The last repercussion.
I listened to the orchestral version of the Son Lux song, "Easy" while doing final reviews for this chapter and let me tell you... the irony of having sat on this damn chapter (all three parts) for more than a year doesn't escape me. We storyboarded this chapter in 2018? 2019? I don't even remember now. I wanted to tie in all these ideas and world-building. Mal wanted the later relationship progression to make sense and not just exist because 'we say so.' I'm so fucking happy to be able to share this finally. Mal: Enjoy, Babes! YouTube Playlist Spotify Playlist
-:- Accompaniment: Hobbak Bi Ye’wa by Nancy Ajram Erik’s paternal grandmother doesn't live in the capital. She also hadn't attended the capital's Bast festival or reached out to him at all since his arrival. It doesn't bother Erik as much as it makes him curious. He wants to meet her, the stories and records about her are either vague or unflattering. Which makes sense, she hadn't been succeeded in the usual manner. T'Chaka's succession reads like a coup to him, the political record isn't all that clear either why certain things happened the way they did. So, it makes sense to him, when he gets some down time a few days after the festival to pay her a visit. The trip to Ibad is smooth and not too long, confirming his suspicions that her lack of presence in the capital was her choice and not some insurmountable circumstance. Erik is accompanied by two Dora, one of which pilots their talon jet. When they touch down, he notes and enjoys the cooler temperature as well as the difference in fauna. Based on the map they're on the outskirts of the city. No one comes to greet them, despite Erik sending a heads-up 12 hours in advance. He takes that as permission to enter the odd-looking compound. The place looks deserted but it's clean and well taken care of, the different plants and flowers are trimmed and orderly. He leaves the Dora Milaje at the entrance of the compound and then stops at the door. Knocks once, then twice. His mother's parents had died before he was born so he's looking forward to meeting a relative that's not a cousin or a mother in law. The door slides open but there's no one in the entryway. He enters the house and hears a sh-sh-sh sound. Instincts bids him to *duck* and a projectile arcs above his head. Someone harrumphed loudly. He looks in the direction of the sound to see a woman, old and short. Grey hair layered in thin braids on her head and a weapon in hand. "Your reflexes need work, grandson." Erik's first impulse is to make a snarky response back but he stops himself. Lowers his head, now more paranoid about incoming projectiles, to greet her the way he’s been learning. "Now, you have manners? You did not ask to be invited. You just sent a little declaration to say you were coming." Erik hadn't thought kings needed to ask for invitations, never mind kings that were your own grandson. The old woman makes a sound in between a cackle and cough. "Come here, let me see you. They say you are N'Jobu's son." Her voice is sonorous and drawing, like a story teller. "I am." He says before walking closer, half attention on the weapon she held in her hand. Azzaria comes up to his bicep. The wrinkles on her face indicate her age but her eyes are sharp. They remind him of the face in his vision. The form the goddess took had been taller but the face, it looked at him not unlike the way his grandmother looked at him now. "You don't look much like him." She pronounced it after some time. "You look like me." Erik can’t tell if this pleases her or bothers her. His dad used to tell him he looked like his mom, Lisa. "Why are you here?" Two statements followed by a question. Erik clears his throat. "I have questions, and I got tired of reading about it when I could just ask the source." Another half cackle half cough. "Smart boy. I can see why Ramonda doesn't like you." Huh, so T'Challa's mom kept contact with Azzaria? Or did Azzaria have her own source? His grandmother sets the weapon on a nearby stand and leads him to another room with chairs and a table. Erik can't help but compare this room to all the ones he's seen before. It feels older, even the tech is a bit unrecognizable. The old woman presses on what must be a tea kettle and he watches as it empties into one cup and then a second cup, she hands it to him. He takes the cup but doesn't sip, still wary from her 'greeting.' "Tell me about the Jabari." He says and watches the way her expressions change, he might have described it as pleased, if he knew her better. "Not your father?" She sips from her