#fluff ending

╭┈─────── ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-╰┈➤ ❝ [24/12/25] ❞

You are a friend in the Sully kids circle, someone who grew up with them within the omatikaya clan.

After years spent with them, it was only natural that as you grew older, so did your crush on the eldest Sully.

You were the one who fell first.

He is polite and protective by default, which makes you think his kindness is just... Neteyam being Neteyam.

SO. MUCH. PINING.

It's kind of apart of your everyday routine to watch Neteyam from a distance while he trains. You'd often notice the sweat on his brow and the way he sighs when his father isn't looking.

You're such an acts of service person. Mending loincloth straps, helping him with his braids, babysitting, you do all of it.

In this way, your love is fairly quiet. For Neteyam, you're a breath of fresh air since he knows you're a friend he can rely on.

Sometimes Neteyam will find his gear randomly fixed, you'll bring him utumauti after training, or you're the only one who doesn't ask him for anything.

You have quite a domestic and gentle character as well, which perfectly mirrors his needs. You are also observant and notice the weight Neteyam carries.

I think he’s the type to memorize your scent. Not in a creepy way, just it's something notable to him.

(You smell like pandoran flora, btw. Which sucks for him because that means he senses you EVERYWHERE.)

Neteyam is the type to be incredibly distracted by his sense of duty, but he leans into your touch subconsciously. Your tenderness is a rare indulgence he doesn't get to have often, especially since he's the eldest of his family.

If you're crafty or someone who enjoys collecting, then Neteyam carries a small token you gave him inside his pouch at all times.

One day, however, you saw him interacting with another Na'vi girl. She seemed to be teasing him, and against your will, you felt your heart clench.

You knew you probably shouldn't, but it was too enticing not to listen in on their conversation. Your heart dropped when you tuned into what he was saying.

"I’ve let myself get too comfortable lately. I’ve been spending too much time on things that don't matter for my training. From now on, I have to focus on what’s important."

But... but you're who he spends all his comfortable time with.

Is he inferring that you're a waste of time? That you don't matter?

K-RRR-CK. Hear that? That was your heart shattering into a million tiny pieces.

I guess Neteyam's future plans don't include you anymore.

Ever since overhearing this conversation, you decided to pull back to protect your heart.

You eventually stop showing up to your usual spots, and whenever you do talk, you remain polite. There's an odd frigid edge to your voice, though. And Neteyam notices it fast.

This actually started to seriously hurt his feelings. He didn't know what he did wrong to push you away, so he starts to look for you, only for you to somehow evade him time and time again.

Because of this, Neteyam starts to become irritable and loses focus in his training.

Why does the sun seem to feel less bright without you around?

And this, ladies and gentleman, is where he starts to fall harder.

I think he wouldn't realize he's in love until the threat of losing you hits him.

And when he does fall... it’s intense, devoted, and a little bit desperate.

After a few weeks of being ignored, evaded, or treated like you haven't know him for ten godforsaken years, Neteyam began to reach his breaking point.

When he realizes that you're distancing yourself from him, he accidentally snaps at Lo'ak because he's so stressed about you.

One day, an intense rainstorm had hit, and many Na'vi retreated to caverns for shelter to wait it out.

He followed suit, until he spotted you also doing the same thing, and grabbed you by the wrist to whisk you away back into the forest.

Seeking shelter near some buttress roots, Neteyam cornered you and had you backed up against the trunk. His grip on you is firm, but not enough to hurt.

"Stop. Just - stop for one second."

You refuse to meet his eyes, imploring him to let you go. People are looking, he needs to go back to his father, it's raining...

He doesn't really seem to care at any of your logical protests. Instead, he steps closer, forcing you back against the rough bark of the root until there’s nowhere left to retreat.

"I don't care about my father right now. I care about why you’ve been looking at me like I’m a stranger for the last three weeks."

You tell him that it's better this way, that you're just making it easier for him.

He cages you further against the tree. "Easier? You’re making everything impossible. I can’t think, I can’t lead, I can’t even breathe because I’m too busy wondering what I did to make you hate me."

This hurts your heart to hear. "I don't hate you! I’m just... I’m just staying out of your way, Neteyam. You have so much to do."

The next thing he says makes you feel like you could hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

"You think you’re a distraction? You’re the only thing keeping me sane."

While standing in the rain, the two of you finally have a heartfelt but charged conversation about the way you feel.

Neteyam admits that while you might have loved him first, he cannot imagine his life, or his future as a leader, without you by his side.

You exchange an oel ngati kameie, and it's within this moment that the two of you finally bond properly.

I hope you don't regret this, because you've just unlocked physically clingy Neteyam.

He doesn't want to let go of your hand for the rest of the day.

I think that once the two of you finally date, Neteyam finally lets someone else take care of him for once.

“Why?”

He hesitated. That was worse than anything. Chan hesitating meant disaster.

“Did… Seungmin tell you anything?”

“About what?” you asked, laughing a little because surely nothing was that bad. “Did he talk trash about me again? It’s fine, he does that all the ti—”

“He has a girlfriend.”

Your world did that annoying slow-motion spin thing. Like you’d stood up too fast, except you were sitting down.

“what.”

Chan exhaled. “I thought you knew. I thought he told you. You two are always texting so I figured— I didn’t wanna be the one to—”

“no. no he didn’t tell me.”

Your voice was small. Pathetic. You hated how it sounded.

“I’m really sorry,” Chan murmured. He sounded genuinely upset. “I swear I didn’t think he… kept it from you.”

You swallowed, hard.

“how long?”

“A few weeks.”

A FEW. WEEKS.

Weeks of him texting you late at night. Weeks of him teasing you, calling you cute when you were annoyed, asking if you missed him, acting jealous, acting close, acting—

You hung up before you cried. Chan didn’t deserve the emotional flood.

Your hands were shaking as you typed.

—~~•~~—

••—••—••—••—••—••—••—••—••—••—••—••

Taglist: @hanjifangirlie @stronglychanbiased @0omillo0 @enhacolor @vernorica123 @hanwood @lilbugthings @sugarcoathan @my-neurodivergent-world @velvetmoonlght @the-immortal-dreamer

It’s not clumsy or experimental. There’s no hesitation, no awkward fumbling. This is practiced. Controlled. Fluid. Your hands glide with quiet confidence, your body lifting effortlessly as your legs hook around the cool metal. The way your thighs tighten, the arch of your back, the smooth roll of your hips, every movement is deliberate, graceful, and so undeniably sensual that it knocks the air straight out of his lungs.

You look… powerful. Confident. Like the pole isn’t something you’re trying to conquer, it’s something that already belongs to you.

