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This went on for years and years, until eventually, there were no beautiful young women left in the kingdom save for the vizier's own lovely daughter, Scheherazade. Under the king's orders, the weeping vizier broke the news to his daughter that she was to be married to the king on the morrow. Upon hearing this, Scheherazade grasped her father's hands tightly and said, "Do not weep for me, father. I know what to do."

The next day, the king and Scheherazade were wed in a lavish ceremony before the gathered court. The king's courtiers looked upon his latest victim with pity, and the vizier looked upon his daughter with sorrow. But Scheherazade was not afraid, for she had a plan.

Their first night together, Scheherazade began to tell the king a thrilling tale of magic, adventure, and intrigue. But right before the story was about to end, Scheherazade stopped.

"But what happens next?" the king asked.

"I need to think on it," Scheherazade replied. "Let me finish the tale for you tomorrow night."

And the king thus decided to postpone her execution for another day, as he wished to hear the end of the tale.

The second night, Scheherazade told the king the ending of the first tale, and the king was much pleased to hear it. Immediately, Scheherazade launched into another story - a story of mystery, wonder and romance. But right before that tale was about to end, Scheherazade stopped.

"But what happens next?" the king asked again.

"I need to think on it," Scheherazade responded. "Let me finish this tale for you tomorrow night."

And the king thus decided to postpone her execution for yet another day.

This went on for a thousand and one nights, until at last, the king was so taken by his lovely, cunning wife that he decided that he wanted to live together with her forever. And Scheherazade and the king lived happily ever after until the end of their days.

Now, imagine that it happens like this:

"I yield," T'Challa chokes out, kneeling before Erik in the shallow waters of Warrior Falls. A trickle of blood runs down the side of his mouth.

As if Erik gives a shit - he didn't come all the way to Wakanda, didn't train and struggle and kill for thirty years just to let T'Challa off like that. With a furious snarl, he brings his knives down on T'Challa's bowed head - and his strike is blocked by Zuri's vibranium spear. 

"You cannot kill him," Zuri says. "The challenge is over...my king." 

Then I'll kill him, and you as well!, Erik almost shouts, but is stopped by simple calculation - if he kills the ex-king and the shaman before the eyes of all Wakanda, he'll lose all public support before he's even been crowned.

Well. Erik's already waited thirty years - what's another day? He can always have T'Challa assassinated after his position is secure.

"Your Highness, you can proceed to claim your prize," the Merchant Tribe elder says. 

Turns out that claim means fuck, and prize means T'Challa. 

Turns out that under some crazy Wakandan tradition, the winner of the ritual combat gets to fuck the loser. What the fuck?

But we're cousins, is Erik's first, automatic protest.

It's tradition, is everyone's reply.

Well. Who is Erik to argue with tradition? If T'Challa didn't want to get fucked, he shouldn't have yielded. Death before dishonour and all that. 

Also - imagine T'Challa's torment, T'Chaka turning in his grave as Erik wrecks his spoiled golden son. The best sort of revenge.

And of course, Erik can always have T'Challa assassinated the next day, after he's had his fun.  

But Erik is going to enjoy making T'Challa pay first. 

The first night, the Dora Milaje escort T'Challa to Erik's room. He's in handcuffs - the very same handcuffs that T'Challa's henchmen had put Erik in earlier that morning, when he was brought before T'Challa in the throne room.

"Well, well, well," Erik says, smirking. "Look how the tables turn."

T'Challa doesn't respond, save for rolling his eyes a little. Sassy brat.

"On the bed," Erik orders. "Hands and knees. Oh wait, you can't move your hands - just knees, then," Erik sneers.

T'Challa kneels awkwardly on the bed (his old bed, now Erik's), hands cuffed behind his back. Face down against the sheets and ass in the air, just how Erik likes it.

Erik swiftly jerks T'Challa's robe up. He runs his hands over T'Challa's plush ass, kneading his cheeks as T'Challa struggles and fails to stifle a gasp. 

With a feral grin, Erik slaps T'Challa's ass, hard. T'Challa inhales sharply.