tea. Erik just stares. He had thought about it of course. Asking her about his dad, what he was like and quickly decided against it. He needed information that would help him now, not reminiscences of the past. "Not right now. You're half Jabari, how did that happen?" Azzaria is surprisingly informative. They talk for almost two hours. Erik doesn't drink any of his tea in that time, mind focused on memorizing as much as he can, to get at the information that could help him. Azzaria goes on tangents often. Usually about T'Chaka or tribe politics. Erik listens and redirects the conversation when he can. Based on the timeline he has in his head he can see where she omits stuff or where the things he read are just plain wrong or she's wrong, he's not sure which bias to trust. The situation with the Jabari is complicated, that’s the main takeaway. Towards the end when her tangents outnumber his questions he chooses to just listen. "You won't make it a year." Azzaria pronounces into the silence following another tangent about a Mining Tribe dispute she’d heard about and Erik, mind still churning through all he just heard, has no response. "Those spots on your face mean nothing. You don't know what you're dealing with." Erik's expression doesn't change from the look of feigned interest he's had on for the last 30 minutes. "Oh?" Azzaria nods as if coming to an agreement. "The Jabari are the least of your problems, grandson. It's only a matter of time before things right themselves, you’re cursed." Erik doesn't grit his teeth, or even sneer the way he wants to. He has nothing to prove to the former queen. By her estimation someone like him would never have become king in the first place. He leaves shortly after, tea untouched. On the ride back to the capital he writes down as much as he can remember both the useful and tangential info, marriages, deaths, scandals. He uses that to find new threads of information, books, contacts, resources, or media he hadn't already seen. The council had described his given tasks as "impossible" but the more Erik studies the history and the people the more he realizes, it's really not. Not for someone like him, maybe for previous kings getting on the same page with the Jabari or looking outside of Wakanda's borders was some crazy task. But for him it's just logical. The separation between the “mainland” and the Jabari was a lie. Records of intermarriage and person to person or clan to clan trading (now dwindling in recent years) proves it. Especially closer to the Jabari border. No, where the real separation lay is between the Panther Tribe and the Jabari. Which is where Erik came in. He arrives at the capital late at night and has to deal with some messages about issues with the agricultural development before he can head to the king's quarters and sleep. T'Challa isn't there, having moved into a new wing. It reminds him of one of his grandmother's comments earlier in the day. He needed to keep T'Challa in line, he knew his cousin and aunt were working against him, undermining him and his goals where they could. He shouldn't make it easy for them. T'Challa had minded himself after their honeymoon. But the festival changed things. Erik doesn't like this new confidence coming from T'Challa. He was due for a reminder. -:- Accompaniment: Posterity by Ludwig Goransson [14 days after the council meets to deliberate] Erik has to be at a post-festival celebration in twenty minutes. He has a glass bowl of some of the smoothest kush he’s ever smoked on his desk and has been steadily working through an entire roster of names and faces. Some of them he already has down from festival meetings and admin but there’s a significant portion he doesn’t yet know or hasn’t met formally. He takes a moment to line the pipe coiling up from the glass bowl to his lips before inhaling. The heart-shaped herb metabolized alcohol and mind-altering drugs very fast so he’s not getting the full effect. The buzz he does get is enough to set him in a nice meditative state. This ‘gala’ celebration was supposed to be held sooner but thanks to all the… confusion stemming from the festival it was delayed. He could have forgone the gala but he’s been pushing hard for things to continue on as ‘normal.’ Giving the elite amongst the festival committees, staff, and their families a chance to congratulate themselves for running another successful Festival—as well as access to him— is part of that. Six minutes till the start time the Dora at the door steps forward. Erik looks over lazily, speaking before she can. “Yeah, I’m watching the time.” Being the guest of honor, he couldn’t be late. Another puff and then he’s shutting down his workstation and standing to stretch. The fabric of his kurta lifts up a bit and he admires the silky soft texture before turning back to the Dora. He thinks her name is ‘Iman.’ “Where’s the general?” “The general is now off-duty.” Iman sounds slightly puzzled, obviously not expecting the question. Erik frowns but doesn’t ask further. He didn’t think he would *need* to tell Okoye to join him on this little get-together. W’Kabi either, but it would seem he was on his own this time. He doesn’t ask about his cousin, assuming the man was off somewhere sulking, that or scheming with the rest. When he steps out of the office another Dora joins Iman and he makes his way over to the hall where the gala was being hosted. The preparations for this were mostly handled by his staff with little actual input from him so when he steps into the hall the design and decorations are a pleasant surprise. The Kingsguard announces him as the doors slide open and Erik watches everyone who has already arrived turn his way. There’s a moment and then every person in the room salutes. Erik salutes back lazily, a smile on his lips and a greeting flowing off his tongue. He’s not a big fan of giving the salute but having other people salute him has yet to get old. Two chairmen on the festival organization committee come up to greet him accompanied by their respective families and thus begins Erik’s evening of socialization. One by one or in groups of three or more, different citizens walk his way. For every name and face he recalls he gets smiles and grins, for the one’s he can’t he’s quick to get them. The conversations range in content, going from pleasantries and flattery to insulting questions and comments on the last few weeks. To the flattery and pleasantries, he responds in kind, for the questions and comments he deems relevant he answers as it suits him. Everything else gets ignored. Thirty minutes into the gala, everyone who meant to come has already arrived and he’s angling towards the refreshments area for something to snack on when the Kingsguard at the door announce, “King Consort, T’Challa.” Erik doesn’t turn but he can see from where he’s standing, most of the hall does. Considering ‘Where is T’Challa?’ had been a top 3 question in most of his interactions so far, he’s a little peeved. After their spar, his cousin has been very quiet and very distant unless Erik himself dragged him out to a meeting or excursion. So why did he decide to show his face this evening? T’Challa doesn’t get the salute like him but several groups are obviously impatient to talk to him. Some of which, Erik notes, hadn't spoken to him. He grabs something that would hopefully not turn his stomach from the refreshments table and thinks about the little caterer he found from before the festival. She wasn’t consulted for this get together; if she were the food wouldn’t suck. He picks at the fruit he’s got and watches his cousin’s progress through the crowd. Heads turn T’Challa’s way like flowers towards the sun, it irritates him. Someone he recognizes comes up to talk to him and Erik has to think before he can place the name. Anu, one of W’Kabi’s numerous cousins, how they were related Erik would never remember. For a moment he’s confused till he realizes the person is speaking in Border Tribe’s dialect. He recognizes some but not all the words, W’Kabi has been teaching him but it’s not been a priority. The speaker—is a young looking Border Tribe girl with short stiff braids and a severe looking jaw. “—My cousin is slacking, you still can’t speak?” “I speak fine.” Erik responds in standard Wakandan. “King T’Challa speaks fine. I’m not so sure about you.” This comment and the excluded ‘consort’ to T’Challa’s title makes Erik’s left brow twitch. He’s not sure if the girl was trying to be funny and didn’t realize how rude it sounded or if she didn’t care. When Erik doesn’t try to continue the conversation, Anu just keeps talking. Erik listens for about two sentences and then tunes out when he realizes she really just wanted to complain about W’Kabi and losing her champion bid—which okay? How was this his problem? Like most Border Tribesmen he’s met, her way of speaking is brash and direct. Unlike most Border Tribesmen he’s met she’s very obviously team T’Challa. She does something with her hand to summon a waiter over and he’s reminded of why he was able to remember her so well. She’d participated in this year's trials. Not only had she won all of her fights but they had been conspicuously brutal, efficient and