#wakandan reader

Bucky Barnes x Wakandan!Reader

“White Wolf.”

Bucky turns at the greeting, getting more use to the name given to him as the days go on. He’s not quite sure why they call him that, but anything is better than ‘The Winter Soldier’.

Confusion licks him for only a moment as he takes you in, slender frame under traditional clothing rather than fighting leathers. You look a little different than the last time he saw you - your hair was much curler, not in the braids you have them in now and your face was clearer, not marked with white tribal paint.

“You were with Steve.” He states but it borders on a question.

“I was.” You nod, closing the short distance to stand next to him overlooking the lake.

He looks better, different but better. It had only been a few weeks since he had been released from the cryostasis and you have returned to your homeland. Shuri had been the one to update you on his recovery, after all you had promised Steve to look after his dear friend. She told you the kids took a particular liking to him.

A moment of silence passes between you both, your eyes taken in the African scenery and stealing glances at each other from the corners of your eyes.

“Thank you.” Bucky mutters into the open, small and quiet yet grateful. Bucky recalled how hard it was for you to be on his side, to go against your fiends, your King. In the end it worked out, but at the time it was a choice that was hard to carry.

You can recall the moments yourself, being frozen between fighting against people you’ve come to call friends and doing what you thought was right.

“A friend of Cap is a friend of mine.” You settle it, looking over with a little smile.

It leaves Bucky sort of confused by the sentiment. He spent 70 years not use to kindness, so having it in abundance now messes with his brain chemistry.

—

From that day, you visited more. Just to check on him, maybe to talk, sometimes to play with the children but nights like these are what he’s slowly getting use to. Some would say, he looks forward to it.

It’s late, the last orange rays of the setting sun wash the front of his hut in warm lighting. Your both sitting at the table, abandon stacks of kids drawings laying around and your chair is pulled closer to his.

“Ungubani?” The question comes and Bucky is prepared this time, he had been memorizing the language everyday since these impromptu lessons began. (Who are you?)

“Ingcuka emhlophe.” He replies back, slightly hesitant as if somehow he mixed up his words. You don’t outwardly show it but you’re proud at how quickly he’s picking up the language. For someone that hasn’t learnt IsiXhosa from an infant, it could be very hard to learn but he’s not bad for a white boy. He isn’t great but not horrible either. (The White Wolf)

He catches he’s the slight impressed look on your face and he bites back the small smile threatening to pull at his lips. “Not bad, White Boy.”

He feels like a school boy at your praise, he’s been alive a lot longer than you and he’s never met anyone that has affected him this much in such little time.

Bucky’s curiosity regarding you grows with every moment. He’d never admit it but once or twice he’s questioned the kids about you. He really couldn’t help it, he wants to know your story and it’s easier to talk to them than bribe them with the promise of playing in his hair.

“Mamela, James.” You cut him off, with a steady voice. You’ve taken to calling him James, a name he hasn’t gone by in a very long time and he hasn’t once corrected you. Because he likes it, he likes you giving him that part of himself again. (Listen, James.)

He doesn’t mind one bit at the firmness in your tone, he actually finds it funny how you take it all so seriously. How you help him understand the people and culture better.

“Jong-” You cut him off with a hand pressed to his chest. Whether you notice or not, Bucky realizes he doesn’t flinch when you touch him. His body doesn’t freeze or act on fight mode. He’s surprisingly calm.

“Jonga.” You emphasis the part of word messed up, “Here. Feel it in your chest when you say it.”

The moment is intimate in ways he can’t explain, the warm and steadiness of your palm pressing into his chest. The way your mouth moves with his, eyes focused on his lips as you encourage him to speak.

“Jonga.”

Releasing a hum of approval, you nod before slowly pulling away. The way he’s looking at you, so attentively that you have to look away to stop yourself from crossing a boundary.

Bucky isn’t stupid, he catches the shallowing of your breath, the way you can’t hold eye contact and how you mess around the papers littering the table.

“What does it mean?” He asks after a moment of just watching, and you swear the room feels smaller - warmer even.

He waits for you to answer, patient and quiet. When you look up, his eyes drown you just as yours capture him.

“To see.” And the irony of it is electrifying, because it’s as if the two of you are finally seeing each other.

—

Okoye x Black!Wakandan!Female!Reader

Summary: The day that Okoye is stripped from her title as general, you, who has been away to the Jabari-Lands for meetings with M'Baku, come home and comfort her.

Hurt and Comfort, Ends in Fluff

Warnings: none (unless you consider domestic fluff as something to warn you of)

Okoye left the throne room filled with her superiors, a prominent line of tears leaving her eyes as she walked briskly, careful not to trip. She had just lost her title as the General and she was no longer a member of the Dora Milaje, now having been demoted to being a regular civilian.

Regardless of that though, she didn't want to be seen crying by too many more people, already feeling humiliated at how weak she must has looked in there. She for sure knew that the word would spread soon and all of central Wakanda would be gossiping about the entire ordeal before suppertime. So she walked as fast as she could to her headquarters in the royal palace, to pack her few things and return to your shared nearby home.

Title: Smash into You

Fandom(s): Black Panther, MCU

Permanent Taglist: Click here to be added.

Relationship(s): Erik x reader. M’Baku & reader.

Summary: You are not the result of your experiences, you are the result of what you choose to do with them.

Warning(s): Alternate canon divergent, world building, slow pacing

Tagging:  @hairhattedhooligan @lucidaquarian @tntnv @keya168 @ohmyfuriosa @supremethunda @melannchoholic @lauureeen @elaindeereads @autumn242 @punkrockwxnnabe @palmsofgranate @strawberryscat @wikiwakanda @lovemekaycee @managingmischiefdaily @gothambrat @babybluepeaches @redvonlace @chaneajoyyy @princessstevens @muse-of-mbaku @wakanda-inspired @bidibidibombaclaat @blackpinup22@thadelightfulone @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @blackpantherimagines @theunsweetenedtruth @itsmegabaminooo @donut-crazs @theesotericqueen @enigamaticaprodhite @kvng-kyi @wildeespirit @my-my-15 @golden-girl1 @thadelightfulone @iamrheaspeaks @curls-and-crosses @bonita-juanita @yourfavoritefavorite @kristabella98 @mychemicalimagines @queenof-wakanda @izraahh1

Shout out to @yoongisbadgyal for creating those gifs of Michael B. Jordan as a smol bean, there really isn’t any made of him in his younger years. More’s the pity. Anyways~ I’m really sorry that it took me so long to update the next chapter in this series, especially so early on. Finding the right balance between just enough and no more has always been my downfall.

Hope you guys enjoy!