"I'm gonna make you scream," Erik breathes, hot and filthy into T'Challa's ear. "Gonna wreck your ass, cuz, you won't be able to sit tomorrow."

"Are - are you always this vulgar?" T'Challa gasps, squirming as Erik delivers another punishing slap. T'Challa's hands strain uselessly against the cuffs as he clenches his fists behind his back.

"Fuck yeah," Erik laughs. He continues to spank T'Challa, alternating between a series of hard slaps and gentle, stroking caresses, enjoying the way T'Challa yelps and squirms under his hands. Erik runs his fingernails gently over T'Challa's heated ass, drawing a breathless moan from him. 

"Erik," T'Challa begs, rutting against the sheets. "Please - please release my hands - I want - I - I need to touch - "

"No," Erik says, smirking. 

T'Challa cries out in frustration, pushing his ass back into Erik's hand, seeking his touch. Fuck, it's the hottest thing Erik has ever seen.

Erik slides a finger between T'Challa's cheeks, towards his hole, and finds to his surprise that T'Challa is already slick and wet.

"Wait, you prepped yourself for me?" Erik asks, surprised. 

"Tradition," T'Challa says, voice muffled with his face pressed against the sheets. "Can you please just - ahhhhhh!" T'Challa cries out as Erik presses his index finger in, crooking it inside T'Challa.

"You okay, baby?" The endearment slips out automatically, before Erik can stop himself. He hadn't meant to say something so sappy. Erik scowls, grateful that T'Challa isn't able to see his face from this angle. 

"Nghhh," T'Challa whimpers wordlessly, arching towards Erik as Erik fingers him. Erik takes that as a yes. 

It doesn't take long to stretch T'Challa open, what with the prior preparation. (Erik briefly considers taking T'Challa on the spot, just to make him hurt, but the sounds that T'Challa is making as he's being fingerfucked are just too delicious.) 

"Look at you, begging for cousin cock," Erik taunts. T'Challa makes a small, broken noise that just fucking lights Erik up like nothing else. He reaches down, lining his hard cock against T'Challa's wet, slick hole. 

"Scream, cuz," Erik purrs. He thrusts into T'Challa with a swift motion, at the same time roughly pulling T'Challa's head back with his left hand fisted tightly in T'Challa's curls. Erik wraps his other hand around T'Challa's neck, fingers pressing lightly against his jugular. T'Challa lets out a choked cry, back arched, eyes watering.

Erik fucks T'Challa with a fast, punishing rhythm, hands gripping onto T'Challa's hips, pulling back on T'Challa with each stroke, making him take it. T'Challa clenches tightly around his cock, whimpering with each thrust against his oversensitive, spanked ass as his hands clench behind his back. "Erik," he sobs, "please, touch me, please, I need -"

Erik deliberately avoids touching T'Challa's cock, running his fingers down the inside of T'Challa's thighs instead. He's finally rewarded with an actual scream, T'Challa writhing beneath him in frustrated agony as he seeks a more intimate touch. 

It doesn't take long for Erik to come like this, fingers digging into T'Challa's hips as he spills into T'Challa's ass. T'Challa jerks under Erik as he's filled up, walls clenching tightly around Erik as Erik pumps his release.

Erik sighs a little as he pulls out, satisfied. Even bothers to jerk T'Challa off after, because he's considerate like that. He rolls T'Challa over on his side and finishes him with a few quick tugs of his cock. Watching T'Challa squeeze his eyes shut as he comes, his expression a delicious mix of shame and desire, unable to even look Erik in the face, and all Erik can think of is victory.

Erik lets T'Challa lie back and calm down for a bit after he's done. God, T'Challa is a fucking good lay. All needy and responsive. He hasn't had such a good fuck in a very long time.

"Okay?" he asks T'Challa gruffly. 

"Y-yeah," T'Challa replies, voice shaky. 

"Alright, now get out," Erik says, brusquely.

T'Challa stares at him. "What?"

"I said, get out," Erik says. "We're done. Now go."