Jeongin doesn’t move.

He can’t.

He just stands there in the doorway, shoes half off, bag still dangling from his fingers, watching you with parted lips and a racing heart.

You haven’t noticed him yet. You’re too lost in the rhythm, hair falling across your face as you dip low and pull yourself back up with effortless strength. The way your muscles flex and release, the subtle sheen of sweat on your skin, the complete focus in your expression, it does something dangerous to him.

His throat goes dry.

Because he likes it.

He likes it so much it almost scares him.

But right on the heels of that heat comes something darker, something ugly and possessive that curls tight in his chest.

Where the hell did you learn to move like that?

His jaw clenches before he can stop it.

You finish the combination with a soft, controlled landing, breath coming a little quicker, chest rising and falling. That’s when you finally glance toward the doorway and freeze.

“Oh,” you say. You straighten quickly, pushing damp strands of hair back from your face. A small, surprised smile curves your lips. “You’re home early.”

Jeongin doesn’t answer right away.

He’s still staring. Still trying to untangle the storm in his head.

“That was…” His voice comes out lower, rougher than he intended. “You’ve been practicing?”

You nod, suddenly a little shy under the intensity of his gaze. “Yeah. I didn’t want to tell you until I was better. I started classes a few weeks ago.”

Classes.

The word lands wrong.

His expression shifts, just slightly. “Classes?”

“Mhm,” you say, stepping away from the pole and suddenly feeling exposed. “It’s just for fun. It’s actually really hard, I’m still kinda bad at it, but”

“With who?”

You blink. “What?”

His hands slip into his pockets, shoulders visibly tense. “Where? Who teaches it?”

You tell him the name of the studio, casual and unaware of the way his mind is already spiraling into dark corners.

“Is it… co ed?” he asks, trying and failing to sound casual.

You tilt your head, brows furrowing slightly. “Yeah? Why?”

Jeongin exhales sharply through his nose.

Because now all he can picture is a room full of eyes on you. Watching you move exactly like that. Watching the way your body flows, the way your thighs grip the pole, the way you look when you’re confident and lost in the music.

His chest tightens painfully.

“Nothing,” he mutters, looking away.

You pause, really looking at him now.

“…Innie.”

He doesn’t respond.

You take a cautious step closer. “What’s wrong?”

He shrugs, but it’s stiff. Defensive. “Nothing’s wrong.”

“You’re acting weird.”

“I’m not” He cuts himself off, jaw flexing. “I just didn’t know you were doing… that.”

You cross your arms loosely, grounding yourself. “And?”

“And you’re…” He gestures vaguely at the pole, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Good at it. Really good.”

You blink slowly.

This is not how you thought this moment would go.

“I’ve been practicing,” you say carefully.

“Yeah,” he breathes, a sharp edge slipping into his tone. “I can tell.”

The silence that follows feels heavier.

“…Jeongin,” you say quietly. “What are you actually trying to say?”

He hesitates, shame flickering across his face because he knows how this sounds. He knows it’s not fair.

But the question claws its way out anyway.

“…Did you learn stuff like that before?” His voice drops, almost too soft. “Like… before me. Have you done that for other people? In front of other guys?”

The silence stretches.

You don’t look angry. You just look… disappointed. Disappointed and a little sad.

“So that’s what this is about,” you murmur.

“I didn’t mean it like that” he starts, already backpedaling.

“You kind of did.”

He shuts his mouth.

You sigh, uncrossing your arms. “I started pole because I wanted to feel strong. Because it makes me feel good in my own body. Not for anyone else. And no” you add gently before he can interrupt, “I didn’t learn it for some guy. I never performed it for my exes. I’ve never done this for anybody.”

Your voice softens further.

“I barely felt confident enough to even try it until recently.”

That lands like a punch to the gut.

Jeongin’s shoulders drop, the fight draining out of him in an instant.

“…Oh.”

You step closer, reaching for his hand. He lets you take it.

“You’re the first person who’s ever seen me like this,” you say, squeezing his fingers. “Actually seen me. I fall all the time when I’m alone. I just… didn’t fall today.”

A tiny, embarrassed smile tugs at his lips.

“You didn’t look like someone who falls,” he mumbles.

You grin softly. “Good. Means I’m getting better.”

He squeezes your hand back, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I wasn’t trying to make it about me.”

“I know,” you repeat, a hint of amusement in your tone. “You were just being jealous.”

He groans, covering his face with his free hand. “Don’t say it like that.”

You laugh quietly and step fully into his space, letting him pull you in by the waist.

“It’s okay,” you murmur, resting your hands on his chest. “It’s kinda cute.”

“It’s not cute,” he mutters, but his arms are already wrapping around you tighter, thumbs brushing slow circles against your sides.

You tilt your head, eyes sparkling. “So… you didn’t like it?”

He gives you a long, heated look, ears turning pink.

“Don’t play with me.”

You smile, a little smug. “Then say it.”

He leans in until his forehead rests against yours, voice low and honest.

“…I liked it. A lot.”

“Mhmm.”

His grip tightens possessively.

“You’re gonna show me again,” he says, almost pleading. “Just me. Okay?”

You pretend to think about it for a second, then nod, melting into him.

“Just you.”

His grin finally breaks through, soft, relieved, and entirely yours.

Masterlist Taglist

In the aftermath of actions that had rippled with pain through countless lives, the concept of choice seemed like a distant luxury, one not freely bestowed upon all, especially not upon those who had inflicted such profound suffering. Erik, acutely aware of the devastation he had wrought, had long since abandoned any hope of mercy. He had steeled himself for retribution, for the unyielding hand of justice from T'Challa, fully anticipating a singular, harsh decree: permanent banishment from the sacred lands of Wakanda. Yet, fate, or perhaps T'Challa's discerning wisdom, had a different path in mind. Against all of Erik's expectations, T'Challa presented him not with an ultimatum, but with a choice: an opportunity for redemption, a chance to shed the weight of his past and embrace the potential for a better self, a potential T'Challa believed lay dormant within him. The alternative remained, stark and clear: depart Wakanda forever, never to return.

Logically, the decision should have been effortless, a swift exit from a place he had sought to dismantle. But within the intricate tapestry of his conflicted soul, something, or rather, someone, held him tethered. That someone was you, an outsider, much like him in your initial arrival, present in Wakanda due to the invaluable contributions you offered. He was acutely aware of the palpable disdain and fear in the gazes of others, their eyes reflecting the image of a monster. But your gaze, it was different. It seemed to pierce through the layers of his hardened exterior, to see beyond the monster, as if you perceived a hidden depth, a part of him that only you recognized. It was this profound, unspoken understanding that rooted him to Wakanda. It was because of you that he chose to stay, because for the first time in what felt like an eternity, someone looked at him and made him feel like he belonged, like he truly mattered.