Part I Part II Part III

~

California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation 7717 Edgewater Dr. #200, Oakland, CA 94621 1/23/1994 9:34 A.M.

Erik hated this place.

Truly hated it, the way the fluorescent lighting made everyone’s complexion looked grey and washed out. He hated the uncomfortable chairs that dug into his back and caused him to move about restlessly, attempting to find a space or area that would lessen the tension in his upper body. 

He hated the way people eyed him with passive indifference, seeing him but not really looking, too lost in their own suffering and issues. The sight of the adults, grieving or angry parents, with their children. Some of the kids were either older or younger than he is, and already, he can see the beginnings of jaded disillusionment in their eyes.

He wanted to scream at the unfairness of it all, to tear this institution, this, this, this box, this cage down brick by brick--

A hand on his shoulder, warm and firm, brought him out of his wandering, dark thoughts. Looking up, he sees it’s Uncle James, and his features are deliberately trained to be impassive, Erik can catch a small glimpse of concern in his gaze, if only because he’s looking for it. 

It is this singular look that makes him calm down, or at least, attempt to. 

Breathing in deep, he held the breath for a few seconds, thinking of the long hallways in the castle, the markets and the people that come streaming in from all the tribes, how he’s never apprehensive and he can trust them to reach out to him, without worry of them aiming to hurt. He remembers the beauty of the Wakandan sunset and how his being warms from the inside out. Releasing the captured breath, he opens his eyes partially, and he’s found his center. He’s calm again. 

Just in time, too.

He sees the officer bring his mother into the room where the other prisoners sit, talking on the phones with their families or loved ones. Uncle James removes his hand from his shoulder, likely sensing the positive turn in his demeanor, and Erik strides over to the empty chair.

Picking up the phone, just as she does, Erik’s lips quirk into a smile and allows his gaze to soften a tad, his adoration and love for her, visible for her sight only. “Hi, mama.” 

Pointedly, he ignores how she’s lost even more weight than the last time he visited her. He ignores the fact that her hair has lost it’s vibrancy and shine, and now is dull, lifeless, probably falling out a little. He doesn’t take in the fact that she can barely sit still, even though she’s only just sat down. 

“Hey, baby.” 

He ignores the wispy, absent-but-not-fully-gone tone in her voice, and he ignores how she scratches at her elbow and neck. Because he knows that she’s taking some drug, maybe even a cocktail of them, just to get through the day, to function with a broken soulmate bond. 

Yet he doesn’t utter a word. 

The last time he’d brought it up, she’d...she’d completely flipped. Logically, he understands that the drugs make her verbal filter nonexistent and warped her personality but the things she’d said to him that day still hurt. It hurt even more because the next time he’d visited, she’d been sober enough and hadn’t remembered, hadn’t realized. 

And he was too weak to say something. 

So instead he tried to remember her a few years ago, before...

Before everything changed, before his father died and she was arrested. 

...Sometimes it even worked. 

The visit went okay. Erik talked about vague things, like his studies and the friends he’d made. Occasionally, he had to repeat something or neatly redirect the conversation to a different subject when it seemed like she’d bring up something about Wakanda and that was definitely a big No™.

“I love you, Erik.” His mother said suddenly, her eyes fixing on his with startling intensity. He paused mid joke, staring at her. “I-I-I know I’m no good--”

He couldn’t help but interject. “Don’t say that.”

“I’m not. I used to be, but...” Those simple words hurt so bad, and then she shrugged, scratching at her scalp. “I’m just not, baby. And I’m sorry.”

“Mama...”

“You shouldn’t come here anymore.” The words wooshed out of her, practically tripping over themselves as she said them hastily, clearly she’d been wanting to say this for awhile yet. 

Erik felt frozen. Glued to his seat.

“I know you’re just checking in on me, because...because you’re worried.” Bolstered by his silence, she continued talking. “But, Erik, that’s not...you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. You’re going to do great things, I know it. Your...your daddy knew it, too. Our little prince out to spread his vision across the world,” her voice broke slightly. “He...he was very passionate about that. So much that I couldn’t help but get caught up in his dreams, his wish for you.”

“Mama...” Again, he tried to speak up. 

“And it’s earlier than I’d like but I know it’s for the best, too.” Straightening up from her slouched position, she looked at him straight in the eye and Erik wanted to recoil from her gaze but he couldn’t. 

Couldn’t turn away from her gaze if he wanted to. 

“You can’t have a future if you’re constantly looking behind you and fantasizing about the past.” 

The words are like arrow bolts, hitting him dead center in the heart. Eyes welling up with tears, voice choked. “I’m...I’m not.” His words are quiet, hoarse, and although he tried to control himself, a tear squeezed out of his eyes anyway, dripping down his cheek. 

Her own eyes watered in response, but she managed to keep it together. Barely. “You are.” Her voice gentled even more. “We both know I’m not getting out of here. Not without a miracle.” Twenty five years to life, that’s the sentence the judge had given her. “I don’t want you to come here anymore.”

“And I’m telling you that I’m not just gonna abandon you!” His words are sharper than he wanted them to be, and Erik mildly regrets his tone when she flinches, just slightly. “You’re my mother. I don’t care what you did, I don’t care what you’re saying right now. Mama, I’m sorry if it makes you angry, but I ain’t giving up on you.” 

The officer is calling for her now, saying that it’s time for her to return to her cell. Erik doesn’t think twice, he places his hand on the mirror, looking at her, begging her with his eyes. For a moment, she just stares and then slowly, so slowly, her hand touched the mirror too, right over his.

Don’t give up on me. On us. On living.

“You’re so stubborn,” she sighs into the phone, voice slightly wobbly. “My silly little princeling.” 

The nickname makes something in him ache but he ignores it. 

“It’s my best trait and I get it from my mama.” 

His words cause her to smile, and she looks years and years younger. The officer calls out to her again, almost halfway to her by now. Not once does she take her eyes off of him, even as she slowly hangs up the phone, placing it almost gently in the cradle, and then she mouths three words to him.

Erik mouths the words back. He doesn’t look away from her for a second, not until she disappears behind the door, presumably on her way back to her cell. And even then, he just sits in that plastic little chair, feeling triumphant and exhausted and too many other emotions to name. His mother had, in so many words, begged him to forget her, to live his life without thinking about her. Yet he couldn’t do it. 

No, that’s wrong, he wouldn’t do it. 

T’Challa X Black! Reader (platonic)

Summary: You are a worldwide approved expert of African art and culture. The visit of an old friend turns everything upside down.

Warnings: maybe spoilers for Black Panther?

A/N: This is the first time I write for a PoC. So please educate me if I did grave mistakes in this but please don’t send hate!

