#but I think it's customary to ask if it's okay to blast music from your shitty boombox when there are others present??

[kindafooey]

Had a bit of a xenophobic moment just now lmao

[faintblueivy]

Let Me Love You - Borusara Fanfiction

Helloooo lovelies! With exams out of the way I can finally write! So here's the next chapter of LMLY! The story is simply spiralling out of my control to be honest but I really hope it's going to be a fun ride for you all!

Thanks to @deviswriting for beta reading!

Chapter 1 - A perfect Break

Chapter 2

False Smiles

“You should stop spoiling him.”

Sarada looks up at the man in front of her and notices how Shikadai's normally lazy green eyes appear to be quite stern at that very moment. Flashing angrily.

“He wanted to go.” Sarada says as nonchalantly as possible, eyes fixed on the file, wanting to prevent any kind of confrontations.

Shikadai rolls his eyes at her response, “Of course he did. But you should know better than that. He is not a kid, so stop treating him like one.”

There was a tense beat of silence before Sarada raised her head, looking him square in the eye.

“Look Shikadai, you know him better than most people here. He is responsible when the time calls for it.” She never averts her gaze from his eyes, her voice defiant.

“He should be, it's his job anyway.” He says, shrugging.

“You talk as if he wanted this.” Sarada scoffs, but immediately regrets her own words at the pained look in his eyes.

What was I thinking? Shikadai knows everything, already. He was there to witness it. Heck, he was a part of it.

Sarada's inner monologue was cut short when he speaks in a voice so small, that if not for the silence in the room, she might have missed it.

“I know.” He stops, taking a moment to clear his throat and then starts, “Look, I just want him to be happy and accept things. What gone is gone. He needs to look forward.”

Sarada nods her head, because she understands that his intentions for Boruto were correct.

Clinging to the past which is impossible now will not do him any good.

She understands.

She does.

But yet.

Shikadai bids her a farewell and leaving Sarada alone with her swirling thoughts. She grazes her teeth against her lower lip and pulls another file out of his stack to continue on. The documents prove to be a good distraction because by the time only a quarter of the files are left, the office was already empty.

She jumps when the door to her office is slammed open and an angry Boruto flies in.

“What are you still doing here?”

She tilts her head at his messy look but decides not to comment.

“Working?”

He raises his eyebrows at her answer, “Did it appear to you even once that there is a thing called 'Watch’ exists?”

She narrows her eyes at him and then flicks her gaze at her wrist.

9:17

It displays.

Oh.

Oh.

“At what time does the Office hours end?”

She stares at her lap, feeling sheepish.

“Six.”

“Glad to know that at least you remember that.”

He scoffs, appearing behind her and leaning over. He quickly saves the opened document and shuts off her laptop. The feeling of his warm chest brushing against her back made her feel oddly weird. She wants to blame it on her exhaustion but something in the back of her mind clearly declares it as an excuse.

Then his lips quirk up into an easy smile. He sweeps up the rest of the unfinished files and gathers all her stuff which he could hold at once.

“Come on! Let's go home, Kay?”

…

The ride to home was quite silent. Sarada simply decided to spend it staring out of the window. Despite Boruto's love for rock and metal music, the player was turned off. Her dark eyes were fixed on calmly assessing the scenery when she remembers something important.

“Boruto?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we stop by a convenience store? I think we are in dire need of some groceries.”

“Alright.”

And in no time, Boruto pulls up the car to the closest shop and she steps out in the cool air of the night. The sudden blast of cold air makes her shiver.

“I don't think that any of us is in any mood for cooking. Should I get us some Chinese?”

He asks, stepping out of the car as well, jerking his thumb at the small Chinese restaurant just over the other side of the road. She eyes the small building for a moment before nodding her head in consent and watches him skip away.

…

The basket weighing on her elbow was already half filled. With bread. Jam and butter. Veggies. She picks up a large packet of fusilli pasta and another packet of instant noodles. Four cups of ramen as well. A bottle of espresso powder is dropped in the basket as well. Next was mixed herbs and of course, Cheese. She didn't like tomatoes but she was a grown up now...so yeah? And of course! Chocolates!!! And a packet of frozen patties? And some burger buns. They were Boruto's comfort food, just like hers was chocolate. Oh yeah...a small bottle of tabasco sauce. Because Boruto likes his food spicy.

Sarada doesn't notice...how her grocery consists of half of Boruto's as well. It's always been like this. The mental list in her head is always a combination of hers and his together. She doesn't want to think about how intertwined their lives are together with each other's. It's a subconscious thought. Never an active debacle. Just a concern nagging somewhere in the back of her mind. Something she does not have the courage to address.

Finally with a basket full of groceries she approaches the counter where a young boy smiles at her (she realises he's new) and he quickly calculates the cost of the items and bags them immediately. She pays her bill and leaves the shop instantly.

Boruto is already back by the time she is near the car. He was leaning against the side and staring at large soccer field - a playground, in front of them. His bright blue orbs looked dull and tired.

Sarada felt something bitter lodge in her throat at the scene.

The wistfulness and regret clouding Boruto's eyes and the longing betraying his face was painful to watch.

He didn't deserve it. A small mistake shouldn't have ever led to this.