He resolved to endure every trial, every challenge T'Challa would place before him, and to withstand the ostracism from those who condemned his past actions. He would bear it all, for the promise of seeing you at the end of each day was a beacon in his desolate world. And indeed, he did. Each night, he would find you, engrossed in your work at your desk, one leg casually outstretched, the other resting against a footstool, your cane leaning against the desk's edge. Your lips would be pressed together in a silent testament to your concentration. From beyond your immediate line of sight, he would simply observe, content in the quietude of your presence. He cherished the peaceful tableau you presented from afar, a fragile beauty he was terrified to disturb. A lingering fear gnawed at him, the fear that this profound connection he felt was merely a construct of his own desperate yearning, that your gentle understanding was nothing more than pity.

He found himself drawn to the quiet rhythm of your work, a silent observer in the vast, vibrant expanse of Wakanda. Every evening, as dusk settled over the Golden City, he would seek you out. He’d watch you, hunched over your desk, the soft glow of the lamps illuminating the fierce concentration etched on your face. Your movements were precise, your focus unwavering, and he'd simply exist in the periphery of your awareness, a ghost in the corners of your vision.

His observations weren't limited to the quiet of your evenings. He saw you often with Shuri, the princess a whirlwind of restless energy and brilliant ideas. You, on the other hand, were a steady anchor, your calm demeanor a perfect counterbalance to her effervescence. He'd watch as you and Shuri hunched over holographic schematics, your fingers tracing invisible lines in the air, murmuring in low tones about complex algorithms and vibranium applications. He saw the easy camaraderie between you, the way Shuri respected your intellect, even when she playfully chided you for your late nights. He’d catch glimpses of you in the royal labs, your brow furrowed in thought as you manipulated intricate Wakandan technology, your explanations to Shuri punctuated by gestures that were both precise and elegant. He recognized in those moments a shared passion for innovation, a silent language spoken between two brilliant minds.

He also witnessed your presence in the council meetings, a stark contrast to his own past, fraught with violence and defiance. In the grand council chambers, surrounded by the solemn faces of Wakanda's elders and leaders, you spoke with a quiet authority that commanded respect. He remembered one particular session, the air thick with tension as the council debated Wakanda's cautious approach to vibranium's global distribution. While others spoke of caution and tradition, you presented a compelling argument for responsible outreach, your voice clear and unwavering as you articulated the potential for global betterment. He watched as you deftly navigated the political currents, your logic unassailable, your commitment to Wakanda's future evident in every word. You weren't afraid to challenge established norms, always advocating for a path that balanced progress with preservation. He saw the respect in T'Challa's eyes as he listened to your insights, recognizing the valuable asset you were becoming to the nation.

He was there, too, when Shuri, her patience worn thin, would finally erupt in frustration over your relentless work ethic. He’d overhear their hushed arguments, Shuri’s voice laced with genuine concern, yours with a quiet obstinacy. "You can't keep doing this! You'll burn yourself out!" she'd exclaim, gesturing wildly. Your response would be calm, measured, a subtle deflective shrug, a murmured assurance that you were fine. But he saw through it. He saw the fatigue etched around your eyes, the slight tremble in your hand as you reached for your cane, the way you sometimes leaned heavily against the desk when you thought no one was looking. He witnessed the subtle signs that others might miss, the unspoken truth that clung to you like a shadow.

He saw your immense value to Wakanda – your brilliance, your dedication, your unique understanding of vibranium and its applications. You were a bridge between their ancient traditions and the limitless possibilities of the future. You were a force for good, undeniably so. But he also saw why you were truly there, the unspoken, devastating reason. It was in the faint tremor of your hands, the occasional wince you tried to hide, the way your breath sometimes hitched when you pushed yourself too hard. You were sick. A silent, insidious battle waged within you, slowly, relentlessly, claiming its toll.

It all made a chilling, undeniable sense. Wakanda had something you desperately needed, a cure, a treatment, a chance at prolonged life that no other nation could offer. And in return, you offered your unparalleled intellect, your very essence, a brilliant mind exchanged for precious time. He knew then that his own unexpected choice to stay was intertwined with your desperate need, a strange, tragic dance of reciprocal necessity.

It was one of those nights. The palace, usually a hive of activity, had settled into a hushed stillness, the only sounds the soft hum of vibranium technology and the distant chirping of crickets. Erik, a restless shadow in the dim corridors, found himself doing what he often did: wandering. He ignored the wary glances from the few Dora Milaje on late-night patrol, their expressions a familiar blend of suspicion and reluctant tolerance. His focus, as always, was singular: finding you.

He knew you wouldn't be in your lab. He'd seen Shuri earlier, her arms crossed, a stern but affectionate look on her face as she practically herded you out. You, ever the workaholic, had protested weakly, a mumbled "I'm fine, Shuri," but even from a distance, Erik could tell you were anything but. As you finally conceded, slowly making your way down the hall, Shuri watched you go, a soft sigh escaping her lips. "That boy is going to run himself thin," she muttered, not to herself, but to the empty air, her worry evident. Her eyes then flickered, catching Erik's silent vigil in the distance. She paused, a flicker of surprise, then a knowing glint in her eyes before she turned back into the glowing sanctuary of her lab, leaving him to his quiet pursuit.

He also knew you wouldn't be in your room. Your quarters, though meticulously maintained by the palace staff, often felt strangely unoccupied. You were rarely there, a stark contrast to the lively bustle of Shuri's lab or the quiet intensity of your own workspace. It was a detail he'd noticed early on, a subtle indicator of your tireless dedication, or perhaps, your reluctance to face the solitude that awaited you there.

He turned a corner, and there you were. Slumped against the cool, polished wall, your head rested at an awkward angle on your shoulder. Your cane lay beside you on the floor, a silent sentinel. Despite the evident discomfort of your position, a profound sense of peace seemed to emanate from you, a quiet stillness that Erik had come to recognize as uniquely yours.

He moved without a sound, a phantom in the hushed corridor, and sank to the floor beside you. He didn't look at you immediately, instead fixing his gaze on the massive, vibrant painting that adorned the opposite wall – a tapestry of Wakandan history, rich with swirling colors and ancestral figures. The silence stretched between you, not awkward, but companionable, filled only by the distant hum of the palace.

Finally, he broke the quiet, his voice a low rumble, rougher than he intended. "You okay?" he asked, the words feeling clumsy on his tongue. He allowed his eyes to finally drift to you, and the blunt assessment escaped him before he could stop it. "You look like shit."