A/N 2: Thank you @after-avenging-hours for inspiring this with the beginning of her story Garden of Hearts

Translations:

-          Ubaba – Father (Xhosa)

-          Umama – Mother (Xhosa)

You were giving a group of students a guided tour through the National Museum of African Art. It was your favourite part of this job. Analysing new potential exhibits and classifying them – just admiring them – was interesting as well. What you hated about being a worldwide approved and known expert of African art and culture were the many articles you had to write. It was boring, exhausting and time consuming, but you had to do it if you wanted to keep that position. And you did want to.

But working with people who were interested in the many-faceted art and culture of Africa? Pure joy. You loved teaching them. Loved sharing your knowledge. To show them new ways to think and act. Some students and pupils even returned with friends or family members who hadn’t visited the display.

Title: Smash Into You

Fandom(s): Black Panther, MCU

Permanent Taglist: Click here to be added.

Relationship(s): Erik x reader. M’Baku & reader. 

Summary: Of this, be sure: you do not find a happy life, you make it. 

Warning(s): Alternate canon divergence

Tagging:  @hairhattedhooligan @lucidaquarian @tntnv @keya168 @ohmyfuriosa @supremethunda @melannchoholic @lauureeen @elaindeereads @autumn242 @punkrockwxnnabe @palmsofgranate @strawberryscat @wikiwakanda @lovemekaycee @managingmischiefdaily @gothambrat @babybluepeaches @redvonlace @chaneajoyyy @princessstevens @muse-of-mbaku @wakanda-inspired @bidibidibombaclaat @blackpinup22 @thadelightfulone @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove

I’ve always written fics from the reader’s pov, so this time around, it could be a double challenge to write most of this fic from Erik’s. Anyways, thank you all so, so so much for the continued interest, it made me get off my lazy bum and actually write something! Again, those with a strikethrough their url, I’ll send the link to you directly, please have your ask/dm’s/submission’s open. Also, yeeeaaaaaa, gonna be using that same gif of Seth Carr (I think I have one more) until he hits teenage years, in which case, I’ll try and find some old Michael B. Jordan gifs where he’s waaaaaay younger (which is code for halp me pls, i’ve seen it on this site, haaaaaaalp).

Part I

~

It’s been a few weeks, almost a month, since he’d come to stay in the palace (an actual, real live palace) with his two Uncles, James and T’Chaka, and during that time, his entire situation and outlook had changed. 

People, sometimes much older than he, talked to him with respect. 

Much to his surprise, they didn’t bow and scamper away like he’d read in adventure stories and history textbooks about common folk interacting with royalty; at most, they’d incline their head and/or cross both arms in front of their chest like a salute. 

Wakanda isn’t like Oakland. 

Secretly, in his heart of hearts, he doesn’t believe there’s anywhere else in the entire, whole world like Wakanda. His Baba had always told him to be proud of his heritage, but he hadn’t known what that meant for him exactly.

There’s a brief knock at his door, breaking his train of thought. “N’Jadaka?” T’Challa’s voice only barely can be heard but it’s muffled. “Are you awake and decent yet?”

"No.” 

The doors are thrown open and T’Challa ran inside like a speeding bullet, arms outstretched for a hug. Erik stayed still until the last second and before the other boy could get his arms around him, he curved to the side just so, neatly dodging the embrace; T’Challa ran into the bed instead, knocking the breath out of his body. 

“I said, ‘No’, and you tried to hug me anyway.” Erik remarked, voice as dry as dust. “What if I really had been naked?” 

T’Challa rolled from side to side, clutching his probably bruised torso. “I just wanted to say good morning to you, brother.” He paused. “Plus, we both have the same bits, so it’s okay!”

“We’re not brothers,” Erik ticked off one finger. “And you weird.” That’s a fact, not an assumption. “I’m going to get breakfast.” 

“Wait! Wait up for me, N’Jadaka.” T’Challa called out as his cousin stepped out of the opened doorway into the hallway.

“No.”

Even though he said he wouldn’t wait for the other boy, he ended up waiting anyway. Thankfully T’Challa got his act together quickly and stopped hyping up his ‘injury’, hurrying after Erik with the Dora hanging back a few feet, giving the duo the illusion of privacy.

“So, how do you like it here?” T’Challa asked. 

“You ask me the same question everyday.” Erik retorted, slight exasperation audible in his tone. 

“It’s because you never really give me a concrete answer!” T’Challa shot back, mouth pulling down in a brief frown. “Maybe you’re homesick?”

Was he though?

Did he miss the old, crickety basketball hoops or the way that the street lights that flickered on and off, off and on between 7:30 p.m. to 8:45 before eventually fixing itself at 9? Maybe it was the way Ms Jossi kept hollering at him to stop running down the hallways and how he had a ton of friends?

...Yeah, maybe he did miss those things. 

He didn’t miss the feeling of inadequacy. 

Every time he entered a store, he had to keep his hands out of his pockets and in full view, or the inability to linger in the aisles unless he be accused of stealing. The way his (white) teachers sometimes ignored his raised hand to call on somebody who wasn’t even paying attention. The way that the patrol cars did their routes ‘to protect the neighborhood’ but almost daily, he’d hear about some cop yanking up a guy for no reason, or worse--

So maybe it’d be safer to say that he’s conflicted, being here feels like a dream most days.

Of course, Erik doesn’t say any of that aloud though.

“Ion know. I guess.”

T’Challa huffs at Erik’s atypical non-answer, and as he goes to pester his cousin for further details, only he bumps into somebody. Looking up, his entire face lights up with a smile, “Baba! Good morning!”

T’Chaka reaches a hand down, the monarch ruffles his son’s hair, cupping the back of his neck so that he’s forced to take a few steps closer and T’Challa doesn’t waste a second with sneaking in a hug, arms wrapping around his middle as far as they could. “Good morning, my son! I see you are in a hurry today!”

“As you say, the early bird catches the worm! I even woke up N’Jadaka!” T’Challa proclaimed, grinning.

“So I see, I see.” One more hair ruffle and a forehead kiss, then he let go. “You are quiet as a mouse, dear nephew.” T’Chaka’s smile is smaller than the grin he’d given his son, but no less warm. “Would I be out of line to request a hug, hm?”

Erik fiddled with his shirt. “I...”

“That’s okay then.” T’Chaka nodded after several minutes had passed but Erik made no efforts to step closer. “Let’s get some breakfast, you two!” His voice lowered into a ‘secret’ tone. “I think the cooks made blueberry pancakes today.”

“Yeees!” T’Challa cheered and he’s the first one through the door to the dining room. Erik followed after at a more sedate pace, however before he could fully enter, T’Chaka dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. 

