAPTER

#din djarin x reader #din djarin smut #the mandalorian x reader #the mandalorian smut #pedro pascal x reader #pedro pascal smut

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shewrites02 · 6 years ago

Text

Fuck Your New Nigga | Erik Killmonger x Black Reader

Summary: Erik finds out you got a new nigga

Word count: 2.6K

A/n: This fic is inspired by this: https://shewrites02.tumblr.com/post/184315342705/thickoreo-imagine-getting-a-new-nigga-and-erik post by https://thickoreo.tumblr.com/ . I know I’m not one of the writers tagged but I was so hyped about this prompt. The story is kinda proof read but I also wrote it at 3 am, so forgive my oppses. I hope yall enjoy it :)

"Watchu gon tell erik?" Your best friend, Desiree, asked unboxing yet another stack of old pictures of you and erik packed before yall broke up.

You scoffed at her notion. That bastard disappeared for three months, then wants to pick up where y'all left off upon his arrival. and now you owe him some type of explanation. No ma'am. That was not going to be how this relationship worked. You are a queen and anyone who treats you any less than such doesn't deserve to be in your presence. That was that. So as for what you were going to tell Erik... not a goddamn thing.

"Fuck that nigga." You mumbled tossing the picture of y’all on the Superman ride at six flags onto the stack of trash that had compiled in the middle of the floor.

Desiree laughed. She was a little erie of your new found disdain for Erik. Especially when she was the one wiping your tears and consoling your broken heart just a month ago.

The faint noise of your phone going off in the kitchen drew your attention. You scurried over jumping over bubble wrap, picture frames, and whatever else currently covered your floor. Just when the last ring was about to end you were able to save the call.

"Hello?"

"Hey baby, How's the moving going?" The sweet and sincere voice of your new boo Chris sang through the other line. A part of your heart melted knowing he had remembered, another part burned knowing if it had been Erik he'd have done everything in his power to be here helping you.

"It's good. Me and Desiree are almost finished."

"I'm so sorry I had to work, I wish I could be there helping you."

"It's okay. I understand." You lied.

Erik had once faked having appendicitis in order to stay home to help you study for your Bar exam. So Chris not being able to call in one day was truly something you couldn't wrap your head around. But you still allowed it to slide. What you had with Chris was fresh, and casual. You couldn't ruin it by letting all your crazy show at once.

"How bout this... Dinner on me tonight? I'll pick up a pizza and help you set up your tv?"

You agreed, thanking him for such a thoughtful gesture. After getting off the phone you walked back into the living room with Desiree. She held a picture of you and Erik from the day you graduated law school. He had gotten you this huge bouquet of roses, along with all these festive balloons and a giant stuffed lion, your school's mascot. It was corny and all your classmates thought it was obnoxious, but it was Erik telling you he was proud of you.

"Shall I throw this one away too?" She inquired.

She saw the stress on your face. The being torn between hating this nigga's guts but missing him more each day. You had finally gotten to the point were you didn't cry at the sound of his name, and you thought you were ready to dispose of any memory of him. That you were completely over him. But not being able to part with the photos and the constant comparison of chris to him might be proof that maybe you aren't.

You let out a disgruntled huff, flopping down onto you very sketchily set up couch. The whole thing shaking from your weight.

"Just leave that shit in the box! I'm not trying to deal with it right now."

Desiree hummed some high pitched tone.

"Okay" she mumbled. Poking her lips out as she dropped the picture back into the box. "And what exactly are we telling your new nigga when he sees three boxes worth of you and stevens uh?"

"We aren't telling him anything. You are going home, and I'm hiding them."

She put her hands up in surrender another skeptical look painted of her face. She gave me a tight hug, reminding me that she is there if I needed her, and exited the apartment.

I turned looking at the mess that engulfed my hardwood floor. Most of it was bubble wrap and broken down cardboard boxes. Disposing of that would be easy. It was the three large boxes of Erik paraphernalia that you didn't know what your were going to do with. You scanned the apartment for a hiding place, cursing the open floor plan you basically begged your realtor for.

You opted to put them in your bedroom closet, cause who in their right mind would be looking there? One by One you plopped the boxes down in the back of your closet shutting the door to lock away the secrets.