A soft, almost imperceptible chuckle escaped you. Your head slowly shifted, rolling from one shoulder to the other until you were facing him, a small, wry smile playing on your lips. Your eyes, usually sharp with intellect, held a weariness he knew intimately.

"Took me sitting against a wall like a derelict for you to finally talk to me, huh, Killmonger?" you murmured, your voice a little raspy from disuse, the smile widening slightly. "All under the guise of asking if I'm 'okay,' of course."

Erik felt a flicker of surprise, then a ghost of a smirk touched his lips. He hadn't expected you to call him out, or to use that name. Most people in Wakanda either avoided it or spat it with venom. But from you, it felt... different. Almost familiar, like an old scar recognized.

"Yeah, well," he grunted, the smirk deepening slightly, "figured it was a safe bet you weren't about to collapse from over-excitement in the lab." He shifted, settling more comfortably against the wall, his gaze still fixed on the painting, though he was acutely aware of your presence beside him. The air between you hummed with an unspoken understanding, a shared sense of being outside the norm. He appreciated that you didn't sugarcoat things, didn't pretend he was someone he wasn't. It was a stark contrast to the careful tiptoeing of everyone else.

You chuckled again, a soft, dry sound. "Always the charmer, Killmonger." You adjusted your position slightly, a small wince betraying the effort. He caught it, the subtle tightening of your jaw, the fleeting tremor in your hand as you instinctively reached for your cane. He didn't comment, just watched, his eyes missing nothing.

"Seriously though," he pressed, his voice losing some of its earlier gruffness, a hint of genuine concern seeping in despite himself. "You really are pushing it. Shuri's ready to put you in a padded room."

You let out a soft sigh, turning your head to also look at the painting. "She means well," you said, your voice softer now, tinged with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. "But there's… a lot to do. And not a lot of time."

The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Not a lot of time. It was the truth he'd seen in your eyes, in the subtle signs your body gave away. He felt a familiar knot tighten in his gut, a mix of grim acceptance and something else he couldn't quite name – a flicker of frustration, perhaps, at the unfairness of it. He wanted to ask more, to demand answers about what exactly was consuming you, but he knew better. You weren't one to offer explanations unless you chose to.

He simply nodded, acknowledging your unspoken burden. "So, this is your version of taking it easy, huh?" he finally said, gesturing vaguely at your slumped form. "Propping yourself up against a wall in the middle of the night."

You managed another small smile. "It's surprisingly comfortable," you quipped, a flicker of your usual dry wit returning. "And quiet. A good place to think."

"So," Erik mused, his voice a low rumble, "what's so captivating about a wall that's got you thinking this hard?" He finally turned his head fully, his eyes, dark and intense, fixing on yours. "What's on your mind?"

You let out a low groan as you shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the unyielding wall. The slight grimace on your face was fleeting, quickly replaced by a weary resignation. Your gaze met his, a hint of something unreadable in their depths.

"You," you admitted, the word a soft exhalation. It hung in the quiet air between you, a surprising admission.

Erik's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. He waited, his expression unreadable, a silent invitation for you to elaborate.

You continued, your voice a murmur. "I've been wondering why you're always there, in the shadows. Always watching. Never talking, not really. What do you get out of it, just... observing?" You gestured vaguely around the empty hall. "It's not exactly a thrilling spectator sport, watching someone work themselves to death." A bitter laugh escaped you, devoid of humor.

He held your gaze, the intensity in his eyes unwavering. "I'll tell you," he said, his voice low and steady, a challenge underlying his words. "I'll tell you why I'm always watching, why I'm here. If you tell me what's going on with you." He paused, letting his words sink in, then added, his voice dropping almost to a whisper, "Why you're really here."

You nodded, the slight bob of your head betraying a deeper weariness. With a soft groan, you began to push yourself up from the wall, your cane clattering lightly as you reached for it. Even with its support, your body swayed precariously, a sudden tremor running through your frame.

Erik was on his feet in a single, fluid motion, his hand hovering inches from your arm, ready to steady you if you faltered. His dark eyes, usually so guarded, held a flicker of genuine concern. He didn't speak, simply waited, a silent sentinel.

"Alright," you murmured, your voice a little softer than before, "I'll talk. But... not out here." You glanced down the empty corridor, then back at him, a hint of a wry smile playing on your lips. "Somewhere a little more comfortable than a glorified hallway wall, don't you think?"

Without waiting for his reply, you reached out and lightly patted his chest, your fingers lingering for a brief moment against the solid muscle beneath his shirt. It was a small, almost unconscious gesture, yet it held a surprising intimacy, a quiet acknowledgment of his presence, his unspoken offer of support. Then, your hand dropping, you began to move past him, your cane tapping a steady rhythm against the polished floor as you headed in the direction of your room, leaving him to follow.

He watched your retreating back for a moment, the faint echo of your touch still a surprising warmth on his chest. Then, with a silent stride, Erik fell into step behind you, maintaining a respectful distance.

The journey to your room was a quiet one, punctuated only by the rhythmic tap of your cane and the soft shuffle of his boots on the polished floors. The palace, usually bustling, felt almost deserted at this late hour. Shadows stretched long and distorted from the ornate pillars, creating a hushed, almost intimate atmosphere. He observed your movements: the slight stiffness in your gait, the way you occasionally leaned a little more heavily on your cane, a subtle grimace flitting across your face when you thought he wasn't looking. He was acutely aware of the vulnerability in your posture, a stark contrast to the sharp, unyielding intellect you displayed in the labs and council meetings.

He noticed small details along the way – a framed piece of Wakandan art you paused to glance at, the way your hand instinctively reached out to brush against a cool vibranium railing. You didn't speak, nor did he. The unspoken agreement to talk seemed to hang in the air, a silent promise waiting to be fulfilled once you reached your destination. He wasn't sure what to expect from this conversation, from you. He had prepared for confrontation, for defiance, for anything but this quiet vulnerability.

Finally, you reached a door, set a little apart from the others in the corridor. With a quiet click, you unlocked it and pushed it open, revealing a space that, while sparse, held a surprising sense of personal warmth. A comfortable-looking armchair sat by a large window, a stack of books on a small table beside it. The air smelled faintly of herbal tea and cinnamon. You stepped inside, leaving the door ajar, a silent invitation for him to follow.