Sarada composes herself, taking a deep breath and asks, “You okay?”

“Yes! Of course! Why wouldn't I be?”

He replies without missing a beat and tries to put on that customary smile of his. And Sarada wonders if he actually believes he could fool her with that. But she decides that it's not worth commenting. Not now, anyways.

They step in the car as she drops her bags on the passenger seats behind. A large brown paper bag is there as well. The slight sour and saucy aroma is inviting and she feels her stomach twisting in hunger.

The sound of the engine reviving is loud and cuts through the air like a sharpnel trying to bury itself in her chest. She sneaks a glance at him again and of course, there it is. That hollow look.

“Um,” she begins and then continues hesitantly, “How was the game?”

And instantly, his eyes flicker with life.

“Oh! It was good! They did well, you know!”

He looks proud and she cannot help but let a smile decorate her face over it. And then he grimaces lightly.

“Matsumoto got a yellow card though! It was a good thing that Yuuma was there to step in before things escalated! That brat needs to learn to control his temper, you know!”

She observes how animatedly he talks about this subject, how wide and expressive his gestures are, how bright his eyes look and how more often he smiles. But then he turns to her and says proudly, sagely.

“The old and wise have said - discipline is the key.”

A loud snort escapes despite her resistance and she's met with a glare.

“Hey stop laughing Sarada!”

“Discipline? My foot! As if you're the one to talk!”

She points her finger accusingly at him and he doesn't obviously look happy with it.

“Oh please? Be careful with that finger of yours, at least tonight.”

“Oh yeah? Why would I do that?”

She asks haughtily with her brows raised up. And he turns to give her a grave look.

“The match ended at eight, you know? All the brats left by eight-thirty. I was home by eight-forty five.”

It takes a moment for Sarada's tired brain to process before she screams incredulously.

“You came back to office all the way just to take me home?!”

He looked at her as she was being the silly one here.

“Duh. Obviously? What was I supposed to do? Let you sleep there? All hungry and starving? Guess what miss? I'm not that heartless.”

Not knowing how to respond to him and the warmth creeping up her neck and painting her cheeks pink is so overwhelming that she turns her head to the side, willing her bangs to hide it.

A chuckle that fills the silence makes her aware that her small endeavour was actually futile. But for some reason it makes her grin even larger.

By the time they reach home, all those silences between them turn into smiles. They sweep up all the stuff from back seats and head inside the apartment.

Their apartment is not extremely large but very sufficient for two people. Consisting of two bedrooms, a kitchen, and one hall and also another tiny room which worked as a study for both of them. They had it all furnished and complete with necessary comforts. It was a small cozy space, just perfect for them. Their personal sanctuary. Where they could be normal adults. With their hobbies and weird interests and no one to look up to them as the leaders of a multi billionaire companies. No one to judge. No one to impress. Just them. And all that space in between.

The dinner is quite a small affair. And the Chinese was surprisingly good. And the loud slurping and laughter between them fills the empty silence of the house.

It makes this place home.

The chores of the house have been divided day wise. But today they both stand are doing the dishes, Boruto is washing them and Sarada is drying the utensils.

“So, what major happened after I left?”

Sarada quietly wipes off the spoons and then waves it infront of him.

“Fujikawa Corporation has requested an appointment. Something about a product they wish to launch. I've told them that we may set dates for meetings later. And well, our negotiations with D.F.B.I.G are also proceeding smoothly. Those files we brought home have few important reports on the matter.”

“I see.”  

“And well” she starts softly, “Shikadai visited.”

Sarada watches how his hands still for a moment. A frown edges his face.

“He was mad, wasn't he?”

At her silence, Boruto smiled ruefully but did not say anything.

“Boruto. Look-I mean, he just wants you to do good! He's your well-wisher.”

“I know Sarada. I know.”

The silence that follows is very similar to the one before. Tense and unpredictable. Sarada wants to say something, to dispel this awkwardness surrounding them to refrains from doing so.

She notices how she does that a lot, now a days.

In no time, they settle down, Boruto skimming through the numerous files, taking notes of important stuff.

And she leans into the comfort of their couch, opening up the bookmark and reading the novel she had recently picked up.

By the River Piedra I Sat Down and Wept

It is an old story, written years ago. But it was only now that Sarada had decided to finally read it. The book was compelling. The story was interesting. Toying with the concepts of love and romance with a depth that only some novels could reach.

Sarada feels herself so engrossed in the book that she doesn't remember when her eyes fall shut with sleep. But when she wakes up, it's the gentle morning light caressing her face and the comfort of her own bed and her favourite blankets surrounding her. The only evidence of his presence in her room is the faint smell of his cologne.

A warm smile involuntarily curls on her lips.

Try as he might, he has always been a softie at heart.

Trust me! This story will have some drama and spice in it! and oh yes, I promised fluff but...it's not that fluffy right? Don't worry though, I promise to make this worth it! Don't forget to let me know your thoughts, okay?

[killmvnger]

I’ll Be Around (Part 2)

Killmonger/Black!Reader

Warning: Minor sexual tension. (It’s a build-up, guys)

Summary: You’re trapped in an impossible situation with an even more impossible man.

