Killmonger Shirtless Novels & Stories

Ten minutes to catch my breath and remember how to fight. "You need to strip down." Mara appeared beside me. She wasn't exactly friendly, but she wasn't hostile either. "Shifting will destroy your clothes anyway. Might as well save them." Right, because shifting in front of hundreds of strange wolves wasn't humiliating at all. I pulled off my jacket with trembling fingers. Then my shirt. Left me in just a sports bra and the shorts I'd worn under my jeans. The morning air raised goosebumps on my exposed skin. My scars were visible in the morning light—the ones from training accidents, the ones from years of being the pack punching bag. They told a story I no longer wanted to hide.

Grant. Wearing nothing but compression shorts and a cocky-ass grin. Shirtless. Chest gleaming with sweat. Arms flexed. Hair damp and messy. He looked like a fucking ad. Like someone dropped a Calvin Klein model in the middle of our locker room. “What the hell do you want?” Malik snapped, stepping in front of me. “I came to say hi,” Mason said casually. “Didn’t get to catch up after the game.” “We’re not in the mood,” Liam growled.

"Thank you. I appreciate it." He stood in the shallow water, hands resting on his bare waist. "My mother and I have no space in our shelter, but I know a kinder pack nearby. They are not like the Ashen Dominion. Those wolves are true monsters." He gave a nervous laugh. I remembered the dark tales whispered about them and simply nodded. "This shirt is long enough for my knees," I said, the idea forming. "You should take the shorts." I removed them and tossed the damp fabric to him.

I'll have to ask later about it. We got out and dried off. I brought with me a brown sweat shirt and blue jeans to wear. The shirt was overshized and actually a lot cooler than most thought it'd be. I put them on along with a matching pair of bra and panties. I forgot to grab some shoes, so I'd have to go barefoot. Which was actually common with most wolves because they're expensive and we tend to forget to take them off durring shift- so they get lost or broken easily. Bredon just put what he normally wore back on, gym shorts and a musle shirt. Cheap clothes because he was always ready to shift. He gave me a pair of socks and nike slides to wear and we walked out to his balcony where a porc

I replied, unscrewing the cap. “Why don’t you take off your shirt during training? Even during push-ups, you keep it on.” I nearly choked. The water stuck in my throat, and for a moment, I forgot how to swallow or spit it out. Most of the Alphas tossed their shirts aside during training. I was the only one still fully dressed, my shirt soaked through, sticky and uncomfortable. I hated it, but I had no choice. I met his gaze and calmly replied, “Since I was a kid, I’ve never been comfortable showing skin.”

Amara watched as Damon smirked and began unbuttoning his shirt. She swallowed hard, her gaze fixed on his well-muscled body, unable to stop herself from staring. After discarding his shirt, he slipped off his shoes, meeting her eyes for a brief moment before flashing a wide smile and walking away. As Alpha Damon stood there, shirtless and confident, a hush fell over the crowd. The Protectors, having completed their display, turned their attention toward him, ready to face the ultimate challenge and claim the prize.

His sleeve rides up, revealing the edge of a mantis tattoo. “-Fuck”

He had just one tattoo drawing, on his heart area, like a comic parody of — is that Cat Woman? And more than that, he emitted a darker aura than the other two. For the love of God, are those abs even real? They were all so fucking ripped, like those men who give hardcore BDSM fucks in those p**n videos I watch with Gilda. Oh gosh! Was this the sex suite? The one sitting seemed ripped, as his shirt fit him like a glove, stretching out his muscles, and also the one standing with a phone, he was fucking ripped. But the one dressed in black and had a shirt on his shoulder? He was fucking shredded. A buff fellow, my God!

His age was starting to show from built up stress and whatever had caused the severe damage to his skin, which added years to his appearance. Stripes only wore casual clothing, leaving plenty of his damaged skin to be seen. He had a simple faded yellow shirt on, which was printed with an almost non-existent blue logo on the chest. His shirt hung above his waist, which flashed a black belt, decorated with shining silver bullets tipped gold. His pants were grey denim shorts that were frayed at the ends; and he wore only a pair of blue thongs that were so well worn they had tape around the top. “It’s Moon” I prompted “we were separated a few years back. I’m called Omen now.”

I had barely gotten in through the door of the mall when he sent me a gif of Wayne and Garth from Wayne's World, bowing, and captioned "We're Not Worthy!" Asshole. But I was kind of getting arrogant enough to say into the thin air, "Damn straight you ain't." The shirt I ended up buying was a pretty dope cloud pattern of sky blue and white. The only place the Crayola factory had thrown up on it were the insides of the collar and cuffs.