T'Challa looks disbelievingly at Erik, as if he actually expected Erik to let him spend the night. Fuck, he even looks a little hurt.

Erik deliberately turns his body away from T'Challa, ignoring him. After a little while, Erik hears the sound of T'Challa's footsteps leaving the room. 

Once the door closes, Erik starts laughing to himself. He laughs until his stomach hurts.

God. He had known that he'd have fun tormenting T'Challa, but this was even better than he had imagined. Too bad that he needed to have T'Challa killed tomorrow. What a waste of a good piece of tail. 

Then again...did he really need to have T'Challa killed so soon? Come to think of it, it would be really suspicious if T'Challa died the day immediately after the challenge. It'd seem as if Erik had his rival killed the moment that he seized power.

Yeah, on second thought, it'd probably be better to hold off on the assassination for at least a few more days.

Erik drifts off to sleep, thinking of the many, many entertaining ways to spend the next few nights.

The second night, Erik has T'Challa handcuffed and escorted to the throne room.

Erik stretches out on the throne, deliberately spreading his legs widely, obscenely. He's topless, wearing nothing but tight pants and one of T'Challa's own grey robes. T'Challa's eyes widen. 

"Come here," Erik orders. "Kneel."

"You know, I don't have to do anything," T'Challa says, jutting his chin out rebelliously. "You've already exercised your claim."

Erik raises an eyebrow, cocking his head at T'Challa. "You telling me you don't want more of this?" He leers at T'Challa, gesturing down at his crotch. "Gave you the best dicking of your life last night, admit it."

T'Challa bites his lip, his face heating up. Erik smirks. 

"You're so - you're such an asshole," T'Challa mutters. 

"Watch your mouth, I'm your king now," Erik says dangerously. "Now. Come. Here."

T'Challa takes a small step forward, hesitantly. Eyes locked on Erik, chin up, he starts walking slowly towards the throne. He somehow manages to maintain his regal bearing as he sinks to his knees before Erik.

"That's it, cuz," Erik breathes. "Now suck me."

"You're still dressed," T'Challa points out. 

"Undress me then," Erik says. "Uh-uh, no hands - I'm keeping you cuffed for a reason. Use your mouth. You never sucked a dick before or what?" 

T'Challa tentatively leans forward, eyeing Erik's crotch. He bites gently on Erik's zipper, dragging it slowly down.

Erik's gone commando for the night, to make things easier. He's already half hard. Impatient, he decides to help T'Challa out by taking his dick all the way out of his pants.

"C'mon, suck it," Erik says.

T'Challa hesitates, then leans forward to take Erik into his mouth, enclosing Erik in hot, wet warmth. Erik groans and sinks down on the throne, letting his head fall back.

It's abundantly clear that T'Challa doesn't really have much experience with sucking dick. Objectively, he's not very good - too slow, too hesitant, doesn't really do much besides suck gently on Erik, but for some reason that makes it even hotter. The thought that T'Challa, who obviously doesn't give many blowjobs, would still agree to get on his knees for Erik makes his toes curl.

Erik decides to be nice and encouraging for once. "Yeah, baby, you're doing great," he murmurs. "Lil harder and faster, babe, and don't use your teeth. Use your tongue."

He watches T'Challa's head bob up and down on his cock through half-closed eyes, trying not to scare T'Challa off by thrusting too far up into T'Challa's mouth, resisting the urge to thrust his cock down T'Challa's throat. It takes a lot of self-control, and in the end Erik give up, abandoning his restraint. He puts his hands on both sides of T'Challa's head, holding him in place, rubbing small circles on T'Challa's cheeks with his thumbs as he thrusts upward into T'Challa's mouth. T'Challa makes small, muffled noises as Erik comes down his throat.

T'Challa doesn't swallow most of it, and Erik has to wipe the excess off T'Challa's glistening lips with the back of his hand. His lips are soft and plush, and T'Challa even presses a light, brief kiss to the back of Erik's hand as Erik brushes against his lips. It's pretty cute. Erik decides that T'Challa deserves to be rewarded.