You put on a brave front for your lunatic hitman, one that you were positive he could see right through, but it was there nevertheless. You had stood your ground, jut your chin out, and easily declared that you'd assist him in murdering your ex-boyfriend. It was all very theatrical and forthcoming, like a movie scene, like you were outside of your own body watching yourself agree to his terms and fall prey to the satisfied glow in his eyes. Only when his hands had left your body could you breathe properly again, appreciating the air flowing into your lungs more than you ever have in your life. 

You were surprised that he allowed you to entice him into keeping you by his side. It doesn't seem exactly customary for killers to involve others into their devious plans, but for some reason, Killmonger was taken with you. And, sure, at first it felt like this grand accomplishment that you'd charmed your way into surviving, but now everything hurts.

Now, you can feel yourself unraveling. Your hands tremble as you stuff your backpack with whatever item of clothing is closest to you, rolling and stuffing anything that you deemed essential in your overwhelmed mind. Killmonger sat quietly on your bed, almost eerily so, watching as you jammed t-shirts into your bag and tried not to break down in tears. He told you to get whatever you needed temporarily since you were, without a doubt, going back to wherever he stays. It couldn't possibly be worse than whatever you had already pictured in your mind, but you went a bit rampant with overpacking, regardless.

He watched your every move carefully, no doubt recalling your little headbutt stunt earlier, probably waiting for you to say 'sike' and try to make another run for it. The bruise forming on your forehead and throbbing ache in your lower back was enough to keep your impulse levels as low as possible. He gave you a lot of chances to survive, you would have to be a real idiot to go against him again. 

Devastatingly, it's looking like you're stuck with him for, quite literally, the rest of your life. Maybe that realization is why your hands can't stop shaking and why you keep forcing down tears. You probably won't see your family again, or your friends, or even your annoying neighbors.

You wished there was background noise to keep you the slightest bit sane - some construction work nearby, the beeping of a garbage truck, music blasting from a house party. The silence was what you couldn't take. Knowing that you couldn't anticipate his next move was daunting. He preferred to watch you struggle with your simple task than to help, eyeing you without losing focus, like he was deep in thought on something. Once your backpack was filled to the brim with random clothes and zipped shut, you turned back around to him.

Killmonger tilts his head. "You ain't getting dressed?" He asks. You look down at your half-naked body and blush. With all the speak of murdering and impending death, you'd rightfully so forgotten that you were still in your bralette and shorts. You caught Killmonger's eyes drifting down to your legs, deliberate in his idle viewing of your exposed skin.

"Can you give me a minute?" You ask. His gaze has yet to drift from your legs, so you shift from foot to foot feeling awkward.

"Leave you in here alone? Nah. You said that you'd stick by my side, this is apart of that package."

"Can you, at least, close your eyes?" You beg more than question. Small things about him disturbed you, like the jeering smirk settled on his face as he blatantly checked you out. This was not the kind of guy you could innocently get undressed in front of, not without a crude remark or suggestive comment. He's already made himself quite clear about his sexual drive, though. If he wanted to, he would've already done something. You exhale nervously, awaiting his response.

He rolls his eyes back dramatically before making a big show out of covering his eyes with the side of his gun. "Hurry up." He demands. It's an amusing sight, him foolishly hiding his eyes behind a gun, and if you weren't a stressed, terrified mess you'd probably laugh. Instead, you quickly threw a thin t-shirt over your bralette, jumped out of your pajama bottoms and shimmied on some jean shorts. Your eyes were hesitant to leave Killmonger as you changed, so you were pleasantly surprised to realize that he didn't try and sneak a peek. You feel more comfortable as you jam your feet into your slides.

"Done." You whisper. He moves his gun away and looks down at your new outfit with clear disdain. If he wants to comment, he doesn't, instead he stands up and nods at you.

"Don't even think about getting brave once we step outside." He says like he knows for sure that you'll try and run away. You roll your eyes.

"I'm always brave. I'm not stupid." You clarify.

He hums and nods his approval of your response. "I like that." He responds. His words make your insides twist and thud in a sickening delight and you turn your face down to your feet to avoid his insistent gaze.

He escorts you out of your home, his hand pressed on your lower back as you walk out of the front door. It's an awful feeling, not being shrouded in the darkness around Killmonger, but placed in an orange ray of fluorescent light. The streetlamp and moon combination gave you such a spotlight, more exposed than you could ever feel undressing in front of him, like he could see every bit of you that you tried to hide in the darkness. And you could see him. Really see him. You glanced over all the tiny things that you missed, like his muscle definition showing through his sleeves, his usually free dreads braided to the back of his head, and the unfairly even tone of his brown skin. You had to admit that, despite his shortcomings (you know, like murdering people), he was extremely fit and handsome, definitely the kind of guy you'd go for in any other situation. You're checking him out, you realize in horror. Quickly, you turn away and look towards where he's pushing you towards instead.

The motorcycle is all black and not very distinct, which you guess makes sense given his line of work. Nevertheless, it's something that you could only ever dream of riding. You tighten your backpack around your shoulders, messing with the straps far more than one should, a nervous tick you had picked up in high school. Killmonger steps in front of you towards the bike and leans against it, crossing his legs casually as he addresses you once again. You look around, anxious, hoping that someone could identify you from the street, but no one appeared to be wandering the neighborhood at this time of night. It felt like you two were the only people on Earth, just the sounds of your heavy breathing and anxious toe-tapping filling the silence of the night. He motioned for you to come closer, so you did, standing almost toe to toe with him.