vicious. It made him respect W’Kabi a little more, seeing how capable some of Border Tribe’s best were and knowing he had at one point beat most of them. Someone must get tired of waiting for him to dismiss her because soon a shadow joins their group of two. A tall woman with an elaborately decorated braid walks up to him. What strikes him most about her sleek, all white ensemble is the ringlet of gold around her wrist and neck. Like most in the room she was dressed to the nines, but unlike most there was a presence about her that made Erik want to look and look again. He greets her with a smile and neutral pleasantry. He’s been stumbling less and less over the flowery phrasing Wakandans used for those deemed as ‘elders.’ When she introduces herself Erik immediately clocks the clan name. And the different pronouns from what he had been using in his head. The clan name is the same as River Tribe’s champion and they were very important to some of his plans, what with the monopoly they had on the capital’s agricultural technology. Making friends with more of them was a must. ‘Ose’ has the added bonus of shutting Anu up for a little. Erik can’t tell whether they like him or not, and that adds an extra appeal to their sudden appearance. So far the people he’s met have either been vapid sycophants eager to sing his praises, snobby or rude assholes who disliked him or rude and snobby assholes attempting to ingrate themselves. There were a few neutral ones in the mix but that was less common. When Ose asks him questions about the places he’s been, it doesn’t carry the usual ‘oh foreigners are so interesting vibe’ so he’s more inclined to answer. The only issue is Anu is still sticking around and she derails their conversation more than once. Erik quickly calls it a loss and just decides to seek Ose out in person another time. After that Erik starts to walk over to T’Challa. His progress is interrupted when a soft click emanates through the room and a waiter is offering him a cup. His eyes zoom in on T’Challa’s position, centered in the crowd of gala-goers and the same damn cup as Erik’s in his hand. A glance around shows other people have glasses or differently designed cups but none have the same as the two of them. T’Challa looks over the gathered people and for a fraction of a second, his and Erik’s eyes meet. Then T’Challa starts to speak, his voice reaching the entire room with the help of a recently acquired microphone. “Thank you everyone for gathering here this evening—” Erik zones out seconds into his cousin’s speech. More interested in seeing how the people in the room react than the contents itself. Most listen attentively, some looking a little too enraptured for Erik’s tastes. Very few don’t and towards the end of T’Challa’s short speech he realizes he should be the one saying this. He had done the first part right, arrived on time, greeted, and made small talk but this address and toast should have been made by him. That or a joint address. T’Challa gestures his way and Erik tunes back in fully, “—with my husband and Bast’s guidance, I look forward to leading Wakanda into the days ahead.” T’Challa ends his address and gives a toast, to robust applause. Meanwhile Erik wants to smash his cup. Gaze locked on T’Challa’s face; he drinks in sync. He’s still holding the empty cup when someone who hadn’t approached him in the beginning walks over. An older man and a young woman with strange milk colored pupil-less eyes. Some thought and a forced smile later he puts one of their faces to a name. He matches a house name and tribe… Mining, lineage as old as Bashenga’s. The older man introduces himself as ‘Safi’ and the woman, his daughter, as ‘Fatima.’ The second part of their introduction has Erik doing a double take, he would not have pinged Fatima for a ‘daughter.’ More like wife. “We were not able to attend the Festival in person, the crowds and allergens are a bit too much for Fatima here, however Hamadi our champion and the children regaled us at length.” At his side his daughter nods, and Erik tries not to stare at her eyes. How were the both of them not blind? Or were they blind and using aids? He couldn’t tell. Mining Tribe and really every Tribe in Wakanda had 101 weird little mutations that no one ever explained. “Yeah, it was pretty powerful.” Erik gives a filler response as if he hasn’t had to respond to the same inane questions over and over, waiting for Safi to get to the point. He assumes the ‘Hamadi’ mentioned here must be Mining Tribe’s champion because who in the room wasn’t cousins or nieces or some sort of fucking relative to