Erik quietly closed the door behind him, the soft click echoing in the sudden intimacy of the room. He watched as you kicked off your shoes, and followed suit, shucking his own heavy boots. His eyes, ever observant, took in the details of your sanctuary. An old, ornate tea set sat on a small desk, undoubtedly a gift from Queen Ramonda, the various tea leaves beside it hinting at calming rituals. Books lined the shelves, their spines worn from countless readings. He noted the soft, inviting bed, and above it, a painting he recognized – a vibrant depiction of the Wakandan sunrise, the same one he'd often seen you staring at from afar.

He turned back to you, and a silent gasp caught in his throat. You were in the process of changing, having just pulled off your overshirt. The lamplight, soft as it was, illuminated your form in a way the shadows of the hall had not. He’d thought his own scarred body was a testament to hardship, but the sight of you was a different kind of shock. Your skin was startlingly pale, almost translucent, and beneath it, a delicate tracery of veins was unnervingly visible. As you turned slightly, he could see the faint outline of your spine, too prominent, too fragile. It was a stark, visceral illustration of the sickness you carried.

Erik's gaze snapped away, his head whipping around to pretend a sudden, intense interest in a framed, ancient Wakandan map on the wall. He stared at it, his jaw tight, giving you privacy as you quickly finished changing into something more comfortable – a loose, soft pull over and joggers.

"It's not as bad as it looks," you said, your voice a little softer now, tinged with a weariness that settled deep into his bones. He heard the rustle of fabric as you moved, then the soft creak of the bed as you laid down, settling against the pillows.

He finally turned back, finding you propped up on your side, your arm extended, patting the spot beside you on the bed. Your eyes, calm yet searching, met his. Erik hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face.

You managed a weak, almost wry smile. "Come on, Killmonger," you said, a hint of amusement in your voice. "Laying beside another guy isn't going to kill you. And I'm not contagious, as far as I know."

Erik sighed, the sound a low exhalation, and then, with a quiet grace surprising for his build, he moved. He eased himself onto the bed beside you, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight. He didn't look at you, his gaze fixed on the vibrant painting above, the one you often stared at. The colors swirled, a silent explosion of Wakandan beauty, reflecting in the dim light of the room.

He took a slow, deliberate breath, the air filling his lungs before he spoke. "Erik." The single word, his own name, hung in the air, a stark declaration.

You turned your head to face him, your eyebrow subtly crooked in question, a silent invitation for him to elaborate.

He shifted, turning his head to meet your gaze. His dark eyes held a rare vulnerability, a flicker of something he rarely showed to anyone. "I'd like you to call me Erik," he said, his voice softer than you'd ever heard it, a quiet plea in the request.

You simply smiled, a small, genuine curve of your lips. Your eyes, deep and knowing, never left his, even as you began to speak.

"I'm sick, Erik," you admitted, the words flowing out in a quiet, steady stream. "I can't even begin to tell you what it is, because I don't even know myself. Doctors... they can't pinpoint it." Your voice was devoid of self-pity, just a weary acceptance of an unyielding truth.

You then turned your head, your gaze returning to the vibrant painting above. "I'm here because T'Challa thought Wakanda had the answer," you continued, your voice distant, thoughtful. "A temporary fix. A way to slow it down, to buy me time, until they could figure it out. And all he asked in return was that I respected them, respected Wakanda. Everything else – working with Shuri, contributing to the council, everything I do now – added bonus I guess."

Erik lay still, his gaze still fixed on the painting, but his mind was racing. Sick. The word hung in the air, a stark contrast to the strength and intellect he'd witnessed from you. A temporary fix. It explained so much: your relentless work, the guardedness, the subtle signs of frailty he’d observed. T'Challa's trust, and your reciprocated respect, felt like a silent rebuke to his own past actions, driven by a thirst for power and vengeance. You, a virtual stranger, had been given a chance at life, a chance at belonging, by the very people he’d sought to destroy, all because you had something they needed, something you desperately needed in return.

He turned his head slowly, meeting your gaze again. His expression was unreadable, a complex mixture of thoughts swirling beneath the surface. There was a flicker of something akin to grim understanding, a recognition of the brutal truth you had just laid bare. His own body bore the scars of a different kind of sickness, a rage that had consumed him. But yours was a silent, internal war, fought with every breath.

"So," he began, his voice low, a rough rasp, "you're trading your brain for borrowed time." It wasn't a question, but a blunt statement of fact, stripped of any pretense or pity. He watched your reaction, searching for any sign of weakness or regret, but found only a quiet acceptance.

You didn't flinch, your gaze steady. "Something like that," you confirmed, your voice barely above a whisper. "It's a fair trade, I think. I get more days. Wakanda gets... well, whatever I can offer." A faint, melancholic smile touched your lips. "They're trying, Erik. They really are."

A muscle in Erik's jaw twitched. He thought of his own desperate need for Wakanda, for what it could grant him: power, control, the means to reshape the world. You, on the other hand, sought it for survival, for a chance to simply be. The irony wasn't lost on him. He felt a strange tension building within him, a brewing storm of emotions he rarely allowed himself to acknowledge. Pity wasn't one of them, not truly. It was something more primal, a recognition of shared mortality, perhaps even a nascent, unwilling respect for your quiet fight.

He looked back at the vibrant painting above, its bright colors seeming to mock the fragile reality of your life. The silence stretched between you once more, but this time, it was different. It was no longer the silence of observation, but the silence of shared truth, a quiet acknowledgment of the profound and unexpected connection that had just been forged.

He lay there for a long moment, the vibrant colors of the painting above seeming to press down on the quiet truth of your words. Borrowed time. The phrase echoed in his mind, stark and unyielding. It was a currency he understood, a battle against an unseen enemy. He thought of his own fight, his own desperate grab for what he felt was owed to him, and how it contrasted with your quiet acceptance, your selfless contribution.

"And that's why you don't sleep," he finally said, his voice flat, devoid of judgment. It wasn't a question, but a statement born of observation and the recent revelation. "Why you're always working."

You shifted slightly beside him, a soft sigh escaping your lips. "Every moment here is a moment I might not have later," you murmured, your gaze still fixed on the painting. "Every algorithm I refine, every application of vibranium I help Shuri discover... it's a small way to justify the grace I've been given. To leave something behind." A hint of sadness, fleeting but potent, touched your voice.

Erik turned his head fully to look at you, his dark eyes intense. "Grace," he repeated, the word tasting unfamiliar on his tongue. It wasn't a concept he was intimately familiar with, certainly not in the context of his own life. "You think it's grace?"

You finally met his gaze, a faint, almost wistful smile on your lips. "What else would you call it, Erik? They have no obligation to help me. Yet, they do. And T'Challa... he trusts me, even with me being an outsider, even with this." You gestured vaguely at yourself, encompassing your illness.