Erik looked up at his uncle in askance and he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach at the man’s expression. “We need to talk later privately. Okay?”

His mouth felt like he’d swallowed dust but he nodded. 

All throughout breakfast, Erik tried to be cheerful and relaxed, engaging, even as he wondered what sort of news he had to be told. The food is delicious but he can’t eat as much as he wants, not with how his stomach is tied in knots. 

After the meal ends, he sees that T’Challa is about to make a beeline for him but Auntie Ramonda stops him, coaxing her son and asking that he join her for a few hours. 

T’Challa is smart, much smarter than Erik and Erik isn’t an idiot either, so he knows for sure that he’s being given the run around, but since it’s his mother, well, he doesn’t see the harm in giving him. He does wave to N’Jadaka sadly and promises to find him later. 

T’Chaka leads Erik to his office. Uncle James is already there, sitting in a chair, though judging by the complicated expression on his face, he’s deep in thought and so asking for clarification or wanting comfort from him is a lost cause. It’s just a little after noon that Erik learns that his father had been instructed to get close to the biggest threat to Wakanda’s safety, a devious and manipulative, cunning man; he’s told that his pops had gotten enough evidence to get this man locked away for life, or worse. 

“Your father was -- is -- a hero.” T’Chaka murmurs. “He will be remembered as such for generations to come.” 

“And you think that matters?” Erik demanded. “You think that....that people will care about his sacrifice? That I care about his sacrifice? Are you crazy?”

“N’Jadaka...” Uncle James spoke up, voice cautioning. 

“I just want my dad.” He uttered. “Is he here? He’s being medically treated? He’s alright, right?” No one said anything. “Answer me!” Voice cracking as he yelled, Erik doesn’t realize that he’d half leaned across the desk towards T’Chaka until Uncle James is in front of him, body shielding him from view. 

“Let go of me, let go, let go, let go...Baba...” 

“Shh, it’s okay...It’s okay...It’s alright...” Uncle James hummed, not saying a word of protest as Erik stopped struggling and trying to get past him and instead clung to him, crying hard. 

Much later that afternoon, Erik is hiding in his rooms buried underneath several blankets and sheets. There’s a tentative knock on the door and he stays quiet, hoping that the person will go away. The door opens a crack, “...Is everything okay, Erik?”

“I don’t feel like going outside today, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, okay.” There’s a pause. “Do you want me to go away?”

“We’re brothers right?” 

Title: Smash into You

Fandom(s): Black Panther, MCU

Rating: T+

Relationship(s): Erik x reader. M’Baku & reader.

Summary: it always seems impossible until it’s done.

Warning(s): BP spoilers, alternate canon divergence

Tagging: @hairhattedhooligan @lucidaquarian @tntnv @keya168 @ohmyfuriosa @supremethunda @melannchoholic @lauureeen  @elaindeereads @autumn242 @punkrockwxnnabe @palmsofgranate @strawberryscat @wikiwakanda @lovemekaycee @managingmischiefdaily @gothambrat @babybluepeaches

Here I am, writing another soulmate au. I bet y’all like, this all that bitch do!? LOL! Well, I can’t help myself. I’m addicted. A-ahem, anyways, I wanted to challenge myself as a writer by delving into this idea of Erik getting some positive experiences and stuff in his life early on, not just later when he’s an adult. I don’t wanna spoil anything, so I’m just just gonna say buckle in. (Urls with a strikethrough their name, its not letting me tag y’all, so I’ma just send the link to you directly, lovelies)

Reblog, spread the love! Like, comment! 

Y’all are so, so appreciated when you read my stuff. 

~

The first thing he takes note of is the cold. 

An icy sensation that pervades his entire being from the soles of his feet up to his torso, and when he inhales deeply, or tries to, the chilly air stings his stuffy nostrils painfully. Eyes flowing open of their own accord, he sat up. Shoulders hunched, head almost adjacent with his knees as his frame trembled and shook with the force of his coughs. 

He hears the thump-thump-thump of someone’s feet slapping against the floor and a door being thrown open. In the next moment, a great, hacking cough causes him to choke on what he assumes to be either mucus or whatever he ate last night, and a hand finds the nape of his neck even as a wooden bucket is shoved underneath his nose.

“Shh, shh. Don’t try to hold it. It’s okay.” 

And he can’t even assure this person that really, no. He’s not trying to ‘hold it’ before the contents exit his mouth, violently. Fingers spasming, he holds onto the bucket, eyes closed and tears stinging the corners of his eyes as big meaty chunks forces itself out of his esophagus, the sensation painful and stinging. 

Long minutes pass. 

When he thinks he’s done being sick and leans up slightly, another wave washes over him and again, he ducks back over the bucket as the process repeats itself until there’s nothing left and he’s just heaving watery spittle. 

All while this is happening, the hand on the nape of his neck is a warm comfort.

“You’re done, I think. I’ll empty this and get some water.” The bucket is practically filled to the brim, or at least at the halfway mark, and he’s glad that it’s taken away, because the smell, sharp and acidic, wafting up to his nose might have been enough to set him off again. “I’ll be right back.”

He’s left alone now. 

Blinking his eyes to get rid of the tears, he tries futilely to sniff, but only one nostril is allowing him to partially breathe in the air and so he’s forced to breathe through his mouth. Glancing from the left and to the right, belatedly taking in his surroundings; the room he’s in... 

It’s not... 

This is not his bedroom in Oakland.

Just as he comes to that realization that this is not home, “You’re not------” Head snapping to the person speaking, he’s frustrated to realize that he can’t see their face too well, any and all distinguishing features blurred and distorted. 

And the name that was just uttered? 

He couldn’t hear that either. Like overhearing an incoming train on the railroad tracks, a high pitched sound reverberated through his ears, causing him to hiss and slap a hand to the side of his (this?) face to block out the sound. 

“I thought as much when you didn’t sneak out of bed to try and play with the toys.” Hand finding his forehead, a faint pressure is applied and he’s gently pushed back, so that he’s resting against the pillows. 

“Close your eyes, now.”

Eyes drifting to half mast then closed of their own volition.

“Focus on a memory... or a place...per... E.. a fo... you...Fo....”

As if he’s being submerged into a tub of warm water headfirst, the person speaking in such a soothing, perhaps even peaceful, tone, causes him to calm and lulls him into a state of relaxation. 

His worries and fears and questions drift away...

...away...

The next time he breathes in, eyes shooting open, wheezing and lurching upwards, and the familiar scent of his father is a comfort. 

“Shh, shh, shh.” He instinctively recoils as the words register, but his father just holds him, rocking his body back and forth, back and forth. “It’s okay, my son. It’s alright.” His pops rests his chin on the top of his head, crooning comfortingly. “You’re okay. You’re here. You’re right here. Home, with me. It’s okay.” 