Three soft knocks on your door drew your attention. Chris had made it. You made your way over and answered the door pulling Chris into a soft hug then inviting him inside. the two of you went straight to the kitchen to dig in on this large pizza.

"Dominos and coconut ciroc." Chris smiled wide holding up the bottle of liquor. " A house warming gift."

You offered him a soft smile. Erik had always known that Pizza Hut's thin crust was your favorite pizza and that peach ciroc was the superior ciroc. But you tried hard not to fault chris for not knowing this about you.

You grabbed paper plates and cups for the two of you, since your dish sets had yet to be unpacked. Yall sat at the dining room table after deciding the couch could not yet be trusted, and engaged in light conversation. You spoke about how the move was, and how desiree almost dropped every lamp you owned from three flights of stairs. He spoke about work and how his white counterparts had asked him how to get waves despite the fact his hair was curly and messy. I directed him to speak with HR. But for the most part we were enjoying ourselves.

"Smile." Chris requested centering his phone with your face. You obliged with his command making sure that your slice of pizza made it into the picture. A wide smile broke on Chris face as he went about posting it to snapchat.

Once we finished off the pizza we moved into the living room where Chris followed through on his promise to setup my t.v. He had finally gotten it mounted to the wall and now we sat on the floor trying to figure out the cable box.

"Try the red one." You suggested. No where being qualified enough to do so. You had no idea what any of these wires meant, you just were trying to be involved.

Chris sighed at yet another failed attempt and went searching google for some type of step by step instructions. You bit down on the inside of your cheek in an attempt to hide your disappointment. Erik would be able to hook it up, Hell with his M.I.T degree he could probably program your t.v to do whatever you desired.

"I'm sorry babe. I have no clue what the fuck I'm doing." You chuckled some.

"It's fi-"

You were interrupted by the sound of someone's fist slamming against your front door. If you hadn't known any better you'd assume that it was the police. You and chris exchanged glances a little stunned by the suddenness.

"I swear to fucking god, Y/N, if you don't open this door!"

You had known that voice, missed that voice, yearned to hear that voice.... but not like this. You sprung up from the floor marching to the door unlocking it and before you got the opportunity to open it, Erik shoved the door causing it to fling open.

"You break up with me and start fucking with a new nigga a month later. What you had his ass lined up while I was gone?" He hissed at you.

He stalked over to you till he was inches away from your face, his body towering of yours. But if he thought he could walk in here an indimitae you... in your own home he had another thing coming.

"What I do with my pussy isn't your concern! You wasn't worried bout me when you left for three months, keep that same fucking energy." You spat back at him.

Now pushing him away from you, he grabbed your wrists before you could fully withdraw your hands back.

"I love you Y/N, but on my daddy grave... don't ever put your fucking hands on me again." He growled. His voice was deep and husky, the same way it was in the bedroom when he was rearranging your guts. and just how it made you weak then it made you weak now.

"I guess what we had didn't mean shit to you." He continued. His warm breath grazing your cheek.

"Yeah, Erik I could say the same for you."

"Say Bruh, don't be putting your hands on her!" Chris now interjected snatching your arm away from Erik. Part of you wanted to save Chris, tell him that despite it being really sweet, fighting with Erik was smoke he didn't want. But part of you also didn't want to bruise his ego.

"I will fuck this nigga up, on everything I love." Erik mumbled his eyes never leaving yours.

You rested your hand on top of chris' arm. a silent way of telling him that although the argument maybe heated you were safe when it came to erik. A sign telling him to back down, a sign he ignored.

"Nah shawty lets see what you bout!" Chris' ATL accent drenched every word he spoke. His accent that had always been heard when he spoke but never to this capacity.

You could see Erik's fist balled and the palm of his hands were white from clenching so hard. The few traces of Erik leaving his eyes as his Killmonger gaze began to come over them. I Knew then that if I allowed them to fight, Erik wouldn't stop till Chris was dead.

"Chris leave, we got shit to hash out. I'm fine. really I promise."

Chris scoffed at you. Obviously pissed off that you would choose Erik over him, but he did not protest. He grabbed his coat from the kitchen, and stopped in front of you,almost standing between you and Erik but not quite.

"Call if you need me. Forreal." He bent down placing a gentle but passionate kiss on your lips, before exiting.