"Does the name ‘Ian’ mean anything to you?" He asks, catching you off guard. Your eyes must reveal everything he needed to know because he's nodding the next second as if you'd given him a definite answer. "How well did you know him?" He follows his question up.

"Uh. Pretty...well?" You stutter out, unsure if you should disclose on your relationship to someone with a killer. He smirks at the uncertainty wavering in your voice, then nods.

"Thought so."

"He's not caught up in all this, is he?" You ask, concerned.

You've known Ian for the most part of your relationship and he's always been a nice guy, no one you'd ever suspect to be involved in any shady bullshit. Ian would come over and help you clean, even if you didn't ask, making lighthearted small talk and sharing embarrassing stories about your boyfriend. He was your ex's best friend, but also the nicest guy you've ever met. Someone you've come to trust. But, who could you really trust these days?

Killmonger chuckles at your bewildered expression.

"Don't worry about that. We're just gonna pay him a quick visit, okay?" He asks, tone slightly darker than before. You clench your teeth and nod. "You don't speak to him. Got that?" He asks and you nod again.

"Okay. Can I, at least, know what you plan on doing?" You ask. You hadn't seen Ian since the break-up, obviously, but he'd sometimes send you memes about missing you and link you to whatever new music he thought you'd like, which was sadly more than your ex could even do. You liked to think that Ian was just as much your friend as he was your ex's, and at the end of it all, he took Ian with him (as well as the air conditioner) and you were left lonely. You tried to recall that last time you'd been in the same room together.

You were drunk and rambling to him about how bad your relationship was, which usually wasn't something you would tell Ian about, but you were desperate and needed someone to talk to about your problems. You didn't have any super close friends that would immediately come to your aid in a crisis, mostly work colleagues that you passed time with gossiping over meaningless celebrity drama with. You used Ian's t-shirt as a tissue for your tears and, God bless him, he sat there and let you ruin his clothes without any complaints. Well, maybe there was one complaint.

"You know, this was my favorite shirt." He muttered while patting your head. You sat up, embarrassed, and wiped your face with your hands instead. You stared at Ian through puffy eyes and started sputtering all kinds of apologies, which he waved away to pull you back into his favorite shirt. "It's okay, you need it more than I do." He reasoned with a soft chuckle.

"Your friend sucks. You know that, right?" You mumbled into his shirt. He sighed deeply, like he was reflecting on how true that statement really was, then shrugged.

"I know." He said. You pushed away from him, suddenly feeling anger boil inside of you. Ian's dark green eyes widened at your actions and he backed up a little bit.

"Then, why? Why do you put up with him? I mean, you came all the way over here to be with him and he's not even here, he's almost never here! Instead, you find me here looking like this," you gesture to your running mascara and puffy face. "And you just go along with it? C'mon, you can't be this nice. What's wrong with you?" You questioned in an accusatory voice. Ian raised his brows in amusement.

"Should I have left you here alone to drink yourself into a coma and drown in your own tears?" He asked, teasing. You rolled your eyes.

"Yes! I would leave me!"

"You're an idiot."

You scoffed, feeling more tears bubble up. "Way to kick me while I'm down."

"No, idiot, that's not how I meant it. I mean...obviously, I came here to see you. We're friends, you know." He clarified for you and it took your drunken mind more than five seconds to comprehend his words. Then, the tears came back.

"Do you need my shirt again?"

You nodded and jumped back into him. He let out an 'oof' at the impact.

"Come on, we'll get you some water and then watch that stupid movie you like."

He never did answer why he was still friends with your ex, but you were too preoccupied with watching one of your favorite movies to even realize it. Ian's comforting presence cheered you up from your entire breakdown ordeal. He tolerated you reciting almost every line to your favorite movies and helped you make dinner to keep your mind off certain things. If anything was real about your relationship with your ex, it was your relationship with his friend. You glare at Killmonger, wondering what exactly he planned on doing with Ian.

"Don't worry about it." Is all he says. It leaves a bad taste in your mouth. He moves to straddle his bike, pushing the kickstand back with his boot and turning it on. The motorcycle rumbles alive enough to startle you, then settles into a loud purring noise. "Come on."

You hesitate, but eventually, suck up your pride and hop over the back of his growling motorcycle. You straddle the bike behind him, the vibration of the engine shocking you, and hesitantly place your hands on either side of him. You set your feet on the little handles beneath you, but you wonder if your slides are the best shoes for this ride. Before he takes off, he forces your arms to wrap around his midsection.

"You scared to touch me or somethin'? You better fucking hold on." He tells you as he revs the engine and speeds off.

The swiftness at which he took off with catches you off guard and you arms subconsciously tighten around him as you bury your face into his back to protect against the harsh wind. It feels like you're soaring through time and space, clinging to Death, becoming more and more desensitized as the ride progresses. It's initially terrifying, sure, accelerating through empty streets, swerving and making unnecessarily sharp turns. But was it wrong for you to begin to enjoy the feeling of it? You lift your squished face from his back and flutter your eyes open. It almost didn't matter because you all you could really make out were large blurs of lights amidst dark streets.