Wakanda’s most venerated? “To be touched by Bast Herself! Oh, what a revelation.” Safi continues and Erik decides the man must be blind because he’s not even looking at the marks on Erik’s face everyone else has been staring at all night. But why was he looking at Erik’s groin? The fuck? “Our venerable ancestor Innana was also touched by Bast. It’s why we are so blessed.” Fatima intones in a surprisingly deep voice for her young face and Erik’s skin starts to crawl. “Blessed how?” He asks though he doesn’t really want to know the answer. “Our Eyes!” Safi is quick to answer, this is probably his favorite topic. “When Bast touched Innana, she granted them an immeasurable gift! Intuition and distinction! Many of our line have been valued advisers to Wakanda’s greatest monarchs.” Erik listens out of morbid curiosity, mind more on how much work it must be to keep all these weird mutations going in a stagnant, convoluted genepool than whatever Safi was bragging about. The age difference was also starting to make more sense. Fatima looked young the way Safi looked very old. They must have been trying for a viable fetus for a while. “Excuse me?” He refocuses on the conversation when he sees the expectant look on both Father and daughter’s faces. Safi fortunately doesn’t seem bothered about having to repeat himself. “We are offering guidance. These are tumultuous times! My daughter and I could advise you, share your troubles. It is our duty.” Something about the way Safi says ‘share your troubles’ makes Erik want to gag. The entire conversation has had some weird overtones ever since it started but now he’s definitely not feeling it. He probably shouldn’t be surprised that in a country with nearly zero immigration, incest other than cousins happened but it’s one thing to know conceptually another thing to see it. “I’ll—keep that in mind. Thanks.” By the time the weird conversation ends, he can’t see T’Challa anymore in the crowd and he gets confirmation from some guest that he’s already left. Every single conversation following that is either chock full of praise for T’Challa and his speech or probing questions about the vision. Erik grits his teeth through the first and refuses to answer the second in anything other than vague responses. He should have been the one to give the toast. Okoye should have been here, fuck W’Kabi should have been here. He nods and smiles and talks but he can’t push off the feeling that he’s being laughed at. They could salute him all they wanted but they didn’t really treat him seriously. “—Did you see what he was wearing? In this weather? He must have been sweating!” “mmh, you know why don’t you? Did you see him wince when Iman grasped his forearm? Panther Tribe gets so prissy about their ‘personal’ affairs, he probably doesn’t want anyone to see the bruises.” “Oh don’t worry I’m sure T’Challa understands the affections of a new Black Panther growing accustomed to his new strength.” “Oh I’m sure they get very busy when no one else is around.” “Are you two blind?! Two beautiful men do not always make a romantic couple. Did you see the look the king was giving him when he started speaking?” “Thank you! I can’t believe you actually believe that little gossip thread. If looks could kill, T’Challa would have dropped dead!” A conversation filters through his hearing and Erik has to pretend to be using one his kimoyo beads and focus most of his attention to decipher the thick dialects over the buzz of the hall. He keeps listening, catching more bits of gossip and rumors. “The Dora?—No! Well I heard there was a new palace attendant, expelled because—” “Those snakes are too prideful, I’m sure they are just exaggerating.” “But the queen dowager? You know she hasn’t—” Eventually the group walks too far for him to eavesdrop but he’s heard more than enough. He’s heard some rumors, had to dispel others but these ones are new, mostly untrue—and outrageous. Before anyone else can drag him into more terrible conversation, he makes for the exit. If T’Challa could leave unannounced, so could he. Once out of the hall he inhales deeply and walks with no destination in mind. He’s been drinking the last two hours and he’s finally starting to feel something close to a buzz. An image comes to mind as he walks, he hadn’t gotten close enough to talk but he had gotten a good view of T’Challa’s outfit. It reminded Erik of a scorpion. The more he thinks about the outfit the more he thinks he should pay T’Challa’s new wing a visit. Since his cousin apparently had time to upstage him. He starts to walk in the the general direction of the residential