Long Live the King!

Is your muse a good kisser?

Is your muse monogamous? 

What would your muse’s ideal date be?

Wild date night out or quiet date night in?

“How easy is it for your muse to say, “I love you”?

How important is physical appearance to your muse?

What is the longest relationship your muse has been in?

Does your muse like a height difference with their partner? 

How physically affectionate is your muse with their partner?

What would make your muse immediately abandon a date?

What physical attribute does your muse find most attractive?

Does your muse enjoy giving/receiving grand gestures of love?

What personality trait/type does your muse find most attractive?

What is your muse most likely to notice first about a potential partner? 

Does your muse like receiving gifts from a potential partner? If so, what?

Has your muse ever been heartbroken in a romantic relationship before?

Does your muse like being asked out, or do they prefer to do the asking?

Does your muse find the idea of a secret admirer charming or off-putting?

Would your muse prefer a spontaneous date night, or a planned night out? 

Does your muse like pet names? Do they like calling their partner pet names?

Does your muse fall for someone quickly, or does it take a bit to win their heart?

Does your muse consider financial status an important factor in dating someone?

Is your muse smooth when it comes to flirting? How do they handle being flirted with?

Does your muse tend to get jealous when in a relationship? Do they like it when their partner gets jealous over them?

Does your muse consider romantic holidays  ( such as Valentine’s )  important to celebrate when in a relationship?

How much stock does your muse put in first impressions? What is the best way to make a good first impression with your muse? 

Is your muse one to sit down with a new partner and formally define a relationship, or do they prefer to go with the flow and see what happens?

Black Panther speaking some truth we need to hear

It wasn't so much that Natasha didn't want children. She did. She even tried with Alexei. She just had so much trauma based around motherhood that she never considered it again.

She found the Golden City to be gorgeous. Filled with culture and the smell of the local food and restaurants. Natasha noticed some older women sitting on an iron table outside a cafe that was still open, discussing something in a language she had yet to learn as they drank coffees. How could one not enjoy this?

When she accepted his hand, T’Challa drew her fully onto the floor. He moved with easy confidence, shoulders loose, steps smooth and grounded in the beat. One hand settled at her back as he guided the tempo, letting the music lead them both. Around them, the crowd widened instinctively, eyes drawn to the King as he danced with the Queen—not for spectacle, but with a natural grace that made the moment feel shared, intimate, and alive.

During their meeting, she had a thought on the back of her mind. Earlier in the week, Ramonda had asked her privately if she was planning on having children. She was then told the importance of having at least one heir for the throne, but it wouldn't hurt anything to have at least two or more children. She was reminded of what Lyudmila Kudrin once said to her.

"... We wanted warriors, not mothers."

T’Challa led Natasha through the crowd at an unhurried pace, the city opening for them in quiet deference. Laughter and brass notes drifted between the towers, lanterns glowing like stars brought low." You have quickly impressed the elders with your intelligence. A surprise to no one." He complimented." It seems to me you were made to be queen."

All eyes followed them—King and Queen moving as one—but T’Challa’s attention stayed with her. He felt the subtle changes he’d learned to notice: the way her steps slowed for half a beat, the way her hand lingered in his just a moment longer. He said nothing, only guided her closer to the music, offering his arm as the band swelled and the night softened around them. However, he knew something was deep in her thoughts.

They paused beneath a balcony washed in gold light. T’Challa leaned in, voice low and warm. “Stay with me,” he said simply, not a command—an invitation. He pressed a gentle kiss to her temple and drew her back into the rhythm of the city, letting the music carry the music carry them forward together.

She continued to lay in that position, trapped underneath his heavy frame. She could feel some of his seed run down to the sheets. After a while of catching her breath, Natasha finally responded.

"Всё для тебя, мой король." She grinned, not at all fatigued by their session. She was hoping for another once they were done with their royal duties that night. Natasha pushed him off of her, groaning as she felt him pull out. She could now feel pain between her legs, no doubt from the stretch she took to take him.

As the chamber settled, Okoye remained where she stood, posture precise, eyes forward.

“You choose boldly, my King,” she said at last, voice even. “The woman you bring into this space will be watched… weighed.”

T’Challa did not look away from the doors Natasha had passed through. “I am aware,” he replied calmly. “And I chose with open eyes.”

Okoye inclined her head a fraction, acceptance tempered with restraint. “Then Wakanda will watch with you.”

Okoye glared at Ayo, silently daring her to say something if it was on her mind. She hated that she could understand their Russian perfectly.

Her moans only sharpened the his focus.