"C'mon, get up here," Erik says, pulling T'Challa up to the throne to sit on his lap with his back towards Erik. T'Challa gasps, flinching as his ass makes contact with the top of Erik's thighs.

"Still sore?" Erik asks, smirking.

"Your fault," T'Challa mumbles.

Erik pets T'Challa's cheek. "It's okay, cuz, we can wait till tomorrow night to fuck again. Man, I can't wait to bend you over the throne."

Erik wraps a hand around T'Challa's cock, expertly stroking him as T'Challa whimpers. Erik nuzzles at T'Challa, trailing kisses down the side of his neck as he jerks T'Challa off. T'Challa bucks against him, then shudders as he comes into Erik's fist. He slumps bonelessly against Erik's chest, letting his head fall back.

Erik kisses him carelessly on the cheek, then says, "Alright babe, get up. You can go."

"Erik!" T'Challa protests.

"What?" Erik says challengingly. "You wanna sleep here? Spend the rest of the night on the floor?"

"No," T'Challa mutters. He looks as if he wants to say something else, but Erik grips him by the shoulders and pushes him off the throne as he stands up.

"Go on, get out," Erik says, pointing T'Challa in the direction of the door.

T'Challa leaves.

The third night, Erik has T'Challa brought to the throne room in cuffs again. T'Challa raises an eyebrow at Erik who's sprawled out on the throne, as if to say, This again?

Erik grins unrepentantly.

This time round, T'Challa doesn't wait for the command before he walks towards the throne. He motions to kneel before Erik, but Erik stops him before his knees touch the floor.

"Uh-uh, not tonight" Erik says. He pats his lap. "Come up here, cuz. Ride me."

T'Challa gets up to straddle Erik, knees spread wide on both sides of Erik's thighs. Erik's hands roam over T'Challa's body, stripping him out of his robes, moving down his back, his ass. T'Challa is warm and pliant in his arms as he yields to Erik's kisses, tilting his head up sweetly.

Still, things don't go exactly as Erik had planned. Sure, the idea of T'Challa riding him on the throne is hot as fuck, and T'Challa is very cooperative, but it's an awkward position and with his hands cuffed behind his back, T'Challa really doesn't have much leverage to ride Erik properly. 

"Erik," T'Challa pleads, grinding down against him. "Let my hands go, please, please, Erik, I'll do anything - "

"Alright, fine," Erik sighs, giving in. "How do I get them off? Where's the key? Do I need to call the Dora in?"

"No!" T'Challa gasps, looking mortified at the idea of anyone walking in on them. "Your bracelet - the kimoyo bead, just deactivate it - mmmmmm." He sighs in relief as the cuffs click open and drop to the floor. Immediately, T'Challa reaches up to cup Erik's face in his hands for a passionate kiss.

"High-tech sex toys." Erik says thoughtfully. "Interesting."

He's already starting to make plans for the next few nights.

It's their fourth night together, and Erik finally decides to stop putting T'Challa in cuffs. The third night had been very pleasant after T'Challa had his hands freed - T'Challa had been so eager to show his appreciation for Erik's magnanimity. Still...

Erik pushes T'Challa down on the bed, crouching down over him like a panther in heat. "Cross your arms over your chest," he orders. "Salute your king."

T'Challa rolls his eyes but does as he's told, moving his hands into the position of the Wakandan salute, with his fists clenched against his chest. 

"Now keep them there," Erik says. "Don't move your hands, or I'm gonna bring out the cuffs."

"Okay," T'Challa murmurs, interest sparking in his eyes.

Erik begins to trail light kisses down T'Challa's chest, towards his navel. T'Challa moans breathlessly, squirming as Erik's kisses start dipping towards his groin.

"No hands," Erik warns him.

"Oh no," T'Challa breathes in dismay. Erik grins.

As T'Challa dissolves into a whimpering, shaky mess under Erik's hands and mouth, Erik thinks to himself - this wasn't exactly how he had pictured it in the past thirty years when he dreamt about having his cousin completely at his mercy, but somehow, it still feels like the best revenge.