wings when Iman says, “—my king?” Her manner of address is typical Dora fashion relying more on the tone and expression than what she was actually saying—a question as to where he was going. The king’s wing was in the totally opposite direction. “Where’s T’Challa?” His question is greeted with silence and then a soft whisper on the headpiece all the on-duty Dora wore. “In his wing.” “Then I’ll be paying him a visit.” Iman doesn’t say anymore and Erik doesn’t expect her to. The wing T’Challa picked is nice. Just like the one his aunty picked. Wakanda didn’t half ass housing when it came to treating their royals, obviously. There’s a minute when he first arrives that he thinks the gate might deny him access, but then it slides open once he uses his face instead of his usual kimoyo pass to enter. The layout of the wing is similar to the king’s except for being smaller and having more alcoves and connecting hallways. Erik walks through several rooms before he finds the bedroom. He’s listening for any sounds but the rush of the waterfall in the courtyard overpowers everything else in his sensitive hearing. There are clothes on the bed, discarded by their owner. What T’Challa had been wearing at the gala. Unlike his first assumption it’s not one piece, zipped together, but actually three pieces. The bottom fabric appeared translucent back at the gala and now he can feel for himself just how silk-like the material is. A look around confirms T’Challa is not in the connecting bathroom or closet space. He finds T’Challa in what must be a study. Despite his efforts to be quiet T’Challa seems to know when he enters. He can tell from the way T’Challa’s hand stills on the desk though he doesn’t look up. Erik steps into the room. “You didn’t tell me you would be coming to the gala tonight.” T’Challa finally looks up from his display. “I wasn’t aware I needed to…” He takes step after deliberate step till he’s standing in front of the desk. “So, you came an hour late just to give a speech and bounce?” “Were you planning to give your own?” Erik has a rebuke on the tip of his tongue when something dark and purple catches his eye. He reaches forward over the desk, to nudge the neckline of T’Challa’s shirt lower. T’Challa pushes his hand away immediately but Erik succeeds in his aim of getting a better look. “Is there an issue, N’Jadaka?” T’Challa sounds absolutely unimpressed. “Just wanting to see my handiwork.” He says in answer before reaching a second time. T’Challa recoils before Erik’s fingers connect and Erik follows him, clearing the length of the desk in one motion bracketing T’Challa into his chair with the next. His cousin isn’t scared at all. Erik can sense his accelerating heartbeat but it’s not like before and that pisses him off. “You still haven’t learned?” “Learned what?” He responds gamely as he tugs at the shirt revealing more skin and the bruises he’d left from their spar. The next time he looks at T’Challa’s face the man has an expression like a dare. Erik’s lips twist into a silent snarl, did he think Erik was scared? That he wouldn’t do what he wanted? “You chose this. No one forced you to be here.” He reminds T’Challa and watches his expression begin to melt into something like panic and his heartbeat, steady before, starting to race. “Bast forbid you.” T’Challa sounds so appalled. Erik can only grin. “Are you gonna run crying to the council? Come on T’Challa… Just say the word and I can have you and your mother out of the palace tonight.” The council knowing about his indiscretions didn’t invalidate their agreements, T’Challa would either play along and keep his mouth shut or Erik would divorce him, see how he would upstage Erik then. He takes one step back and then hefts T’Challa up from the chair by the arm. Waiting for the fight he knew wouldn’t come. “—N’Jadaka!” T’Challa sounds so angry. Triumph courses through him at the indignation and fear. This was more like it. “Mmmh?” Erik doesn’t answer till they’re back in the bedroom and he’s pushing T’Challa unceremoniously onto the bed. “You’re making a mistake.” There’s a lecturing quality in T’Challa’s voice like too many of the people he talked to tonight. But unlike all those strangers—Erik presses on a bruise just to hear T’Challa’s painful inhale—Erik could retaliate the way he wanted. “Am I?” He presses off the bed to rifle through the nearby stand. When he doesn’t find what he’s looking for he turns back to the bed to ask. “Where do you keep it?” He’s giving T’Challa one guess as to what he means. T’Challa opens his mouth, and Erik can see the words ‘Keep what?’ on his tongue