Killmonger has no respect for streetlights, you notice that right off the bat. Every move he makes is like a spit in the face to the rules of the road, borderline fatal and seriously deranged, but he's not checked for it or even followed. The ride gives you an anxiety like you've never felt before, like you were rising towards the top of a rollercoaster and had no idea when you'd drop. Your quiet squealing had Killmonger laughing to himself, you could feel the vibrations from the laughter through his chest, but it couldn't distract you from your inner crisis. Needless to say, you're at the maximum stressed you've ever been in your life.

And yet, it's the most thrilling, exciting, riveting thing to ever happen to you.

You're so frazzled that you barely noticed the direction he was going, and it definitely wasn't to Ian's house, which you knew for a fact was in the other direction.

When the bike comes to a stop, you're both relieved and disappointed. You're frozen in place, arms still wrapped around Killmonger's stomach despite being parked.

"Baby, you gotta ease up." He says. You slide your arms back to yourself, embarrassed. He looks back at you with a smirk. "You liked that." He says as more of an accusation than a question. You huff and push back, jumping from the high of the motorcycle to the pavement. He follows you.

"If you're implying that I enjoyed that near-death experience, you really are insane." You mutter under your breath. He chuckles at you again, then grabs at the back of your neck, pushing you forward with him to the sidewalk. You trip over your feet only slightly trying to keep up with his long strides and search around frantically for anything familiar. You've only visited Ian a few times in the past, but you knew for sure that this neighborhood was not his. Ian lived in an apartment, not a house, and definitely not such a nice house. The house Killmonger was pushing you towards wasn't extravagant, actually looking pretty lowkey, but it surely wasn't anything Ian would ever own.

But, what would you know?

That is Ian's blue Nissan in the driveway. Maybe he moved.

Killmonger doesn't take his hand from your neck until you've stopped in front of the door. His knocking has enough power to knock down the whole damn door, you're sure of that. You stand there, unsure of everything. Questioning everything. Praying that he wouldn't put his hands on your friend. The door whips open.

His unforgettable green eyes shift to you first, softening from the anger he must have felt at the loud banging. He takes you in looking both surprised, worried, and anxious. His eyes flicker to Killmonger and it's like something clicks in his mind. You watch it all with horror, his recognition and deductive reasoning working overtime, and for a second you believe that he's going to try and save you from him or run away or something else equally as idiotic. However, he just sighs like he's tired and rubs his forehead. You squint, confused, then glance back to Killmonger.

"Look what I got," Killmonger boasts, referring to you like some meaningless object, then pushes you through the doorway and into Ian's body. You stumble into his arms and instantly feel better once you're in his embrace. But that doesn't last long because Killmonger's words are registering through your brain. "She's more valuable alive than dead. Don't let her leave." He orders, pushing past the two of you.

You push away from Ian. He moves to slam the door shut.

"Is this a fucking joke?"

"What did I say about talking to him?" Killmonger reminds you. You groan your frustration and glare daggers at Ian. He's frowning, trying to avoid your eyes. No matter how hard you're staring at him, he ignores you to look over at Killmonger.

"I told you to leave her out of it," Ian begins. "I had it under control." He says coolly, in a detached voice you'd never suspect he had. It almost brings tears to your eyes to witness someone so different than who you thought you knew, associating with the man who almost killed you.

"You ain't have shit under control! This bitch had it more under control than you, nigga.!" He yelled, letting the anger show in his voice finally. Ian rolled his eyes. You wanted to reach out and kill him with your bare hands and that must've looked obvious. Killmonger's eyes snapped to yours. "Get over here, now." He orders you.

Before you could take a step forward, Ian's hand snaps out in front of you to hold you back. Disgusted, you push his hand away from you. It was childish, but you were so angry at him, angry at the lying and apparent fake relationship you had. You thought he was the only real one that was there for you, all to find out that he's behind all this nonsense.

"Don't fucking touch me, Ian." You spit out through clenched teeth as you continue walking over to Killmonger. The hardwood floors creaked with every step you took, and it was the small details like that that you tried to focus on to refrain from punching Ian in the face. "Shit! I knew you were too fucking nice. Did you lie about everything? Was any of it real?"

Killmonger sighs but lets you ramble.

"Not now, [Y/N]," Ian says while pulling a torn sheet of paper from his pocket. He waves it in the air. "I got the locations of those operative leaders. Hacked a few security cameras. This is all I got for right now." He hands the flimsy paper to Killmonger who takes it eagerly.

"Man, finally." He smiles, stuffing the paper into his pants pocket.

"Not now? Then fucking when? When I'm dead? Motherfucker." You find yourself still talking to him. Ian finally looks you in the eyes.

"Shut. The fuck. Up." He says.

You lunge at him, hellbent on clawing his eyes out, but two strong arms wrap around your midsection to keep you back. You struggle against him, jumping and reaching out towards Ian - who, honest to God, looked bored - as much as you possibly could.

"Make me, you lying ass bitch!" You shout. Ian's cold exterior cracks just a little bit at that. "You think I'm fucking scared of you? Killmonger, please, let me fuck him up!"