You knew he had only done it to spite Erik and a large part of you was happy he did. You wanted to hurt Erik in the same way he had hurt you. And the way his eye twitched at the sight of you kissing another man let it known, it had gotten to him.

"Oh Yall boo'd up on snap now? Must be real fucking nice uh?! "

"So you keeping tabs on me! If only you cared this much when you vanished for three months!" You had stormed off into the kitchen him following closely behind you.

"I mean someone said my girl was hoeing I had to come see it for myself."

You stopped looking at Erik with nothing but disgust and pure disbelief. 'hoeing'! this coming from the man who had a body count well into the 40s when yall had first meet, and all you did was move on from this dead relationship.

You snatched the bottle of ciroc off the kitchen counter and chunked it as hard as you could toward him. Erik ducked the bottle smashing against the wall and shattering into a million pieces before the liquor puddled at his feet.

"Don't ever in your fucking life call me out my name."

Erik's lips pursed into a small smirk. Not the playful kind he had before he would pick you up and carry you to the bed. Nah this one was darker, more devious.

"You was fucking him when I was gone?"

You contemplated lying, saying the answer that you knew would piss him off. You wanted now more than ever to be able to tell him that you didn't shed any tears over him. That you got on your city girls shit and T'd the fuck up. But you couldn't.

"Does it fucking matter?! YOU left me, YOU abandoned me. You don't get to be the fucking victim Thats me!"

Erik slammed his fist against the granite top of the island letting out a labored growl.

"IT'S NOT THE FUCKING SIMPLE!" He shouted.

"THEN FUCKING EXPLAIN IT TO ME!" You yelled in Return. Lakes pooled at the brim of your eyes and you struggle to choke out your words. "You up and left for three months and said nothing Erik. Not even bye or a phone call or text letting me know you were alive. Then you came back and all was supposed to be forgiven, I was supposed to take you back?... You wouldn't even tell me where you went!"

You could no longer suppress your tears, they freely streamed your face. Erik turned away from you, as if the sight of seeing you cry had been just too much to bear. Or maybe it was the fact that he was the cause of my tears.

"Wakanda" He sighed returning his eyes to mine. "That's where I went. And I- I don't want to talk about it. but you're right, you deserve to know where I was."

You had some knowledge of Wakanda, and the situation with Erik's dad. You knew how broken the death of his dad left him. He was forever stuck in that moment, forever that sad little boy who was never allowed to grieve because in Oakland... people die everyday. It was what made him act so spiteful and ruthless when he got angry, the feeling that the world owes him something after taking everything away from him. The cause of his immature communication skills that caused explosive fights like this one.

"You could have spoke to me about it Erik... I would have been there for you. I could've went with you."

He shook his head no. His eyes glossy from the tears swelling in them.

"Nah you wouldn't, cause I was acting hella outta pocket.” A single tear fell. He used the back of his hand to wipe it away before looking back at you.

“You didn't need to be apart of that. I just- I thought the one thing I could count on was you being there when I got home. And when you wasn't, when you looked me in my eyes and told me to go 'fuck myself'... I thought there go another fucking person abandoning me. " You opened your mouth to speak but erik cut you off. "And that ain't on you. I should've no better than to leave and not say nothing, but I needed to do this alone."

You didn't have much more to say. You waltz over to Erik grabbing onto his shirt and pulled him into you until his lips were on yours. You had missed everything about Erik, but you probably missed his lips the most. You pulled away and saw the boyish grin on his tear stained face.

"I'm sorry I called you a hoe, I ain't mean that shit.” He dragged his hand down his face, erasing any trace of his fallen tears. Allowing him to resume being the cool calm Erik Stevens the world saw.

“And I'm sorry you had to put up with that lame nigga for a month!" He now joked.

You smacked his chest, telling him that Chris had been a great rebound. You even tried to rub in the fact that he was helping you set up the t.v. Erik looked back into the living room then bursted out in laughter.

"That shit ain't set up!" He walked over and fiddled with the wires. Within 5 minutes Erik had ESPN playing.

He flopped down on the couch causing it to make a loud creaking noise before it wobbled all the way to the floor. You couldn't help but to laugh.

"That nigga also help you 'set up' this couch."

#erik killmonger #Erik × reader #black panther #black women #black reader #oneshot #fanfic

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