The fifth night is the first time that Erik lets T'Challa sleep in his room after they fuck. It isn't something that Erik had planned on, per se - he had gone to wash up and when he returns, he finds T'Challa already fast asleep, sprawled out across Erik's bed.

Erik scowls down at T'Challa, internally debating whether to kick T'Challa out of his bed again. But it's late and he's tired, worn out after three rounds, and he really doesn't want to see T'Challa give him the same hangdog expression he had worn the previous four nights when Erik had kicked him out. Last night, T'Challa had actually pouted at him, even. It was disgusting. 

"Just this once," he warns T'Challa's sleeping form, before climbing into the bed next to T'Challa. 

It turns out that T'Challa is pleasantly warm and quite cuddly. He curls up to Erik as he drowses, burrowing close to Erik as he seeks out Erik's body warmth. It's actually kind of...nice. Huh.

Erik decides that T'Challa can sleep over in the future. Up until the day when he has T'Challa killed, of course.

On the tenth night, T'Challa hesitates a little when Erik tells him to spread his legs.

"Erik," he confesses, almost shyly. "I'm - I'm still sore from last night. Tonight, can we just...?" 

T'Challa smiles. 

The fifteenth night, the massage that T'Challa had been giving Erik had been so very pleasant, and Erik had been so very tired after an entire day of covertly plotting to conquer the world, that he finds himself drifting off to sleep as T'Challa's hands knead gently at his back.

Erik suddenly jerks awake in the middle of the night, struck with the horrific realisation that this time, he had fallen asleep in front of T'Challa. He had fallen asleep before an enemy. T'Challa could have killed him in his sleep. 

But even with that knowledge, sleep still doesn't come again for a very long time.

Twenty nights in, and Erik has now taken to chatting with T'Challa after they finish fucking each night. Gathering intel on the enemy, Erik tells himself, but the truth is that T'Challa is just too easy to talk to. Lying next to T'Challa each night, turned towards each other as T'Challa cups his face, and Erik inexplicably finds his walls crumbling in the face of T'Challa's soft brown eyes.

"My dad used to tell me that the sunsets in Wakanda were more beautiful than anywhere else in the world," Erik says quietly, closing his eyes as T'Challa strokes his cheek. 

"Tomorrow, we can watch the sunset together," T'Challa murmurs. "I know a place to go."

The twenty-first evening, they ascend the steps of the Panther Mound together. It's high enough that they can see the entirety of  Wakanda spread out before them, its vibranium walls gleaming with golden fire under the late afternoon sun.

Erik sinks down slowly at the edge of the cliff, T'Challa beside him. They sit together in companionable silence, watching the sun sink down towards the horizon.

For some reason, Erik finds tears rising to his eyes. 

T'Challa reaches over, gently placing his hand on top of Erik's. He doesn't say anything at all, but Erik understands.

On the sixtieth night, Erik realises with a jolt that he hasn't seriously considered killing T'Challa for at least a week. Maybe even two.

In fact, T'Challa is sleeping on Erik's chest right now, breath coming out warm and even against Erik's sternum. Definitely not dead yet.

Erik absentmindedly strokes T'Challa's hair, petting T'Challa as he considers his options.

The problem is, he just isn't done with T'Challa yet, Erik tells himself. It would be a waste to kill T'Challa before he's sampled everything T'Challa has to offer, and Erik isn't a wasteful person. Hell, he hasn't even tried out the kimoyo beads on T'Challa yet. Bet they'd look great stuffed in T'Challa's ass.

Ah well. He can have T'Challa assassinated in a few more weeks, surely. What's the rush?

The one hundredth night is the first time that Erik lets T'Challa fuck him.

"I haven't - I haven't done this in a while," Erik says to T'Challa. He's lying through his teeth - he's never done it at all, never once relinquished control during sex. But T'Challa always seems to be enjoying himself so damn much that Erik is starting to wonder if he's missing out, always being on top.

Lying back against the pillows, Erik is already starting to regret his curiosity. "Don't you make me regret this," he threatens T'Challa. "I can still have you executed, you know."