Killmonger's finding an obvious enjoyment in your recklessness like he usually does. He begins walking backward, dragging you along in his arms away from Ian. "Maybe later. You need to calm down. Come on, let's sit you down." He assists you through Ian's home, but it all blurs for you through your teary eyes. He takes you down a flight of stairs as you're wiping vigorously at you eyes, trying to hide the fact that you actually care about Ian.

You figure out a little too late that 'sit you down' actually meant 'tie you down in a dark basement'. Your wrists are tied together with zip ties around a wooden chair that could stand to be more comfortable. There's nothing in the basement but chairs, tarp, and guns. The tarp covering the floors almost alarm you, but you have a feeling you know who it's for. As for the guns, they were covering a large portion of the walls but looked like they could easily be covered up with a few picture frames.

"I'll be back later."

"Isn't this a little much, though? I'm not gonna run." You refer to the ties holding your wrists together. He shrugs.

"Running, escaping, fucking up my partner...it covers everything." He explains before walking back upstairs, leaving you by yourself.

Partner. You scoff.

He didn't exactly specify when he'd be coming back, but you hoped it'd be quick. Being around Ian for too long might invoke some nostalgia that you just didn't want to feel. 

Partner? 

Ian once asked you to kill a spider for him. He hid behind you as you watched The Conjuring. You've watched Ian argue over children shows and bake pastries and dance to mainstream pop music.

You're so lost in the memories that you barely notice the footsteps descending towards you.

"I'm sorry," Ian's voice startles you. You look up to see him leaning against the steps, arms crossed over his chest. You don't say anything. "This all...looks pretty bad," Understatement of the year. "But I never lied to you."

"Yes, you did." You say. It's that simple. He steps closer to you, into your space so that you could make out his sharp jawline and persistent eyes, that golden brown skin you've always appreciated.

"Okay. Fuck. I had to lie about some things. I had to."

"I'm over it. Leave me alone." You glower. He sighs with a defeated expression on his face.

"I never wanted this to happen to you. I tried to keep you safe. I don't care what the fuck you think about me, I'll always try and keep you safe."

You gulp down the burning sensation crawling up your throat.

"Shout for me if you want some water or something..." He murmurs. As he turns back towards the staircase, you let the tear fall down your face. He leaves you alone with your destructive thoughts.

You don't know how long you're waiting for Killmonger to get back, but never once do you shout for Ian to bring you anything. Regardless, he comes back downstairs with a water bottle and holds it up to your mouth for you to drink. He ends up staying in the basement with you, sitting on the floor a few feet away from you, not speaking. The silence is deafening. It gives you time to understand his side of the story better, to reflect on his wrongs and figure out which parts he had to fake. He told Killmonger that he didn't want you to be involved, so he's not lying to you about caring about you. His only goal was probably to infiltrate your ex's life and get more information on him, but you were inevitably in the mix. You look down to where he's staring off into nothing.

"The first time you took me to the beach. Real or fake?" You ask. Ian looks up, surprised.

"Fake. I had to get you out of the house. We were looking through his stuff." He says. You nod.

"Our movie marathons?"

"Real." He smiles.

"That time we went shopping and you knocked over that mannequin display and made me run from mall cops for two blocks?"

"Painfully real." He winces at the memory. A tiny smile tugs at your mouth.

"Oh, so you're naturally that clumsy and embarrassing?"

"Yep. But only my real friends know that." He says fondly. You manage to crack a smile despite this fucked up situation. Above all, you still have someone on your side. It sucks, but his criminal background doesn't matter anymore. He's your friend, always has been.

"I guess I've felt like you weren't really His best friend. Especially, when you got drunk and tried to kiss me." You mention with a smirk. Ian groans and shakes his head.

"I wasn't trying to kiss you. I told you, you had something on your face!"

"And you thought to remove it with your lips? Makes sense." You quip. He rolls his eyes but smiles nonetheless.

"Fuck you." He teases and it feels semi-normal between you again. You were scared to find out what he was doing working with Killmonger, so you avoided that subject altogether and continued on going down memory lane to calm your nerves. That's how you spend the next couple hours or so, discussing the real from the fake and cracking inside jokes when the conversation started getting too real. The door slamming upstairs is the only indication you get that Killmonger is back.

You look from Ian to the top of the basement steps. He bursts through with a pissed off expression, droplets of what looks to be blood splattered on his face. Your eyes widen.

"Ian, get her the fuck up. We're leaving."

"What happened?" Ian asks as he moves around to cut the zip ties off your wrists.

"Fuck it look like happened, nigga. I took care of it."

You shake your hands and rub at the angry red lines on your wrists once you're free.

"It's late, she can just stay here with me," Ian suggests. Killmonger looks him up and down, then scoffs.

"Definitely not. C'mon, let's go." He doesn't even wait to check if you're following behind, he just expects it and climbs back up the stairs. You turn and give Ian an apologetic look.

"I know, I know. I'll check in on you, I promise. Go."

You nod and run off after Killmonger.