before he thinks better of it. Erik follows his gaze to a cabinet. Inside he finds what he’s looking for… and some other things. He ignores the sex toys for the lubricant. On the bed T’Challa’s heartbeat has slowed down again, Erik doesn’t like that. He wants a bit of a fight, but T’Challa seems to have figured out what makes him tick because there’s none of that this evening. He was scared but he wasn’t flailing and yelling. Erik shrugs off his pants before climbing on the bed once more. His eyes catch on the clothes T’Challa discarded earlier. He wishes he got to take them off himself. “Hold your knees together,” he commands as he pushes T’Challa’s feet up. When T’Challa takes too long, he presses on another bruise watching with increasing delight as T’Challa whines and obeys. “You could have someone more willing if you wanted.” T’Challa’s voice floats up as Erik is pulling his erection out from too tight briefs and drizzling some lubricant. “I could… couldn’t I?” Erik responds as he presses the head of his dick to the back of T’Challa’s thigh. Below the waist and above the knees there are less bruises. Erik grips the base of his hard-on, split between watching T’Challa’s face and where their bodies touched. “Why don’t you?” T’Challa’s voice is frustratingly level—incredibly hot—as if he and Erik were having a normal conversation and Erik weren't rubbing his dick between T’Challa’s thighs. He presses T’Challa’s thighs higher, grins at the teasing sensations and the feigned boredom on T’Challa’s face. “They don’t do it for me, I don’t like desperate.” He liked desperate on T’Challa, though that was different. “You don’t like consent.” T’Challa sounds positively scornful. “Am I forcing you to stay married to me?” He asks as he settles into a rhythm, arm tightening around T’Challa’s knees. T’Challa doesn’t answer, Erik doesn’t care. At first it's good, really good. But after a while his erection starts to fade, which—has never happened before. He picks up the pace from then on and his erection comes back, but then he can’t… he can’t get off. Another thing that’s never happened before. He starts to get bored when it becomes clear some 20 minutes into it his dick just won’t cooperate no matter how nice T’Challa looks under him. Feeling extremely put out, he pulls away. Maybe the kush and alcohol was messing with him, he’s never tried that strain before today. He keeps thinking of potential reasons, but in the back of his mind he wonders if T’Challa had just finally become boring to him. When he moves back, T’Challa starts to sit up and he shoves the man back down. “I’m not finished.” - The next day he can’t let it go. He’s never been in a situation like that before. Being on the edge and not being able to get off, even worse getting *soft*. He’s thinking about what he ate, what he drank, researching the strain of kush he smoked. Everything he can think of. In the end he concludes he just has to try again. But not with T’Challa—no, he had an entire inbox full of enterprising Wakandans and a schedule of engagement after luncheon after birthday. The gala turned him off from most of his would-be admirers, which left… he looked up from his main display to the Dora standing off to the side. There were about 92 Dora Milaje and he remembered about 10 of their names. Half of those names were his main attachment and he saw them every day or every other day. The uniform and lack of hair made them seem pretty same-ish but some stood out and were more devoted than others. That evening he calls Iman to his rooms for a ‘chat’ and dismisses the rest. She’s more than pleased about it. The next morning he’s relieved to conclude it was probably the kush or the alcohol or something else, his dick worked just fine. Two days later he gets another chance to confirm things were working as they should, with Barnes this time. It’s something he’s been meaning to do anyway, establish his authority etc and it goes the way he expects. Just to be sure, he tests it a few more times with different people. It’s never been difficult for him to find partners but being in Wakanda as king is another level of access. It’s only after some very inspiring encounters that he seeks out T’Challa again. He just wants to make sure and… chat about some news he’s been hearing. A question to his Dora determines T’Challa is at a training ground not too far from his wing, so Erik walks over to see him. When he arrives T’Challa is practicing with a man Erik doesn’t recognize. The man introduces himself as a trainer and Erik dismisses him quickly. He also dismisses everyone else, having the guards