Romance vs. Reality .｡*･ﾟﾟ
Summary: T'Challa woke up feeling romantic, he even tried to create an atmosphere... Until he remembered that you are you, with your sincerity speaking too loudly in the morning.
t'challa x f!reader
The golden Wakandan sunrise filtered through the sheer curtains of the royal bedchambers, painting everything in soft, honeyed light. It was the kind of morning poets wrote about—the air sweet with blooming flowers, the distant sounds of the city just waking, the perfect stillness of two bodies curled together beneath silk sheets.
T’Challa, ever the hopeless romantic, took this as his cue.
He shifted closer to you, his fingers tracing idle patterns along your bare shoulder, his voice a low, velvety murmur.
"What inspires you to get out of bed every day?"
The question hung in the air, heavy with expectation. He could already picture your answer—some sweet, adoring confession about his smile, his touch, the way he loved you.
Maybe you’d even blush. It would be perfect.
You, still half-asleep, snorted.
"My bladder, mostly."
Silence.
T’Challa’s hand stopped mid-caress.
You blinked one eye open, finally registering the look on his face—somewhere between offended and utterly betrayed.
"...What?" you mumbled.
He propped himself up on one elbow, staring down at you with the expression of a man who had just been spiritually wounded. "That was your answer?"
You yawned. "I mean, it's true."
T’Challa exhaled sharply through his nose. "I set the mood. I asked a romantic question."
You patted his chest absently. "And I gave you a practical answer."
He flopped onto his back with a dramatic sigh. "I am married to a heathen."
You rolled onto your side, grinning. "Oh, come on. You knew what you were signing up for."
T’Challa turned his head just enough to glare at you. "I expected poetry. Maybe a sonnet."
You crawled on top of him, pressing a kiss to his scowling lips. "Fine. You are the reason I wake up every morning."
His expression softened. "...Really?"
You nodded solemnly. "Because you snore like a warthog, and it’s either get up or suffocate under your obnoxiously muscular arm."
T’Challa’s jaw dropped.
You burst out laughing, collapsing against his chest as he groaned in despair.
"I regret every life choice that led me to this moment," he muttered, even as his arms wrapped around you.
You kissed his chin. "Liar."
He huffed, but the corner of his mouth twitched. "...Maybe."
And as the sun rose higher, as the palace stirred to life around you, T’Challa came to a reluctant conclusion:
He loved this.
The sarcasm. The honesty. Even if it meant his romantic gestures were often met with brutal practicality.
But hey—at least you loved him back.