He frowned, a deep line appearing between his brows. Trust was another foreign concept in his world, often a weakness exploited. Yet, he saw it here, a tangible force. He considered the sheer audacity of T'Challa's choice, to offer you, an outsider with a profound, unspoken vulnerability, such a pivotal role in Wakanda's future. And he considered his own unexpected presence here, an even greater act of defiance against expectation.

The silence settled again, a comfortable weight between you two. The quiet hum of the palace, the distant city, faded into the background. For the first time in what felt like an eternity, Erik felt a strange sense of... stillness. Not peace, not yet, but a quiet truce with the world, found in the unexpected company of someone fighting a battle far more personal than his own.

As the silence stretched on, a comfortable weight settling between you two, you shifted slightly. Your body, weary from the day's toil and the relentless internal battle, instinctively sought comfort. With a soft sigh, your head came to rest gently against Erik's shoulder. He tensed almost imperceptibly at first, a reflexive reaction to unexpected intimacy, but then he remained still, a solid anchor in your fragile world.

"I answered your question, Erik," you murmured, your voice a soft whisper against his ear, the warmth of your breath a surprising sensation against his skin. "Now you have to answer mine."

Erik’s shoulder was stiff beneath your head, a testament to his initial surprise, but he didn't pull away. He remained utterly still, the warmth of your head a foreign, unexpected weight. Your question hung in the air, a silent challenge he couldn't ignore. He had demanded honesty from you, and now it was his turn to deliver. The vibrant painting above seemed to mock him with its brightness, contrasting with the dark corners of his own mind.

He took a slow, deep breath, the subtle rise and fall of his chest a silent preparation. "I watched you," he began, his voice a low rumble, rougher now with the effort of articulation, "because you were different." He paused, searching for the right words. "Everyone else here... they either feared me, hated me, or they were T'Challa's people, following orders. They looked at me like a monster." He could feel the familiar bitterness begin to creep into his tone, but he forced it down.

"You," he continued, turning his head slightly so his gaze could meet yours, even though your head was still resting on his shoulder, "you just... looked. Like you were figuring me out. You didn't flinch. You didn't pity me. You saw something else." His voice softened almost imperceptibly, a raw honesty creeping in. "And you were an outsider, like me. Someone here for a reason no one else really understood. Someone who was… useful." He gave a dry, humorless chuckle. "I saw how important you were to Shuri, to the council. And I saw the cost."

He shifted, a subtle movement that subtly invited you to adjust, though you remained where you were. "I saw the toll it took on you," he admitted, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "The way you worked, the way you pushed. I knew there was something more. Something you were fighting that wasn't about Wakanda, but about you." He finally looked away from you, his gaze returning to the painting, as if seeking answers in its vibrant chaos. "I didn't know what it was," he confessed, "but I knew it was serious. And I... I recognized a fighter in you. Someone willing to burn out rather than give up."

The air in the room was thick with unspoken truths. He had laid bare a part of himself, a vulnerable admission of his curiosity, his reluctant acknowledgment of your shared isolation and silent struggle.

Your head remained resting on his shoulder, a silent testament to the raw honesty of his words. You had felt his gaze on you for months, a persistent, watchful presence, but to hear his reasons articulated, stripped bare of malice or pity, was disarming. He hadn't seen a monster, but a fighter, an outsider, someone facing their own battle. It was a connection you hadn't anticipated, a mirror reflecting a part of yourself you rarely showed.

"A fighter," you echoed softly, the words barely a whisper, a faint, melancholic smile playing on your lips. "Or just too stubborn to quit." You shifted slightly, the gentle movement a silent invitation for him to remain. The warmth of his shoulder beneath your head was oddly comforting, a grounding presence in the quiet of the room. "I guess we both know a thing or two about fighting, don't we?"

You closed your eyes for a moment, absorbing the weight of his confession, the unexpected intimacy of the shared silence. The hum of the palace, the distant sounds of the Wakandan night, all faded into the background, leaving only the quiet rhythm of your breaths. In this small, intimate space, a fragile understanding had formed, an unspoken alliance between two unexpected souls.

Your hand, almost instinctively, came up to rest lightly on Erik's chest. Your fingers, slender and delicate, began a soft, rhythmic tapping against the hard muscle beneath his shirt, a silent counterpoint to the steady thrum of his heartbeat. It was a gesture of unexpected intimacy, a quiet acknowledgment of the raw truths that had just passed between you.

Erik remained still, but a subtle shift occurred within him. He felt the light pressure of your head, the gentle tap of your fingers, and for the first time in a long time, the rigid tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. He leaned into you, a barely perceptible shift, as if allowing himself to unwind, to finally shed the heavy armor he wore against the world. "Yeah," he rumbled, his voice a low, almost guttural agreement. "Yeah, I guess we do."

You opened your eyes then, your head still resting against his shoulder, and looked up at him. His gaze was already on you, dark and deep, a complex storm of emotions swirling within their depths. A genuine smile, soft and unburdened, blossomed on your face – a smile he hadn't seen before, a stark contrast to the wry amusement or weary acceptance you usually displayed.

"You love me," you stated, your voice a quiet, unwavering conviction, your eyes never leaving his. "I can tell."

Erik froze. The subtle softening in his posture vanished, replaced by an instantaneous rigidity that radiated from him. His dark eyes, which moments ago had held a flicker of something akin to understanding, widened almost imperceptibly, a raw, exposed vulnerability flashing within them before they hardened into a familiar, defensive mask. The casual ease of your touch, the gentle weight of your head on his shoulder, suddenly felt like a brand.

The air crackled with a sudden, palpable tension. He had braced himself for many things: for you to ask about his past, to condemn his actions, even to offer pity. But this? This unvarnished, direct declaration, spoken with such quiet certainty, was a direct hit to the heavily armored core of his being. Love. The word was a foreign body in the rough landscape of his existence, a concept he had long ago dismissed as a weakness, a luxury, or a tool for manipulation.

His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath his skin. He didn't pull away, but the warmth of his shoulder seemed to become an unyielding wall. He stared down at you, his gaze intense, searching for any hint of mockery, a hidden agenda, or even delusion. But your eyes, still wide and guileless, held only a disarming sincerity, a genuine, undeniable belief in your own words.

The silence that followed was deafening, far heavier than any that had passed between you before. It was a silence filled with the unspoken questions, the shock of your declaration, and Erik's own desperate internal struggle to process a word that had no place in his lexicon, especially not from you.

Erik's breath hitched, a harsh, almost pained sound that escaped his throat. The word, "love," hung in the air between you like an unexploded ordnance. His dark eyes, which had been fixed on yours in a stunned silence, finally broke away, snapping to stare intensely at the painting above, as if seeking an answer there. His jaw was clenched so tight a muscle jumped in his temple.