"We'll take it slow," T'Challa tells him earnestly, gently. "And you can't have anyone executed. We don't do capital punishment in Wakanda."

"Imma make a new law, see if I won't," Erik mutters.

It's painful and awkward at first - Erik just can't relax, can't stop tensing up in anxiety whenever T'Challa tries to put in anything larger than a single finger. But T'Challa is slow and gentle, murmuring encouragement and silly endearments in between his kisses. And when Erik finally opens up enough to accept the slow slide of T'Challa's cock into him, it doesn't feel anything like submission or defeat - just a different kind of victory.

It takes one hundred and fifty nights before Erik gives up pretending to himself that he's going to have T'Challa assassinated any time soon.

He still entertains occasional idle fantasies of having T'Challa killed, but there's no longer any fire behind these dreams - he can't seem to remember exactly why he had been so anxious to murder T'Challa in the first place. After all, hadn't it been T'Chaka, not T'Challa, who had killed his father? What did that have to do with T'Challa, anyway?

Erik is aware that he's getting ridiculously soft, becoming ridiculously attached. Somehow, with T'Challa spooned next to him, warm and happy in his arms, he can't seem to bring himself to mind.

Over six months in Wakanda - two hundred nights later - and Erik is finally ready to put his plan into action. These past few months, he's been busy ramping up Wakanda's production of vibranium weapons, familiarizing himself with the War Dog international network, and consolidating his rule over the council. They'll all agree to anything he says, now. 

"Everyone out," Erik orders. "Except T'Challa. Get out!"

The room clears. Erik whirls around to face T'Challa, who doesn't shrink back.

"How dare you," Erik snarls, furious. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

"Erik," T'Challa pleads. "Erik, please don't do this. Innocent people are going to get hurt." 

"I'm doing this for our people," Erik says. "All our people. You'll understand, in time."

T'Challa doesn't back down. "There has to be another way," he says, determination in his eyes. "We don't have to turn our backs on everyone, but we don't need to wage war either. There's a third path. We can build bridges, not fences - share our technology and resources with everyone else. We can help not just our own people, but also the entire world."

This is the turning point, Erik realises. On this, unlike everything else, he knows that T'Challa is not going to yield to him.

Two paths stretch before Erik. One, a familiar road paved with fire and blood, ending with him sitting atop the throne of the Wakandan empire. Alone.

The other, shrouded and uncertain, leading off into the unknown - but with T'Challa by his side.

Erik grits his teeth.

It's a simple choice, really. He barely even needs to think about it.

Fuck. T'Challa has made him so soft.

The three hundred and sixty-fifth night is the anniversary of their first night together. Erik doesn't remember it (he doesn't go for all this sappy shit), but T'Challa certainly does.

"What's all this?" Erik asks incredulously, gesturing towards the rose petals scattered over their bed. There are even little tea light candles burning, lining the edges of the room where the walls meet the floor.

"It's for our anniversary," T'Challa says. "I thought you'd like it. Don't tell me you forgot."

"No, no, of course I didn't," Erik assures T'Challa quickly, automatically; then says, "Wait, anniversary?! We're not dating!"

T'Challa is starting to look upset. 

"Sorry, kitten, I didn't mean it like that," Erik tells T'Challa hastily. "Um...I mean...it's complicated?"

"I don't understand what's so complicated about it," T'Challa says, folding his arms across his chest.

Erik suddenly has a very strong premonition that things will go horribly, disastrously wrong if he says anything along the lines of, Because I wanted to have you killed.

Instead Erik says, soothingly, "It's nothing, baby, it ain't complicated, nothing's wrong, I was just messing with ya."

For some reason, T'Challa doesn't look placated at all. Erik has to spend the rest of the night using all of his charms to make T'Challa forget about it. 

On the four hundredth night, Erik drags T'Challa to the Warrior Falls to spar with him under the moonlight. 

"We can't go there!" T'Challa says, but he's laughing. "It's a holy site. It's off limits except on challenge day."

"I'm the king and we're fighting," Erik says. "So that means I'm letting you challenge me."