The King drew her legs over his shoulders, anchoring her there as his rhythm set in—measured, relentless. A low, animal sound rumbled from his chest with each drive, the bed beneath them answering in a steady tremor. The silk sheets shifted and tightened under his grip as the throne room filled with the sounds their movement pulled loose, the walls bearing witness without mercy.

Okoye’s pulse quickened despite her discipline, the steady rhythm she trained for slipping as her eyes lingered on Natasha. She exhaled slowly through her nose, forcing her heart back into order, jealousy acknowledged—and contained.

She reached up, gently stroking his cheek. "Я вся твоя, моя любовь." She stated, leaning up to kiss him deeply. Natasha wrapped her arms around his back, wanting him close. "Take me. I want to feel you..." She begged.

"Я возьму тебя, моя королева." T’Challa moved with intent, closing the space between them and pressing her back into the bedding with his weight and strength. His grip was steady, claiming, his breath heavy against her skin as he held her there, eyes locked on hers. There was no hesitation now—only certainty, heat, and the unmistakable sense of being taken by a king who knew exactly what he wanted and would not be denied.

The King wrapped her legs around his waist, slowly sinking into her. He moaned at the feeling of her slick walls around his cock. She felt like a virgin around his hardness. Placing his hands under her back, he kept her arched, her breasts presented to him nicely.

"I'm all yours then, my love..." She sat up on her knees, her hands on his hips. Natasha felt the material of the woven fur blanket dig into her knees. Looking up at him, she took his cock in her hands and began to jerk him off. She didn't stop making eye contact with him, until she decided that he was ready.

Positioning herself so she was on all fours, Natasha rubbed him one last time before taking him in her mouth. Having grown accustomed to how well endowed he was by now, she knew that she wouldn't be able to take him completely. Unlike all of her other male lovers in the past.

Natasha moaned around his length, taking him as far into her throat as she could manage. After a moment of getting used to the feeling, she bobbed her head faster. She could feel herself getting more aroused, enough to the point of using her one free hand to start touching herself. Her moans were muffled around the size of his cock.

By a galaxy, she was the most skilled he had ever known. His hands found her instinctively, fingers threading through her hair with slow, reverent care, guiding without force, holding without urgency." You please...your King astonishing."

Okoye did not look away.

Her grip tightened on her spear as she watched Natasha devour the King, the room heavy with heat and reverence. It wasn't just the act itself that stirred her unease, but the way Natasha moved with him — unafraid, unhesitating, as if she already belonged in that space.

“Desire is easy,” Okoye murmured under her breath, jealousy sharpening her tone just enough to betray it.

Natasha’s pace was deliberate, unhurried, each movement drawing a sharper response from him than the last. T’Challa’s breath broke this time—no effort to hide it—as his hand slid into her hair, fingers tightening just enough to betray how close his control was to slipping. His chest rose hard beneath her touch, a low sound vibrating out of him despite himself. Heavy droplets of pre-cum spilled from his strong, thick member.

Natasha's hands held on to his biceps for stability, feeling how muscular he was from underneath his clothes. She eventually placed them under his shirt, pulling away long enough to take it off of him, then resumed kissing him. The henna essential oils that she always used for her baths, combined with the perfume she chose that day smelled heavenly.

She pulled away, taking some time to take off his belt and started to pull down his pants.

“Indeed,” answered the King, his voice calm and assured. Quickly grabbing her hand he pulled her through the throne room. Within the throne room itself, just beyond the raised seat of the throne, rested the royal sleeping dais—low and broad, framed in dark stone and softened by obsidian linens and woven furs.

T’Challa lifted her effortlessly, one arm secure beneath her knees and the other at her back, setting her onto the sleeping dais with a gentleness that spoke more of care than strength, his gaze never leaving hers as if the moment itself deserved reverence.

Pausing a moment, the King admired his queen before leaning down and sucking on her left breast. mouth.

Knowing what was next, she stepped out of the gold heels and black lace underwear, placing them and the dress on her throne to be put back on. Natasha stood there, in the nude, in front of him and the Dora. Having been trained to use her body and sexuality as a weapon, she had no issue with the possibility of another man coming across such a sight.

As Natasha let the gown slip from her shoulders, the Dora Milaje formed their silent ring, unmoving, eyes forward. T’Challa stood still—yet something primal stirred beneath his composure. A low, steady sound rumbled in his chest, not loud enough to command attention, but unmistakable—an instinct held on a leash.

If beauty alone were the measure of worth,” T’Challa murmured, his voice low and even, “you would be overqualified.”

As the words settled between them, his hands found her with deliberate calm — not roaming, not hurried. One palm rested at her waist, firm and grounding, while the other traced the natural line of her back, feeling the warmth of her body beneath his touch. It was a study, not a claim — the way a panther acknowledges what stands before him.