MARVEL & DC IMAGINES

] who y o u are [

pairing: erik killmonger (n'jadaka) / reader

genre/warning(s): language, angst, rare softness

word count: 1,000+

song: you are here - jhene aiko

synopsis: staring at his scarification – and mulling over their origin – are the moments you choose to carefully dwell over who your beloved erik "killmonger" stevens truly is, and what he's hiding...

A bare, broadened back carved with patterned markings is all you can perceive at three o'clock in the morning.

The sheets are soft beneath your palms and bare legs, a stark contradiction to the way Erik's warm, textured skin often felt against your fingertips. As your gaze sweeps over the span of his back, you swear you can almost feel him without having to physically touch.

You've been watching him for a while now, with your face sinking into the pillow, wondering in silence why he's awake and sitting up from his side of the bed at such an hour. The only reasonable explanation behind his behavior would be jet lag and the difference in time-zones. Every time he arrives back to the States after his deployments, an irregular sleeping schedule proves to be a common issue. His body and mind are just readjusting to the local time. At least, that's what you tell yourself, what you choose to believe, because you're certain there's more to Erik than what he tells you to your face.

And those scars of his...there are more of them lining his torso this time. Definitely more.

You remember when he once warned you that his markings were there for reasons you'd rather not know. There hadn't been a shred of doubt that what he told you was true, blood running cold in your veins when he spoke the words:

"If I told you what these scars represented, you wouldn't wanna be standin' here in front of me, baby."

You could tell that he expected you to leave him on that same day, to allow fear of the unknown to dissuade you from remaining in his company and push your decision to abandon him like so many others...but unlike those women before you, you didn't leave. Had no intention to. No, despite all the odds, you never prodded for more information on the matter than what he was willing to give. Instead, you just continued to trace over those marks in fascination, admiring them with a kind of wonder you were sure Erik had never been graced by, before you lifted your gaze and stared at him through thick lashes, and told him:

"Then don't tell me, yet."

On that day, there had been no more questions, and no more unnecessary tension. Just acceptance.

Perhaps, Erik liked that shit. Liked the way you hardly questioned him and all his motives. How you accepted it all – all of him, even to this day as you stare at his scarification through nightfall's shadows in bed.

Tossing the sheets aside, you sit up as well, edging nearer. "Erik?"

Curious of his late night musings, you lift a hand, fingers brushing along his spine to gather his attention. Although your touch is soft and reminiscent of butterfly wings kissing his skin, Erik's reflexes spark into overdrive, tensing up for the slightest moment before a hand is shooting out behind him. Deadly fingers wrench onto your wrist in a precise iron clasp that's almost painful.

"...Erik." It's not a panicked shout nor a threat leaving your throat. It's something delicately soft yet potent enough for him to falter when he hears it.

Only when Erik realizes that it's you – catching onto the sweet, drifting scent of your perfume, the quiet hiss of his name passing your lips, and the heat of your skin in his hardened palm – is when he loosens his hold. He's no longer on the field of foreign terrain as bullets rain down upon him and shrapnel litters the ground of a war zone. He is safe once more. With you.

There is no apology nor a curt 'my bad' tumbling from his lips once he realizes his error, but you don't mind, because you understand him. You know him. You'd like to think that you know how he processes his emotions, how he favors silence over words during his brooding spells. Or more realistically, you pray that you know him.

"Goddamn..." he growls, releasing your wrist. "Thought you were still asleep."

"Did I scare you?" Your voice holds a gentle quality, quiet and soothingly attentive.

"Nah. Just caught me off guard." He runs a hand through tousled locs. "Betta stop doin' that shit, too."

He's fearless in a universal sense of the word. Never one to quake in the face of bullets, knives, or even death itself. He's afraid of something else – of failing his life's goal, and he's terrified of your people's downward spiral and demise, frightened by the possibility of his father having died in vain. Perhaps, somehow, he's afraid for you somewhere amid those probabilities? It's a selfish wish, yet you can't help but to wonder if you're a priority in Erik's world; if he's concerned for your simple well-being, your future, and the chance of losing you.

Losing you...

You draw your lips between your teeth for a moment, deciding to wrap your arms around Erik's neck from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder in a back hug. It's the closeness of him that quells your raging thoughts and all the doubts. The fresh smell of him, the feel of his skin, the sound of his voice and even his breathing.

Hardly noticing when he swallows dryly, Erik cranes his neck to catch a glimpse of you, and asks, "Watchu thinkin' about?"

"I don't know..." You pause, searching for a proper way to express your ponderings. "I'm just tryin' to figure you out, baby." You lift a hand, allowing your nails to softly caress his beard, leaning in and kissing his cheek where you murmur to him. "Wondering about who you are, again."

Erik is silent, drinking in the trickle of your breath and remembering the weight your words often carried. He takes a moment to look at you, because he's aware of your intelligence, how you know that he's hiding something. It's only a matter of time before you piece everything together – the markings, the ring on his necklace, the truth behind his father's murder. Though much like all those other times when questions of his true self rests on your tongue, Erik finds a way to evade it all, sweeping it under the rug.

"So that's it, huh?" he says simply, reaching for his necklace to twirl his father's ring between his fingers.

Still cradling his chin in your grasp, you gently nudge his face toward yours to whisper, "Yeah. That's it."