"That's not how it works," T'Challa protests, but he lets Erik lead the way there nonetheless.

"Clothes off," Erik says with a leer, laughing at T'Challa's expression. "Stripping is traditional." 

They grapple at the edge of the Falls, in the shallow waters. T'Challa is strong and fast, but he's no match for Erik's brutal grace and familiarity with violence. It's barely even a contest - Erik had beaten T'Challa handily the first time, and that was even without having his senses enhanced by the heart-shaped herb.

"I yield," T'Challa says breathlessly, on his knees, gazing up at Erik. It's so familiar, yet so different from their first time that it momentarily takes Erik's breath away. 

Erik shakes the memory off. "You're not trying, kitten," he scolds T'Challa reproachfully. "You fought harder the first time."

"I didn't want to get killed," T'Challa says. "It would break Shuri's heart. And of course you won, you have the power of the Black Panther now."

"This is less fun than I thought it'd be," Erik gripes, thinking of ways to make them more evenly matched. Sure, sparring with the Dora Milaje was useful for training, but it couldn't compare to the thrill of having T'Challa struggle beneath him. Also, Erik couldn't fuck the Dora afterwards.

"What the hell, let's just fuck now," Erik announces.

"Here?!" T'Challa protests, scandalized. "This is a holy site!"

"Loser gets fucked, it's tradition," Erik says, smirking. 

"May Bast cleanse us of our sins," T'Challa mutters, but he bends over all the same.

The five hundred and fiftieth night, Erik walks into their room, holding a familiar fanged silver necklace.

"For you," he tells T'Challa, throwing the necklace on the bed. "Put this on."

"Wait - this isn't just a necklace, it's the Black Panther suit," T'Challa says, frowning as he picks it up. 

"I know," Erik says. He taps his own gold necklace, the one controlling the Golden Jaguar suit. "I already have one. Don't need that. You can wear it."

"But the suit can only be worn by the Black Panther," T'Challa protests. "You shouldn't give it to me."

Erik sighs, rolling his eyes. "Don't argue with your king," he says. "And don't say nothing about tradition, either. I know for a fact that Shuri only just invented this. Y'all can't have come up with any traditions for this particular suit yet."

"It's still the Black Panther suit," T'Challa says, all stubborn. "Only the Black Panther can wear it."

"No, it's not," Erik says slyly. "This suit right here is the Black Kitten suit. Only my kitten can wear it. Sure, it may look like the Black Panther suit - "

"Erik, you are the worst," T'Challa says, but he's laughing as he puts the necklace on, stroking the gleaming silver teeth fondly. 

"Good," Erik says smugly. "Now we're even. Let's go fight."

"I thought of an interesting place to spar," T'Challa tells Erik on the seven hundredth night.

That place turns out to be the vibranium mine under the Panther Mound. More specifically, the train tracks surrounding the vibranium mine, which are lined on both sides with sonic broadcasters that can disrupt their suits whenever a train passes. 

"That's really kinky, babe," Erik says to T'Challa, delighted. Naked fighting, accompanied with the threat of imminent death by train. What's not to like?

They activate their suits at the same time, falling, spinning down the mine shaft. Plans flit through Erik's mind - how to take advantage of the train schedules, how to maneuver  T'Challa into a vulnerable position. Erik twists in the air, landing crouched on all fours like a cat, and goes straight for T'Challa's neck.

It's a very close match this time. Erik even has the upper hand for most of the fight, right up until the moment where T'Challa shoves him through the sonic disruptor field.

Erik freezes, feeling T'Challa's gloved fist, enclosed in his suit, pressing flush against his bare chest. He knows that T'Challa could unsheath the panther claws with a thought, spearing right through his heart. Like T'Chaka did, a part of Erik's mind thinks hazily, but he feels no fear at all.

"That's a hell of a move, cuz," Erik says admiringly. Up until now, he hadn't actually believed that T'Challa could beat him. For the first time, Erik says, "I yield."

T'Challa deactivates his helm, pulling Erik in for a kiss.