clear the area, including of themselves, and keep everyone out. T’Challa doesn’t look pleased but he doesn’t speak in protest either. The minute they’re alone Erik says, “I want to try something.” He’s even come prepared this time. T’Challa is not as acquiescing as before and Erik is only so happy to tackle him to the ground. It’s not a real fight, *Erik* certainly isn’t trying but the struggle certainly does something for his libido. He has a hand on T’Challa’s ass when the man tries to choke him. Large hands with impressive strength try to crush his throat for a few delicious seconds before Erik is twisting the offending arm back and listening to the sharp intake of breath that came when someone was trying really hard not to scream. “Say uncle.” He quips before releasing the arm and shuffling T’Challa into the position he wanted. This time T’Challa doesn’t play along, he doesn’t say anything really and Erik doesn’t either. Silently he pats himself on the back for wrestling T’Challa’s uncooperative self *and* getting himself lubed up for what was coming. Then he’s focused on getting the angle and position just right so he could slot his dick in between muscled thighs—“Fuccck”—He groans pleased once he’s settled. Below him T’Challa rolls his eyes and insults him for good measure. Erik wishes he could squeeze till he saw blood and something ruptured. He settles for applying pressure where he knows it will hurt, chasing his orgasm and enjoying every detail of the man pinned before him. From those angry, chilling eyes to the muscled frame that held him so tight. The only thing better would be—his eyes fly open when it starts happening again. He was getting close, dangerously close and then it all just… fizzled. It had happened like that the other night too, but he hadn’t been this bad. How could he lose his erection for no reason? Not willing to accept it, he grinds and rubs harder, calling forth some of his favorite memories and daydreams, two of which were from the wedding night and—it doesn’t work. He can’t get off, and in fact the time in which he retains an erection is growing shorter and shorter. “What the fuck?!” Below him T’Challa huffs and Erik wants to smack him but can’t spare a hand right now. He takes a deep steadying breath and counts down. Something was seriously wrong. Why couldn’t he get off? He must say the last part out loud because T’Challa starts to squirm even more than usual, obviously done with this shit. Erik exerts force breaking skin and says with steel, “Stay fucking still! I just need to finish.” T’Challa goes still but Erik’s erection doesn’t come back. Turning the situation from frustrating to humiliating. “Why can’t I fucking—” He’s so angry he’s talking to himself. He’s still talking to himself when T’Challa murmurs in awe, crystal clear to his enhanced hearing, “Glory to Bast.” And then it hits him. In the stupid vision—‘Curbed your distraction’—What the actual fuck. He couldn’t stay hard, couldn’t *fuck* T’Challa even if he wanted to. He could fuck other people, had fucked other people before this. But he couldn’t fuck T’Challa. Disgust and lingering humiliation makes him pull back, setting his dick away. He had some kind of magical erectile dysfunction, not in general, but just specifically for his own fucking husband. What sort of bullshit? How was this even…? T’Challa stands up and puts distance between them. His cousin hasn’t said a word after that little statement, but his eyes are practically shining. Erik wants to punch him in the face. He doesn’t want to believe it. First crazy de-pigmentation all over his body and now this? “FUCK.” He curses out-loud but it’s not enough. What the FUCK. “Don’t say anything,” he barks when T’Challa opens his mouth, and then he stands back up, pulling on his pants. He can still hear T’Challa’s laughter following him minutes after.
We put so much thought into the festival and the dream and the concepts surrounding curses, blessed marks and Bast' intervention. We hope it makes sense. This is the end of Part One. If I tell you I have this mapped out exactly I would be lying. If I said We've sunk hundreds of hours daydreaming, researching, discussing, writing and editing for this fic then that would be true. I would like to consider this my 'masterpiece.' In the classical sense of something that begins your journey at the highest level as a skilled artisan, something you can hand to your maestro and they look it over and say 'good enough.' I have so much to write for N'Jadaka, T'Challa and this world. My hope this year is to see this first seed through. See you next month!