“Home.” The word pushes past numb lips. “Oak...land?”

“Yes, Oakland.” A faint sob leaves his father’s throat. “Oh, my son! My son, where did you go, what did you see, do you remember?”

He tries to remember. 

Really, he does! But the memories vanish quicker as he desperately tries to hang on and recreate a solid image. Trying to shake his head is an exercise in futility and he stops as a dull throbbing forms at his temples. “Cold.”

“Yes! Yes, let’s get you a bath.” As he’s hefted into his father’s arms, his patriarch hissed. “Wherever you were, it must have been freezing! Your skin is like ice...” 

His dad is always like this after. 

Every time around this month, the subconscious of destined soulmates, ages eight and up, left their original bodies to swap places with their other halves for an hour, an hour and a half at most; if even a minute longer over the queued time, it was advised to call a doctor or some type of medical professional immediately because they were likely stuck, or worse. 

No one ever expounded on what was ‘worse’, but the grim set of his pops’ jaw and his shiny eyes told him all that he needed to know the one time he’d tentatively pressed for information. 

After he takes a bath and a cup of hot tea is pressed insistently into his hand, the more he feels like himself, "Baba.” 

“Yes, my son?” There’s a sizzling sound and the scent of bacon fills the small kitchen.

“Tell me a story.” Lazily, Erik swings his legs back and forth, back and forth, in his chair, swirling his tea around in his cup after having taken two swigs. 

There’s a chuckle and then his father comes to the table, depositing a fair amount of eggs and bacon onto his plate. “Which one?”

“The story of home.” He really likes that one, even though it kind of made him wistful, too. 

“Millions of years ago...” 

Erik listened carefully as he ate his food and drank his cooling tea. He’s heard this story a hundred times, but this time? Hearing about the Jabari Tribe leaving to isolate themselves in the mountains... 

It stirred something inside him. 

Something that he’s forgetting... or remembering?

Anyway, he puts it out of mind for now, especially with the arrival of Uncle James. He likes the man, as he’s always greeted him with a fist bump and play fought with him. Not today though, Uncle James only gets to ruffle his hair a bit after accepting the flying tackle hug that knocks him back against the door. 

“Go play with your friends.” 

Shoulders slumping, he groaned. “Do I have to?” Erik whined. His pops sent him a look and he gulped.

There’s laughter overhead and a pat on the shoulder. “Next time, little man.” Then he holds his fist out. Erik bumps his fist against Uncle James’, letting out a ‘boosh’, which is supposed to mimic an explosion. 

His theatrics only amuse the older male even more. 

With one last wave, he looks over his shoulder at his pops as he opens the front door and slips out. As it closes, he catches sight of Uncle James and his dad exchanging a dap and Uncle James pats his father on the back. His dad looks worried, but serious. 

So it must be about his mom, that’s why his father doesn’t want him around for that conversation... 

Determined to not get down, he knocks on the door of the two boys that also live in the apartment complex, Rey and Mikel, they also go to the same school as he does. 

Erik invites them to shoot some hoops.

They play until the street lights come on. And even just a little bit after before the other boys’ siblings or parent comes and gets them. Tired and a slightly sweaty, something feels off because his dad hasn’t hollered from the window to come inside for dinner yet. Before his imagination can get away from him, Uncle James is coming down the apartment complex’s metal stairs. Erik relaxes minutely, not by much, but a little. 

“Where’s dad?”

Uncle James jerks his head and beckons for him. “Come with me.” Erik hesitates. “Yo, don’t you trust me, little man?”

It’s been a weird day but the usage of his nickname is what returns things to normal. And he does trust Uncle James because his dad did, obviously. So, shrugging off his unease, he follows Uncle James who leads him past the apartment, shushing his questions, only promising answers soon, and leads him to the rooftop. 

Standing there waiting...

“Hello, nephew.” 

It’s not his father, but upon looking at the man closely, he can sort of see a resemblance. A little. He’s older than his dad, that’s for sure. 

Confused, he glanced back at Uncle James who smiles comfortingly. 

“This is your uncle, T’Chaka.” 

There’s a quick explanation given to him that his dad was needed on another long term assignment before the air ripples, revealing this sleek....spaceship? Airplane? He knows what it is, because he’d read about it in his father’s notes. 

A Royal Talon Fighter. 

Erik doesn’t get to touch it, much to his annoyance, as he’s hustled onto the aircraft immediately.

“Wait, where are we going? Does dad know about this?”

Uncle James ruffles his hair, but it’s not he who answers the question, “He knows and actually insisted that I take you, N’Jadaka. Do not worry so much. It’s going to be a long flight. Get some rest, okay?”

He tries to insist that he isn’t tired, but today had been sort of exhausting. Blinking rapidly, Erik tried to stay awake but sleepiness overtook him quickly and soon he’s out like a light.

The next time he opens his eyes, the scenery is...is...

“Where are we?” The words left him in a hushed, awed whisper.

He can almost literally hear the smile in Uncle James’ voice. 

“We are home.”

Ushered off the aircraft, Erik looks around...like everywhere. Something that amuses Uncle James beyond measure, even as he keeps him within reaching distance. Then these bald ladies in red, holding spears are standing there, in neat rows on either side. That’s not what has his attention though, it’s the pretty brown skinned lady and the other boy there. 

His uncle, and isn’t that weird, he has another uncle, T’Chaka had gone up to the woman and is talking to her in hushed whispers while the boy, his complexion a shade darker than his own, hair cut neatly and dressed...

‘He’s rich.’ Something in his brain hissed and it’s starting to dawn on Erik that this is really happening. 

“Hi!” Without an ounce of fear or hesitance, the boy stops in his space, a wide smile that shows off the gap in his teeth, hand outstretched. Erik can feel sweat gather at the back of his neck.

This isn’t Oakland. 

“Do you want to be friends?” The question is asked in a way that should’ve been phrased as a statement. In the next breath, the boy is talking again. “Because I think we’d be great friends! I’m T’Challa.” 

‘Geez, let me talk too...’ Slowly, he reached out and clasped hands with T’Challa. “Hi, and I...” The urge to look up at Uncle James for guidance is strong but he resists. Barely. He’s not a baby, he can do this. “I guess we can be friends. I’m N’Jadaka.” Lifting his shoulder in a shrug, “You can call me Erik, though, if you want.” 

T’Challa blinks. “Why would I do that? N’Jadaka is your name.”

“Because my name is hard for people to pro...prono...to say.” Erik says in a ‘duh!’ tone. 

“I’m calling you N’Jadaka.” T’Challa says with finality, as if that’s that.