"Don't... don't say that," he choked out, his voice a low, ragged whisper, laced with an unfamiliar mix of disbelief and something akin to fear. It wasn't a command, but a plea, a raw exposure of a vulnerability he never allowed himself to show. The word itself seemed to scorch him, utterly foreign and terrifying in its unexpectedness. He couldn't reconcile it with the harsh realities of his life, with the person he was, or the pain he had caused. It was a concept so utterly alien to his self-perception that it shook him to his core.

You sighed, a soft, weary sound that brushed gently against Erik's cheek, a stark contrast to the sudden rigidity of his body. "It may not be obvious to you, Erik," you murmured, your voice quiet but firm, "but it is to me." Your hand, still resting on his chest, gave a faint, rhythmic tap. "So tell me, Killmonger," you challenged, your voice dropping to a near whisper, "are you more scared of love... or because you know I'm sick?"

The words hung in the air, a direct strike at the core of his carefully constructed defenses. Before you could even register his full reaction, Erik moved. It was a swift, almost predatory motion, yet executed with an unexpected grace. In what felt like a single, fluid second, he was no longer lying beside you but hovering above you, his body a dark silhouette against the dim light of the room. His hands were braced on either side of your head, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the faint warmth radiating from his skin. His face, usually a mask of controlled intensity, was now raw, exposed, every muscle taut.

His dark eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and blazing, fixed on yours with an almost desperate intensity. The question had hit a nerve, a deep, festering wound he kept hidden even from himself.

"Don't you dare," he snarled, his voice a low, guttural growl, rough with barely contained fury and something else, something akin to terror. "Don't you dare try to tell me what I'm scared of. You don't know a damn thing about me, about what I've seen, what I've done." His breath hitched, a ragged sound. "And don't you ever confuse... whatever this is," he gestured vaguely between you two, his hand trembling slightly, "with weakness. I ain't scared of a damn thing. Not of some sickness, and damn sure not of some... some sentimentality."

He leaned closer, his face inches from yours, his eyes burning into yours. "You think you see something? You think you know? You don't know the first thing about what it takes to survive, about what you have to become to make it out alive." His voice was laced with a bitter, self-loathing edge, a desperate attempt to push you away, to rebuild the walls you had so effortlessly breached.

Erik let out a deep, shuddering breath, the harshness of his outburst slowly deflating. His forehead lowered until it rested gently against yours. The proximity was startling, the warmth of his skin a stark contrast to the cold fury that had just erupted from him. His body, still hovering above you, trembled almost imperceptibly, a raw admission of the control he was struggling to maintain.

"This is why," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper, the words laced with a profound weariness and regret. "This is why I'd rather watch you from afar. Why I never should have talked to you. Never should have let you in, even if it was just... just something like this." His words were a desperate attempt to retreat, to rebuild the shattered walls around his heart. You could feel the immense effort it took him to admit this, to acknowledge the vulnerability that had been momentarily exposed. His outburst wasn't anger directed at you, not truly. It was a violent internal struggle, him trying desperately to push you away, to cling to the brutal, hardened identity he'd cultivated for survival, rather than face the possibility of the man you saw within him, the man he, deep down, knew he could be. He was scared. Terrified, perhaps, of the unfamiliar tenderness, of the connection that threatened to unravel decades of self-preservation.

You said nothing for a long moment, simply absorbing the raw confession, the tremor in his body, the heavy weight of his forehead against yours. The air was thick with the unspoken, with the fragile truth of his fear. You felt the faint, ragged rhythm of his breathing, the almost imperceptible shivers that ran through him.

Slowly, carefully, your hand that had been resting on his chest lifted, your fingers gently reaching up to cup the side of his face. Your thumb brushed softly over the sharp line of his jaw, tracing the faint outline of a scar. Your touch was feather-light, yet it held an immense strength, an unwavering empathy.

"I know," you whispered, your voice soft but clear, cutting through the remnants of his fear. You didn't argue, didn't try to reason away his pain. You simply affirmed the truth you saw. "I know you're scared, Erik." Your voice was filled with a quiet understanding, devoid of judgment or pity. "But it's okay to be scared. And it's okay... to let someone in."

You kept your gaze steady, looking into the depth of his eyes, letting him see the unwavering belief you held in him, in the man beneath the armor.

Erik's breath hitched, a raw sound in the quiet room. Your touch on his face was a gentle, persistent warmth, a stark contrast to the icy grip of the fear that still clung to him. His eyes, still locked with yours, held a desperate, vulnerable plea.

"How could I?" he rasped, the words barely audible, infused with a pain that went deeper than any physical wound. His voice was thick with unspoken history, with the ghosts of abandonment that haunted him. "How could I let someone in... who's just going to leave me alone again?"

Your heart ached at the raw vulnerability in his voice. His words hung in the air, a profound echo of a deeply wounded past. His fear of abandonment, so deeply ingrained, was laid bare.

"Erik," you whispered, your voice a soft, unwavering anchor in the storm of his emotions. Your thumb continued its gentle caress on his cheek, feeling the slight tremor beneath your skin. "Everyone leaves, eventually. That's just... part of life." You saw a flicker of defiance in his eyes, a renewed tension, but you pressed on, your gaze unwavering, holding his. "But I'm not leaving you alone now. And I won't. Not when you're finally letting me in."

You took a slow, steady breath, letting the weight of your promise settle between you. "And when I do leave," you continued, your voice softening to a near murmur, "because of this," you gestured vaguely to your own fragile body, "it won't be because I chose to. It won't be because I wanted to abandon you. It will be because I couldn't fight it anymore."

You saw the truth of your words register in his eyes, the grim understanding that flickered there. You shifted your hand from his face, letting it rest on his shoulder, your fingers gently squeezing. "But until then," you stated, your voice gaining a quiet resolve, "I'm here. And you won't be alone. You don't have to be."

Erik’s eyes, usually so fierce and guarded, remained locked on yours. He absorbed your words, the stark honesty of your fragile future, and the unwavering promise you offered in the present. The truth of your impending battle, a fight against an unseen enemy, seemed to resonate deeply with his own history of relentless struggle. His initial terror, born from the fear of abandonment, slowly began to give way to something else, something softer and more profound.

He didn't pull away. Instead, a subtle shiver ran through his frame as if the last remnants of his defensive walls were finally crumbling. The harsh lines around his mouth softened almost imperceptibly, and the tension in his shoulders seemed to finally release. His body, which had been poised for flight or fight, now relaxed, the weight of his forehead settling more fully against yours. He took another deep, shaky breath, the sound rasping in the quiet room.

