I know, I know. I'm supposed to be working on other stories too. But I've been hit with a huge case of writer's block and I don't know what to do. I think I have an outline in my head for my Spidey fic, and I'll try and get that written down ASAP. But this was in my head and my friend asked if I could write it as a gift. So, here you go. Also, I balled my eyes out when I found out Stan Lee was dead AND that trailer! And my fav spider is dead and Shuri is dead and Miles was just fucking brilliant in his movie!
I just died of a fangirl heart attack.
He didn't know why he felt this way, T'Challa thought, as he strolled down by the busy, heavy streets of California. He made sure to keep a low profile, head bowed, eyes glued to the concrete floor, and his hands buried in the pockets of the thick sweater he wore.
He purposely ignored the watchful, prying eyes of his General.
He was supposed to be at a meeting; he knew that. Knew that, ever since Baba's death, he had to take the role of king more seriously. Be there for his mother and uncle when they discussed budgets and such. Take care of his country, his people.
He swallowed down bile.
Okoye, observant as ever, eyed him with something akin to concern. "Are you alright, my king?" she murmured, gracefully dodging a street vendor on wheels. T'Challa lifted his gaze for a split second, revealing the red, watery eyes that displayed his exhaustion. Exhaustion of not sleeping. Of laying awake at night. Curled into a tight, sweaty ball.
He ignored the acid sunk into his eyes.
"Of course," he smiled, lying through his teeth. "Why wouldn't I be?" he hummed, his strides quick and graceful, like the agile cat he was, as Stark so eloquently put it.
Okoye narrowed her eyes for a split second. He can tell; she does not believe, and he could not blame her. It is not her fault he was struggling, trying to fight through it. Just...trying to forget about it.
The sun was warm on his skin, the layered sounds of a band playing down by an expensive restaurant blasting through the speakers. It jarred his skin, reminding him...
He shook his head; no time for that. He had a cousin to pick up.
"Hey, you sure you don't want some aspirin or somethin'?" N'Jadaka asked, throwing down his bags onto his bed, his brows furrowed together as he eyed T'Challa. "You ain't lookin' so hot..."
T'Challa rolled his eyes with a small smile, "I see you are still observant as ever," he quipped.
N'Jadaka smirked back. "I'm a War Dog, cuz. That's a requirement."
"I'm fine," T'Challa reassured, clapping a hand on his shoulder as he moved to exit. He excused himself, trying to ignore the itching burn he felt scraping at his skin. Where coarse textures of fingers would poke and prod, ignoring with little ease when he heard laughter booming inside his head.
He pretended not to notice N'Jadaka's wary, suspicious eyes.
When the king entered his bedroom, he leaned against the wall, clamping his eyes shut.
The touch is searing. Burning. Like coals seeping into the soft, dark skin. Marring.
T'Challa's heavy breathing filled the room; his lungs felt as if they were being crushed, like he was drowning in the ocean and he couldn't swim his way out. He choked when a rough, meaty hand gripped the back of his short, tight curls.
"Stop struggling or I'll make it hurt."
Make it hurt? How was that even possible? It already hurt and T'Challa wanted—needed for them to stop. Oh Bast, please stop please stop—Baba where are you?
A set of hands gripped his hips in a white-knuckled grip, and a groan emitted from his chest as it heaved. Humiliation danced across his expression, his face twisting and crumpling as if he had been shot.
He didn't know if the water cascading down his cheeks were the heavy droplets of the rain or the stinging tears that swelled his eyes pink.
He had to swallow down an earth shattering scream when he felt the man thrust himself inside. It stretched and burned and a dizzying pain spiraled down his spine. He shivered when he felt a hand stroke his shaft.
"That's it; that's a good little kitten," the man's thick accent cooed, as if he were speaking to a house cat itself.
T'Challa's face burned.
He rolled his hips without thinking, his ass settling down on the man's wrinkled thighs. Mortification was swollen hotly in his belly. He was the protector of Wakanda, how on earth could he let this be happening?! Why wasn't he stopping this? Why couldn't he—
He moaned.
The man chuckled, and T'Challa could feel his chest vibrate against his back. Suddenly, a rough hand smacked one of his cheeks, and T'Challa cried out in surprise and pain ad the torture increased tenfold.
"Move," the man bit out, his thrusts becoming more rapid.
T'Challa wanted to glare. Wanted to spin his head around and tell the man no. Grab him the by the arm and tear it off that pathetic body of his. Let him have it the second time to even a man more ruthless than Ultron.
T'Challa showed no mercy for monsters.
But he couldn't do that, he knew. Knew that he could not push the man away, despite the pain he had caused his people many years ago. That, despite the fact that he saw his cousin shoot the man in the head when T'Challa froze, he was always going to be there. A parasite in his mind.
When did T'Challa let it go too far?
His pride diminishing, shoving down a broken sob, T'Challa wheezed. Lifted his hips, wincing when the thrusts grew more aggressive. More savage. And he dipped his head down to the ground, his feverish skin brushing against the cool, pristine marble floors. He hissed when he felt another jolt, unable to stifle down the sob that wracked his body when he realized the pleasure was settling in.
His toes curled when he felt the paper-like hand jerk him off.
He dug his nails into the floor, into the rough, yet soft material of the maroon carpet his mother had bought for him. His knees felt sore when he felt the man thrust and thrust and thrust—
Oh Bast. Was he dying?
Beads of sweat rolled down his skin. Pleasure and agony settled deep within the pit of his stomach. Fingernails clamped down the skin of his thighs and he groaned. Gritted out a rough, throaty sob.
Klaue laughed.
Morning came, as did he in the nightmare, and he laid in his bed. He was bare as the day he was born, having just gotten out of the shower the night before.
His arms and legs were spread out, heat emanating between his legs, much to his horror and embarrassment.
The servants knocked, persistent, his cousin's and uncle's strained pleas to be let in. That they hada the Tribal Council waiting for him. It is not like them to beg, so he must've daydreamed longer than he thought.
He stared blankly at the ceiling, the scent of sweat thick in the room, and he calmly closed his eyes for a moment. He listened to the sounds. The hum of the air conditioning, the beat of the drums down by the Border Tribe, and the soft creak of the door as the soundless footsteps entered. The door shut and locked.
He felt the limited space beside him dip, and then a soft, warm blanket was draped over his naked form. A hand cupped his cheek, the skin so soft and so cold. Nothing like the fever he had.
"T'Challa," Nakia whispered, her eyes warm and glazed with love, her voice so gentle and kind. She tried to coax him out of his daze, saying they had matters to attend to.
He heard her. Heard every word everyone had to say. Heard taunting and mockery staining his mind, his being. Heard the grunts and guttural groans heaving Klaue's chest when he rammed inside his ass.
It hurt.
She begged him to look at her, asking what was wrong.
He was just...
It hurt.