“Not if I say you can’t.” He retorts, just because he can. This boy kind of bugs him, a little.

“You’re being mean, N’Jadaka!”

Urgh. He took it back. 

Erik looked pleadingly up at Uncle James who carefully averted his gaze, lips twitching. So there’d be no help coming from him.

“Boys.” Heavy hands landed on his shoulders and he nearly flinches in surprise. Looking up, he sees that it’s his uncle. “I see that you’ve already introduced yourselves. Good. T’Challa, this is your cousin, N’Jadaka. He’s going to be staying with us for awhile.” 

TITLE: Pray for Me

FANDOM(S): Black Panther, MCU

RATING: M

RELATIONSHIP(S): Erik Killmonger x reader. W’Kabi & reader.

SUMMARY: All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost.

WARNING(S): Alternate canon divergence.

TAGGING: @chocolatemonkeyrainbows @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @lightdarkandanythinginbetween @wildeespirit  @elaindeereads @groovybbyyy @sydish @silkandscarlet @holy-minseok @petiteunsucre @panthergoddessbast @singinginthepurplerain @steelbluebucky @17nikkifn @alyssaluna0820 @idkyouchoose0624 @brieathomas @steampunkprincess147 @sweet-emo-kookie @rokushi-san @12337536 @gummi-bunni @tonilisa @awkward-is-i @evalovely198 @raybans4 @join-me-in-rare-pair-hell @ashjbu @itstisha @shadok2015 @supremethunda @lovelylittlekittn @itsmarshalltime98 @bvckybanres @keya168 @forwakandaalways @adiafegan @wikiwakanda

It’s been a wild ride filled with ups and downs, but at last we’re getting closer to the end destination, another chapter or so, and that’s it. Erik and his soulmate exit the stage, however, the series is not over by any means, you’ll be getting outtakes of what happened before, during, and after the conclusion of Pray for Me, perhaps even a glimpse of N’Jobu with his wife in the Ancestral Plane/Heaven, W’Kabi and the reader’s parents, etc.

Bast works in truly mysterious ways and she’s not finished bestowing blessings. 

If you guys liked this, then thank you, if you’ve been here since the beginning, thank you twice, hehe. This wouldn’t have been possible without y’all and I truly appreciate all the support!

#WakandaForever

PART I. PART II. PART III. PART IV. PART V. PART VI. PART VII. PART VIII. Part IX.

Edited: 5/9/18. 1:28 A.M.

~

6 Months Later St. Louis, Missouri Zion Hotel & Spa

You woke up in a comfortable bed, with a thousand pillows surrounding your body, and a firm cock pressed up against the curve of your ass, a hand squeezing your breast. Eyes still closed, you stretch languidly and wiggle around but the hand doesn’t dislodge itself. “N’Jadaka, what are you doing?”

“Don’t play games, baby girl.”

Grinning at the warning tone in his voice, you teasingly press back against him. He grunted before sliding your panties down then off. You reach down and take his cock in hand, feeling him throb in your hold. He goes to kiss you but you dodge the attempt, “We haven’t brushed our teeth yet!” You felt the need to remind him.

“So?” N’Jadaka challenged before tilting your chin up and kissing you on the lips, “...You right, this would go smoother with a mint.” 

Amused beyond belief, you roll him onto his back and pull his pants down. The sight of him always makes your mouth water. Climbing on top of him, you take in his expression, catching sight of the heavy lidded stare, the way he bit his bottom lip in anticipation, wanting nothing more than to fill you up, and that’s what you want as well. 

Using your hand, you grip him again, dragging the tip of his cock against you pussy lips again and again, teasing both you and him, but before he could tell you to stop playing, you then slid down on him sloooowly. Neither of you make a sound, except he lets out a quiet hiss, muscle jumping in his jaw as he held off on seizing back control. 

Pausing for a second, you let yourself adjust to the feel of him inside you. Once you’re okay with it, you slide back up, using your legs to rise and fall over and over onto his cock. His hands are on your thighs and his eyes closed, short breaths leaving his mouth every time that you drop down again. 

Eyelids opening, he lifted his hands from your thighs to the bottom of your shirt, lifting it from up then over your head, dropping it off to the side before his hands are on your breasts. Leaning back, your hands find leverage on his thighs and just as you wanted, predicted, needed, the sight has N’Jadaka more vocal. 

“Damn, baby! Look atchu!” Approval and lust coats his tone. Your head is thrown back and you grind down on him once more before lifting yourself. His right hand goes to the top of your thigh and every time you move, his thumb brushes against your clit. 

He watches as you fuck yourself on him, left hand on your hip and holding you steady until you feel that familiar pull in your stomach. 

You let out a loud moan as you cum around him, drenching his cock. 

“Fuck, you are so goddamn sexy!” N’Jadaka’s hands grip your ass, holding you in place as his hips rose off the bed and he thrust into you quickly, almost a little too roughly, before he groans long and low, the sound rough to your ear and you felt him cum inside you, hands squeezing your waist tightly. 

The three letter words begged to be let out but it’d be a pointless cliche to say it now, right, right after you’d had mind blowing sex? The moment had to be perfect and special, meaningful. You also want to go through with completing the Bond, had known you wanted forever with him; to know everything intimate about him, and for he to know you. 

“Ay, you aigh’t?”

“Mm, yup!” You grin as convincingly as possible. “Dibs on first shower! I need to shave my legs, I’m starting to look like one of those werewolves off that TV show, Wolf Teen.” 

“Teen Wolf.” N’Jadaka corrected habitually. “And, ya lying.” It’s a statement, not a question, he’d watched you closely enough to note all of your tells. “Tell me.” He reached out and captured your hands, thumb caressing the pulse point. 

“I can’t.” You mumble. 

“Can’t or won’t?” He challenged. You say nothing and he sighed, knowing full too well that if he kept pushing the subject, you’d only clam up more. “Aigh’t then, I’ll drop it for now, but I think we should talk about it later if it’s still bothering you.” Pressing his lips to your temple, N’Jadaka smacked you sharply on the ass. “And we can shower together. It’ll save water.” 

“The saving water excuse, really?” You snort, amused. He shrugged with a smirk. The two of you got from up off the bed with soiled sheets and made for the bathroom together.

Being away from Wakanda is...liberating. You loved the people that are important to you, of course, but time and space away from the things that made someone anxious certainly brought clarity. W’Kabi contacted both you and N’Jadaka merely a month after you’d left, though he and N’Jadaka had ended up having a lengthy discussion that still sort of threw you for a loop when you recalled everything said.