"Yeah," he finally whispered, the word a raw, guttural admission. It was an acknowledgment not just of your words, but of the profound shift occurring within him. It was an acceptance of your promise, an acknowledgment that, for now, in this quiet room, he was not alone. The fear hadn't vanished entirely, but it was now mingled with a fragile, almost bewildered sense of connection. He didn't know what this was, this unexpected solace, but he knew, in that moment, he didn't want it to end.

The early Wakandan dawn, painted in hues of soft violet and rose, began to filter through the window, chasing away the deepest shadows of your room. Erik remained above you, his forehead still resting against yours, the subtle tremor in his body having long since faded into a profound stillness. The tension that usually radiated from him, a constant hum of barely contained power, had dissipated, replaced by a quiet vulnerability you hadn't dared to hope you'd ever witness.

You felt the warmth of his breath on your skin, slow and steady now, a stark contrast to the ragged gasps of fear from moments before. Your hand, still resting on his shoulder, felt the solid muscle beneath the soft fabric, a grounding presence. The world outside the room was waking, but in here, a fragile, new world had just begun.

He eventually lifted his head, slowly, as if breaking a delicate spell. His eyes, no longer burning with anger or fear, held a deep, reflective gaze, softened by something akin to wonder. He looked at you, truly looked at you, taking in your pale face, the slight smudges beneath your eyes, the quiet strength that radiated from you even in your most vulnerable state. There was no judgment, no pity, only a quiet, understanding acceptance that mirrored your own.

He gently shifted, settling down beside you once more, this time closer, his hip brushing against yours. He didn't speak, but his hand, large and calloused, hesitantly reached out, his fingers brushing against your hair before resting, almost tentatively, on your arm. It was a gesture of profound tenderness, unpracticed and raw, yet more meaningful than any words. He lay there, staring at the painting above, the vibrant sunrise on the canvas now reflecting the quiet, unexpected dawn breaking within him.

You closed your eyes, a soft sigh escaping your lips. The warmth of his presence beside you, the gentle weight of his hand, was a comfort beyond measure. You felt safe, truly safe, in a way you hadn't felt in years. This wasn't the kind of safety that came from vibranium shields or skilled guards; it was the safety of being truly seen, truly accepted, even in your fragility.

“The doctor didn’t knock me up either.” You scoff. And Seonghwa made it so hard for you too. You and your partners had just gotten out of the bath- well, Hongjoong spent a bit more time in there like usual, but you and Seonghwa sat in the bed big enough for you all. You were surrounded by various pillows and plushies, wearing only a thin shirt with your hair wrapped in an older t-shirt. Seonghwa, on the other hand, laid there in only his underwear, the lower half of his beautiful body covered horribly by the blanket you had majority of.

A fucking tease he was. His semi-damp hair draping over his eyes, plump lips parted slightly at the sight of you..how beautiful you are.

“Hope you’re not having fun without me. That’ll be low.” Hongjoong scoffs, emerging from the bathroom in a pair of boxers. He comes over to peck your lips, and your stomach next, and then Seonghwa’s lips. The man had his eyes closed, hand still rubbing on that spot on your belly. You shifted slightly, pouting up at Hongjoong. It made him laugh.

“What’s that face for?”

“We’re not having any fun cause Hwa wants to be a fucking buzz kill.” The mentioned man chuckles, looking up at Hongjoong.

“The doctor said to tone it down a bit because of the last time, remember? She’s spoiled, can’t handle a “no” from anyone.” He sits up, holding his mouth open for a spoon full of ice cream- which you happily give to him. “Don’t lie.” you roll your eyes.

“That won’t do then, look at her she’s about to kill us both.” Hongjoong gets into the bed, on his knees as he stared at the both of you. “Our girl needs us doesn’t she?” He leans forward to peck Seonghwa’s lips once again, kiss lingering as they deepened the kiss. You could feel your cunt throb, but your stubbornness got the best of you. You glance away, pout littering your lips while your boyfriends made their way to you. Hongjoong’s hand parted your legs, you squeal feeling the cold air rush to your cunt. Seonghwa started to play with your breast, swollen nipples leaking milk. You moan softly at their touches, head tipping back.

“Just let us take care of you, and then we’ll sleep hm?”

“Would you like that, Star?”

“..Yes please.”

You were such a good girl. A good girl got rewarded, always. It’s how you got pregnant in the first place, neither of them could keep their dicks out of you to save a life.

“Oh..oh fuck- fuck right there- yes!…fuck-“

Your eyes watered as you stared up at the ceiling. Your legs shook, your whole body sensitive- every touch sending you over the edge. Hongjoong’s tongue glides over your clit, fingers pressing into the insides of your thighs to hold them open. You whined, hand tangled in his hair while he sucked on your sensitive bud. Body on fire, you felt everything. He didn’t lift a finger at all, head simply between your legs eating you out while he spread you open.

If this prepared you for birth then so be it. Soft lips danced over your chest. Tongue darting out to lick afterwards- hickeys, red marks covering the easily bruised skin. You felt your pussy throb, spasming at the feeling of your orgasm nearing.

“Seonghwa-“ Gasping for air, your hand found his bare thigh. His warm body slightly leaned over yours, mouth around your nipple. “oh-“ it felt strange, but he lapped and sucked at the milk, wet sounds leaving his lips while he toyed with the other. Milk dripping down your breast, pussy squeezing around Hongjoong’s tongue. You gasp, eyes shutting tightly, “Please-“

“I know baby..” Hongjoong lifts his head up to stare at your frame. How fucked out and tired you looked, on the verge of letting go…a mess they created. “Can barely keep your eyes open.” He dips back in, tongue furiously lapping away at your clit. Your body jolts, hand tightening its grip on Seonghwa- the man sucking your nipple like your milk was the best flavor in the world.

Seonghwa reaches up to cup your face, you glance at his lips: a smug smile on his face with milk trailing down his chin. He pecks your lips gently moving his tongue between your lips as you moan into his mouth. “..s’good…” you whimper. “m’cumming..”

your voice felt so small, slipping into a small space. you felt tired, worn out- fulfilled. you gasp, tasting everything on Seonghwa’s tongue, your juices spreading onto Hongjoong’s. You hum quietly, tiredly laying your head on Seonghwa’s shoulder as Hongjoong licked you clean. “All better?” Seonghwa rubs your belly. Nodding being your only response as you yawned, getting comfortable on the man. “Spoiled ass.” Hongjoong taps your thigh lightly, getting up to go get a towel. “..s’ fuck up” you flip him off, making Seonghwa laugh.