Seven hundred nights, and it's the best kiss they've ever shared.

On the eight hundred and twenty-fifth night, Erik is working late in the lab. He's tinkering with the panther suit again - he's this close to finding a way to improve the efficiency of the suit deployment by reducing the redundancies in the nanite lattice. That ought to shave at least a couple of milliseconds off the deployment time. Time that could mean the difference between T'Challa's life and death, in a battle.

The lab door slides open with a soft hiss. It's T'Challa.

"Erik," T'Challa says warmly.

"Go away, I'm busy," Erik says, distracted. He doesn't look up.

T'Challa comes up behind Erik, wrapping his arms around Erik's waist. "It's late, Erik," he murmurs, nuzzling the side of Erik's neck. "You've been down here for hours. Come to bed."

"Don't disturb your king when he's working," Erik complains. "That's treason. Imma have you beheaded for this tomorrow."

T'Challa just laughs. No respect for the king at all, that brat. His hands drift lower, from Erik's waist down to his groin. 

"Now?" Erik asks, glancing up at the clock on the wall. "It's three in the morning!"

"So what," T'Challa murmurs, breath ghosting against his ear. "If it's not too late to work, then it's not too late to fuck."

Well. How can Erik argue with that logic?

He bends T'Challa over the lab table, sweeping his notes off the surface to lie in a messy pile on the floor. T'Challa's clothes follow. 

It's four in the morning by the time they're done. Erik is so tired that he actually contemplates just sleeping in the lab with T'Challa until Shuri finds them in the morning (his relationship with T'Challa has already been an open secret for years - not that Erik actually gives a shit about what Shuri might think). But the thought of T'Challa's mortification at being walked in on by his sister -

Erik sighs, gathers his notes back on the table, and scoops T'Challa up in a bridal carry to bring him back to their room.

He really spoils T'Challa too damn much.

After around nine hundred nights, Auntie Ramonda starts dropping hints about marriage.

It's the nine hundred and tenth night (evening, really), and Erik is having dinner together with T'Challa, Shuri and Ramonda. 

"N'Jadaka, you're getting on in age," Auntie Ramonda nags. "You're the king of Wakanda and you're already thirty-three years old. Isn't it time for you to settle down with a consort? When your uncle was your age, he and I had already been married for three years."

"Fuck no," Erik says, alarmed, but he can't help his eyes from flickering towards T'Challa.

Shuri hides her smile behind her hand.

"Language!" Ramonda says.

"Mama, please don't pressure Erik," T'Challa says, smiling reassuringly at him at the same time. 

Erik wonders how T'Challa would react if Erik has his mother executed. Probably not well, Erik admits to himself.

What's the fun of being king if I can't kill anyone at all? Erik thinks, grumpily.

As Ramonda turns away, T'Challa looks over at Erik, dragging his eyes over Erik's body in a lingering, filthy look as he licks sauce off his spoon with deliberate provocation. 

Oh. That's what.

It's been a thousand and one nights since Erik first arrived in Wakanda, carrying nothing but a wanted man's corpse, a dead man's ring and a thirty-year grudge.

On this last night, Erik brings T'Challa beneath Wakanda, to the garden of the heart-shaped herbs.

"Take a herb," he tells T'Challa. 

T'Challa frowns. "That's reserved for the kings of Wakanda," he objects. "You can't just give it to me."

"I do what I want," Erik says. "Now take the herb, that's an order."

"Erik, that's not - this really isn't okay. The herb is a blessing from Bast for our kings. You can't just give it to me, even if - " T'Challa pauses, embarrassed, " - even if Mother wants you to make me your consort."

"Who said I was just gonna make you a consort?" Erik asks slyly.

A slow smile of realisation spreads across T'Challa's face. "Erik, are you trying to tell me - "

"Don't make me say it," Erik warns.

"I want to hear it, though," T'Challa teases.

"Fuck tradition," Erik says instead, but he can't hide his smile as he puts an arm around T'Challa's shoulders, pulling him close for a kiss. "We're kings. We can do what we want."

THE END