(idk what’s going on in here on this day sklsjklsjkls, but yay I updated something)

@panthergoddessbast @misspooh @shesfromwakanda @thehomierobbstark @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @muse-of-mbaku @hearteyes-for-killmonger @myboyfriendgiriboy @naturallyqueenie @sicksadgen @sweettea-and-honeybutter @wawakanda-btch @curls-and-crosses @lola-spades @killmongerdispussy @wikiwakanda @keepsitonehunned @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @cocoaflowerrs @eriknutinthispoosy @zhane529 @lunaerly @cockyboysandsugarism @vanitykocaine @ambthegamer @palmsofgranate @thadelightfulone @bossyboyd03  (sorry if I forgot anyone, I love you all, thanks for the support)

[themisanthropiclycanthrope]

i have a merlahad prompt in case you got time: roxy: "i didn't know merlin had tattoos?!" harry: "i did" roxy: "what?"

Thank you for the prompt! First, I must apologise for turning what I’m sure you intended as something lighthearted and fun into…this angst-ridden mess of feelings. I just. They love each other, okay?

This also means I’ve reached the end of my queue of prompts. Feel free to throw a few more at me, if you like (:

Read here, or on AO3 (where there are accompanying translations.)

Roxy had become a familiar fixture inMerlin’s room, insisting that since they were both stuck there while theyrecovered from their injuries, the least she could do was keep him company.

Of course, Merlin was yet to wake from hiscoma, but that didn’t deter her in the least, and Harry was so very gratefulthat she was there whenever he couldn’t be.

And so he wasn’t at all surprised to findher sat in her wheelchair beside the window on that particular morning,chatting away about whatever came to mind. That it was an entirely one-sidedconversation didn’t matter; she had diligently kept Merlin informed of all theywere doing to rebuild Kingsman, outlined their new links with Statesman, givena full report on Eggsy and Tilde’s wedding, and kept him abreast of all thegossip, both work related and otherwise. Sometimes, she played him music.

Roxy paused when Harry slipped into theroom to greet him cheerfully, unsurprised by his appearance even though he was,technically, several minutes early.

“Good morning, Roxy.” Harry felt a swellof happiness whenever he saw her, so pleased she had survived Poppy’s horrificattack. He’d been devastated to hear what had happened, and as relieved asEggsy when they’d later found Roxy alive and with only relatively minorinjuries. “How are you today?”

“I’m good, thanks, Harry. They say I canhave the cast off tomorrow.”

“That’ll be a relief, I’m sure.” 

Harry turned his attention to the man inthe bed, knowing Roxy would forgive him his ill manners. He clasped Merlin’sshoulder in greeting as had become his ritual, born of a need to confirm thatMerlin was truly there, truly alive. If Harry was amazed by Roxy’s survival, heconsidered it nothing short of a miracle that Merlin hadn’t perished in thatexplosion. He hadn’t come out of it unscathed by any means, but he was alive,and for that Harry would be forever grateful. The Kingsman suit Merlin haddonned so proudly, while not blast proof in the same way it was bulletproof, hadprovided him some measure of protection.

Poppy’s mine may have taken his legs, butit hadn’t taken his life. Just like Kingsman itself, he was broken but notdefeated and, given time, both would recover.

Unfortunately, Harry had never been themost patient of men. 

“Good morning, Merlin.” Harry didn’texpect a response, but, like Roxy, always included Merlin in the conversation.The doctors had said there was a chance he could hear them on some subconsciouslevel, that the sound of their voices might be of some comfort. He hoped theywere correct.

“Any change?” He addressed Roxy once more.He would have been informed of any significant changes as a matter of course,but he always asked Roxy in case she had noticed anything, however minor.

As usual, however, she shook her head, anapology in her eyes although it was hardly her fault. “Sorry, Harry. Have faiththough, the doctors are positive, and I’m sure it won’t be long.”

“Oh, I have every faith. He’s far toostubborn a bastard to let something like this beat him.”

Roxy chuckled softly. “You know he mightbe able to hear you.”

“I’m counting on it.”

Harry pulled the visitor’s chair to hiscustomary spot beside the bed and sat down. There had been occasions when he’dremained there so long the medical staff had resorted to all but kicking himout, but they mostly let him be. Sometimes he talked, sometimes he just watchedthe steady rise and fall of Merlin’s chest.

“I didn’t know Merlin had a tattoo.”

It took Harry a moment to catch Roxy’s trainof thought, following her gaze to Merlin’s arm. The lowermost curves and swirlsof dark ink must have been peeking out beneath the sleeve of Merlin’s hospital gown.

“Oh yes, he has several.”

Roxy looked at Harry in surprise. Perhapsshe hadn’t thought Merlin the type.

“He calls them the product of a misspentyouth, but he’s actually rather proud of them.”

“And you’ve seen them?”

“Of course.” Harry considered that maybehe’d misunderstood the cause of Roxy’s shock. She seemed more startled byHarry’s knowledge on the subject. “That one’s his Army regiment’s insignia,” heinformed her with a nod toward Merlin’s upper arm and the design that hadcaught her eye. “But my favourite is the one beside his right shoulder blade,possibly because it’s the one I’m responsible for choosing.”

“He got a tattoo for you?”

“Yes, a painted lady.”

She blinked, nonplussed. “A what?”

“It’s a butterfly.”

Roxy grinned in delight. “And he agreed tothat?”

“Not at all. He lost a bet.”

Now she was laughing. “I’ll bet he lovedthat!”