“There has not been a recorded union between a Wakandan native and someone outside our borders for decades. Even more so, someone from the Border Tribe and an outsider. It just has not been seen.”  “Brother...” You say warningly, fully prepared to turn the kimoyo beads off, having felt the way N’Jadaka tensed upon hearing the word ‘outsider’.

“I am not saying this to be belligerent or antagonize either of you.” He hastily stated, belatedly realizing his misstep. “I am only telling you like it is.” The holoform version of your brother turned to look at you. “The fable of Addae and Uwamani is a grim story but one to warn us of the dangers of such unions.” 

“Or to scare us into rejecting the Bond entirely.” You rebutted. “Which is not going to happen.” 

“Good.” W’Kabi said simply.

“Bruh, what?” N’Jadaka sounded as lost as you felt.

“Your arrival, Prince N’Jadaka, stirred the hornet’s nest. Like I said, for decades, centuries, Wakandans have found their soulmates at young ages or by their twenties, amongst each other in different Tribes. Being half Wakandan, half American, excuse me, African American, that puzzled those within the Golden City, and even more so, it got the members of the S.R.D. to take another look at their data.” 

The truth hit you a few minutes later and you turned to look at N’Jadaka who looked a bit surprised as well. “My mom’s wasn’t Wakandan.” 

“There’s a less than two percent chance that she might have been.” W’Kabi nodded. “Of course, that’s what the Council Elders are clinging to in order to justify the Bond between you and my sister. They do not want to be wrong because...” 

You cut in, “However wrongly Prince N’Jobu went about it, at the root of the matter, he was not totally wrong about African Americans and Wakandans being the same fundamentally. You said it best, lover, ‘Didn’t all life start right here on this continent?’”

"Ready to roll?” N’Jadaka removed an earbud from his left ear, reaching for your hand, which you took and he tucked you by his side. Faintly, you could hear the sound of a female but weren’t worried. 

He was listening to the host of Timeless Everyday, a television show and radio broadcast that addressed superstitions and stereotypes of tri-soulbonds, she was originally a former YouTuber who only made DIY and tutorial videos showcasing how she customized her wardrobe, what things she used and where to buy them; her rise to fame came after she dragged Taylor Swift on Twitter, berating the singer for denouncing tri-soulbonds as something ‘sick and perverted’ and tore into her even more for considering it ‘of course a black person thing’. 

The confrontation had been made into a spectacle of epic proportions, with Taylor Swift being ultimately labeled as the aggressor here and in the wrong, people had made memes of the blow out and it was still the most talked about thing. 

“And roll. We are still going to the Great Center of Contemporary Arts, right?” You double checked. “They got a new art piece that you wanted to check out, if I recall?”

“That’s the one.” Removing the other earbud, he tilts your chin just so and captures your mouth in a kiss. You blinked in surprise before you relaxed, hand winding around his neck as he deepened the kiss a bit. The surprise kiss ended too soon for your liking and you chase after his lips and he only chuckled, the sound deep and masculine, teasing you with a peck. 

Heart aflutter in your chest, you wonder what that’s about as the two of you walk hand in hand for the exit. The two of you spent the day roaming the city after being kicked out of the center due to ‘disrupting the peace’, which is really code for not fitting the mold of being a white couple and potentially because N’Jadaka made fun of some white person’s art, not that it wasn’t worth being laughed at over, the art sucked. 

N’Jadaka grinded his teeth and you worried that he would explode, so then you suggested getting something to eat. The eatery you chose is owned by Harold Hanover, the son of the host family that took you in while you lived in the United States; discounted prices were par the norm and the seating always private, away from prying eyes. 

“Mm, okay,” You hum contemplatively as you take a bite of food. “That’s spicy. Perhaps sriracha I’m tasting…” Savoring each flavor, trying to pinpoint every ingredient. “It’s good.” Opening your eyes and licking your lips to remove any residual, you catch sight N’Jadaka staring at you intently, his dark eyes watching with laser focus.

“...What?”

He ignored you momentarily, instead turning to the waiter, “Bring us a bottle of Romanee-Conti Grand Cru.” Once the waitress walked off, N’Jadaka turned his attention back to you, “You really cuttin’ up in here.”

Using the cutlery, you cut into the steak that you’d ordered delicately, “I have no idea what you are talking about. I am just really, really,” And lift the slice of meat to your lips, moaning as you tasted a hint of butter and other spices as you chewed slowly, “Hun–” Words failed you as N’Jadaka laid a hand on top of your knee, thumb kneading and caressing your brown skin.

“I’ma need you to act right, stop allat sexy as fuck noises you makin’. Or it’s gon be a repeat of what happened in Miami.”

Just remembering what happened there makes your skin heat up with embarrassment and arousal. 

N’Jadaka had your legs spread open so that he could stand between them as he steadily fucked into you from behind against the hood of the car, his hands holding onto your sides and gripping tight enough to leave bruises.

“You like this shit don’tchu?!”

“Y-Ye–” You could barely breathe, could barely even think. 

He paused mid-thrust and you nearly screamed at him with frustration. “Tell. Daddy. You. Like. This. Shit.” Slowly, teasingly, N’Jadaka thrusted in you again, though to call it a thrust would be exaggerating, as it was too gentle for that. Biting your bottom lip, your eyes screwed shut, sweat had popped on your forehead and your mouth is gaping, open, as you gasped for air. 

“I like it, I like it, I like it, I like this shit, Dad--” Pulling out almost all the way, his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, “--Ddy!” And he played with your clit, causing you to gush all over him. “Oh mah guh...” 

You were incomprehensible but you didn’t even care at this point.

Something must show on your face because N’Jadaka is grinning, practically ear to ear, utterly amused. He kissed the side of your neck, lips lingering on the satiny smooth skin for a tad longer than appropriate, if judging by the waitress’ stare is anything to go by. You can’t be bothered to care though, right now you just wanted to get through this meal without passing out due to the teasing or embarrassment. 

Finishing off the steak and potatoes, you swirl the wine around in the glass, glancing up at the right moment to see that again, his eyes are on you. There’s something vulnerable in his expression that tugs at your heartstrings.

Opening your mouth, you’re about to ask what’s wrong, but he cuts you off, “You know I would do anything for you, right?” Confused but wondering where he’s going with this, you nod. “And nobody else in this world matters more to me than you do?”

Now you know that’s not true. He had talked about his Aunt Josephine with equal parts amusement and exasperation but altogether respect, the woman was held in the highest regard. Just as you’re about to say as much and potentially stick your foot in it, your heart stops momentarily only to speed up when you realize that N’Jadaka had gotten down on one knee in your inattention. 

“I had this whole thing planned out. We’d chill at the center, make fun of the whack ass art, then head to that ice cream parlor you kept talkin’ ‘bout, and then I’d wait until after we stopped at the park you like, the one with the fountain. I was gon do it there, pop the question. But shit went sideways.”