“He didn’t speak to me for a week when herealised what I’d picked. But he did come around eventually.”

Harry smiled at the memory as it surfacedvividly in his mind’s eye; Merlin lying naked beneath him, trembling as Harrytraced the outline of the butterfly’s wings with his fingers, with his tongue.He hadn’t groused about it so much after that, only making the odd tokengrumble. It was a part of Harry he carried with him, a connection inkedindelibly into his skin.

“He was devastated, you know.” Roxy hadgrown sombre again, and Harry waited for her to elaborate. “When we thought youwere dead. He didn’t show it of course, but there were times I could see thepain in his eyes. Like when he told Eggsy how proud you’d be of him.”

Harry swallowed past the lump forming inhis throat. For more than a year, Merlin had believed him dead, had hidden hisgrief, mourning in private while continuing to work with undiminished diligence,guiding young Eggsy in Harry’s place.

“I hate that I put him through that.”

“No, Harry, it wasn’t your fault. He didn’tblame you. He blamed himself, but never you.”

Harry sighed in fond despair. That soundedprecisely like Merlin, taking responsibility for every little thing, howeverout of his control it may be.

“It was Valentine’s fault,” Roxy continued,taking it upon herself to correct the two old fools. “Just as this was Poppy’s.”

“He stood on a mine for me.” Harry wasn’tquite ready to relinquish all the blame. Not yet. “He sacrificed himself sothat Eggsy and I could complete the mission. He…” Harry’s voice faltered,failed, and he squeezed his eye shut against the sudden heat of tears. Roxystayed silent, giving him time to compose himself. “We both knew that, in thisjob, there was always a chance that, one day, one or the other of us might notreturn from a mission. I don’t think either of us realised just how much itwould hurt when it actually happened.”

Unlike Merlin, Harry had only grieved ashort while. After the adrenaline of the fight had worn off, and events trulysunk in, he had been left hollow, bereft, his heart caught in a vice and chesttight. But he hadn’t suffered his loss for long. His joy when Merlin had beendiscovered alive had been just as fierce, albeit in a different way, and henever wanted to experience that agony ever again.

He knew Merlin would agree with him onthat.

Harry remembered the delight in Merlin’seyes when he had finally regained his memory, when they were at last reunited,and could only imagine what it must have been like to carry the weight of thatpain for so long.

Merlin was far stronger a man than he.

Harry reached out, took Merlin’s hand,held it secure in both of his. They had always been strongest together.

“How long have you been in love?”

Stunned, Harry looked up, saw the gentlesmile on Roxy’s face. But of course she’d worked it out. Shrewd, clever Roxy.She hadn’t won the position of Lancelot for naught.

“More than thirty years.” Harry’s thumbstroked reflexively against Merlin’s wrist, over the pulse that continued tothrum beneath his skin. “It took us a while to get our acts together. He didn’tthink anyone could possibly love a rough-around-the-edges, penniless runaway,while I couldn’t believe someone so brilliant would ever want to waste theirtime with me. And that’s not to mention the prejudice we faced back then.”

“But you worked it out.” 

“We did.”

“I’m glad. It’s good that you have eachother, that you always have.”

“I consider myself incredibly lucky.”

And he was, fortunate beyond measure. Now all he needed was for Merlin towake up, and he prayed to whatever deity might be listening that it wouldhappen soon.

“Perhaps you should get a tattoo for him,” Roxysuggested with just a hint of mischief. “When he wakes up. To celebrate how you’reboth still alive.”

Harry glared as best as one could glare with only theone eye. He was certain it was still passably effective even when employed injest. “I’ll thank you not to put ideas in his head.”

It was, in fact, something Merlin had jokinglysuggested in the past, an idea Harry had vehemently rejected. But now hethought about it, recognised it as a symbol of his enduring affection, itdidn’t really seem all that awful. Roxy didn’t need to know that, though.

She was grinning, and Harry knew she had everyintention of mentioning it as soon as the opportunity arose. He sighed,resigned to the pestering he was certain to suffer. God forbid Eggsy should everhear of it.

But such a fate didn’t seem so terrible if it meant hewas so be surrounded by those he loved most.

“I should be getting back.” Roxy began to wheelherself toward the door. “Else the nurses will send out a search party.”

Harry saw it for the excuse it was, Roxy kindlygranting him privacy, some time alone with Merlin. “Thank you, Roxy.”

He was thanking her for more than just that, foreverything she had done, and she acknowledged his gratitude with a nod and asmile as she rolled out of the room.

Alone, Harry let his gaze linger on the familiarfeatures, so still now, but peaceful. He laced his fingers with Merlin’s,fervently hoping that one day soon he’d feel an answering squeeze.

His free hand he placed on Merlin’s chest, over hisheart and the words he knew looped elegantly above—Nemo me impune lacessit—andthe smaller script below that followed the curve of his ribs: cha dean duinedona ach a dhìchioll.

The former would always apply, as long as Harry drewbreath, and the latter, well.

“You have always done your very best, my dear Hamish,and I for one consider myself all the richer for it.”

Harry brought Merlin’s hand to his lips, pressed akiss to the dry but warm skin, and settled himself more comfortably in the plasticchair, ready to maintain his vigil for as long as was necessary.