Suddenly his anger, which is much more controllable nowadays, at the incident earlier makes all the more sense. “I screwed up the plan.”

“Nah. You just reminded me that I’m better at improving and planning on the fly.” He grinned, showing off white teeth and a little dimple, “So, what do you say? Will you, Y/N Y/M/N Y/L/N, marry me? Make me the happiest nigga on Earth by taking my name? I know I ain’t got much and I still got a long way to go to prove that I’m good enough...”

You hate to interrupt him, but, “Don’t say you’re not good enough. You are literally the other half of my soul, and, and, and I,” Deep breath in then out. “I love you. I cannot think of anyone else I would rather be married to, or Bonded to.” 

So, you’re a coward and lightly asked/implied, that you wanted to Bond. Hopefully he said yes, hopefully--

N’Jadaka catches you up in his arms, kissing you over and over and over again, until you’re breathless with laughter, filled with joy. Then when he delicately slides the ring onto your finger, reflexively you hold it up to admire and it’s perfect, just like you knew it would be. 

“I love you.” You murmur, dizzy with exhilaration. Drunk on it.

“And I love you.” He says.  

TITLE: Pray for Me

FANDOM(S): Black Panther, MCU

RATING: M

RELATIONSHIP(S): Erik Killmonger x reader. W’Kabi & reader.

SUMMARY: And then my soul went, “Oh there you are. I’ve been looking for you.”

WARNING(S): BP spoilers

TAGGING: @chocolatemonkeyrainbows @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @lightdarkandanythinginbetween @wildeespirit @elaindeereads @groovybbyyy @sydish @silkandscarlet @holy-minseok @petiteunsucre @panthergoddessbast @singinginthepurplerain @steelbluebucky @17nikkifn @alyssaluna0820 @idkyouchoose0624 @brieathomas @steampunkprincess147@sweet-emo-kookie @rokushi-san @12337536 @gummi-bunni @tonilisa @awkward-is-i @evalovely198 @raybans4 @join-me-in-rare-pair-hell @ashjbu @itstisha @shadok2015 @supremethunda @lovelylittlekittn @itsmarshalltime98 @bvckybanres @keya168 @forwakandaalways

The rating finally moved up a notch. I don’t think there will be smut YET but Erik tends to do as he likes because he’s lowkey-highkey a sexual being, fight me, m8. 

Part I. Part II. Part III. Part IV. Part V.

~

You’d been scolded heavily by your uncle, M’Kathu, in private, and then you faced the Council and were publicly scolded by the others. Blamed for recklessness and excessive property damage while in pursuit of Klaue in Korea. Hands folded neatly behind your back, dressed in the light blues and grays of the Boarder Tribe, you maintained a stoic expression, chin held high. 

Things, however, soon take a turn for the...unusual. 

At the back of your skull, you feel an indescribable sensation, the type of awareness that one only achieved while in a fight for their life, and every minute reflex and reaction is narrowed down to the very millisecond. 

Could this be...?

“Is this man Wakandan, or not?” The River Tribe Elder queried, exasperated. 

“Tell us what is going on.”

Not even a few seconds later and the palace doors were opening. Members of the Boarder Tribe, and W’Kabi escorted a man in chains. You recognized that profile, the way that he walked and how he held himself, that outfit.

This was the man that had thrown a grenade at you. This man was trouble, danger, a threat. 

“Speak.” M’Kathu stated in Xhosa and W’Kabi translated.

“I’m standin’ in your house, serving justice to a man that stole your vibranium, and murdered your people. Justice your king couldn’t deliver.” 

Offended, you’re about to speak up and correct him, only to pause as you actually registered his words. 

Klaue is...dead? 

Glancing at W’Kabi, you catch his eye and the two of you exchange a nonverbal conversation, ending with him nodding his head. You expected fury to overtake you, to be upset that you hadn’t been the one to murder Klaue with your bare hands, but instead, you feel nothing. 

Just a sense of contentment, relief. 

Tuning back into the conversation, you see that Klaue’s killer and your King are in a heated debate about African Americans and how Wakandans had the means to change the status quo. “Our weapons will not be used to wage war on the world. It is not our way to be judge, jury, and executioner for people that are not our own.” T’Challa firmly rebuked. 

Looking at T’Challa as if he were scum, “‘Not your own’? But didn’t life start right here on this continent, so ain’t all people your people?”

T’Challa shook his head. “I am not King of all people, I am King of Wakanda and it is my responsibility to make sure that the vibranium does not fall into the hands of a person like you.”

Guilt churned in your stomach. Unbidden, your mouth opened, “He has a point, though, my King.”

“Y/N.” M’Kathu hissed, trying to warn you to stop talking. 

“Racism runs rampant in the United States. It influences everyday lives of the minorities, but is especially prevalent towards African Americans. More specifically, colonizers and even the other minorities, think that African Americans--”

Klaue’s killer cut you off. “You can just say ‘black’, it ain’t gonna kill you, honey.”

“It is very rude to interrupt,” Ignoring the hypocrisy of your own words, because you were on a roll, damn it, “And do not call me ho--” Turning to glance at him, your eyes widened as that indescribable feeling once again flooded your body and now you knew why. 

Licking your lips, suddenly feeling as if your mouth is dry, “Who--”

“Take him away.” 

Incredulity is the default emotion you’re feeling as you looked at T’Challa as if he’d lost his mind, but your feet are already moving before you realize what you’re doing. “Touch him and I will kill you both.” You warned your brethren, slapping away Osei’s hand as he tried to grab at your soulmate’s shoulder. 

Your soulmate. Oh, Bast. 

“What is the meaning of this?! Stop these shenanigans at once, Y/N!”

“He’s in...You’re in chains. W’Kabi, why is he in chains?” It physically made you ill, to witness your soulmate restrained in such a manner. “Get these chains off him right now, brother, or so help me!”

“Calm down, little sister.” Amusement coats W’Kabi’s voice as he broke protocol and wandered closer. “I did not realize that he is yours.” 

“What?!”

Impatient, you fidgeted, shifting from foot to foot. Sneaking shy glances from underneath your lashes at him, and each time, he’s looking back at you, his dark brown eyes intense. Nearly too intense, and oh, he’s handsome. Internally smacking yourself across the head, telling yourself firmly to get it together, “Your name. Please. Tell me, who are you?”

As soon as the chains were off, his hands are on your hips, wicked amusement curving his full lips into a smirk, showing off dimples, and just when the anticipation might actually end you, he speaks, “I am N’Jadaka, son of Prince N’Jobu.” 

The words are spoken in flawless Xhosa.