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demie90s · 13 days ago

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I Don’t Like Her

Shuri Udaku x Black!Fem!Reader

NAVI | MORE | Part 2

Summary: You were chosen for a prestigious Wakandan outreach program for promising youth in tech, science, and innovation. A dream opportunity-except Princess Shuri hates you. Or pretends to. You're not sure which is worse.

Word Count: ~ 3.1k

Genre: Slow burn, enemies-to-lovers, academic rivalry, mutual pining

Warnings: Petty insults, academic tension, mutual jealousy, background family meddling

The Royal Wakandan Institute for Global Advancement was not a place you were supposed to belong.

Yet, you stood at the center of it braids slicked back, nose ring catching the light, notebook full of schematics cradled in one arm, looking every bit like you did belong. Because you did. Not that Princess Shuri would ever admit it.

“All the students across the diaspora,” she murmured that first morning, not looking up from her hologram tablet, “and they chose… you.”

You smiled, sharp and slow. “Nice to meet you as well… Princess.”

That was Day One. The tone was set.

You’d heard about Shuri long before you met her. Child prodigy. Genius engineer. Princess of a nation hidden and powerful.

What they didn’t tell you however, She was petty. Regal, yes. Brilliant, of course. But also… cutting. Her voice stayed light, her posture cool, but her insults always slid between your ribs like a sharpened vibranium blade.

“I suppose you tried your best,” she said once after a group project debrief. “It must be exhausting, doing everything manually. No AI assistance, no advanced tech. Very… rustic of you.”

You’d smiled back, just as tight. “Some of us like to actually learn before outsourcing our intellect.”

The room went quiet. T’Challa, leaning near the door with folded arms, choked down a laugh behind a gloved hand.

“Oh, I like her,” he muttered. “I like her.”

⸻————————————————————————————

You did learn. Fast. Faster than anyone expected.

Every time she tried to embarrass you in the lab—asking obscure formulae mid-demo, smirking during your presentations—you’d come back harder, better, ready with facts and a counter-argument.

Not that it ever stopped her.

“Next time,” she said sweetly one afternoon, brushing past you, “don’t forget to carry the one. Or do you always miscalculate under pressure?”

“Do you always hover when I work?” you shot back.

She blinked at you once. Just once. Then turned and walked off. You pretended not to see how she chuckled after.

The thing about Shuri was…she didn’t hate you. Not really.

She stayed late whenever you stayed late. Always “just checking on the tech,” always conveniently at the next station over, always stealing glances when she thought you weren’t looking.

And Lord, the way she flinched when that Kenyan student from Nairobi flirted with you after the engineering showcase. You weren’t even trying. Just existing. Just breathing.

Shuri had all but materialized between you, smiling with the kind of sweetness that made your skin crawl.

“She doesn’t even know how to run basic thermal readings,” she told you later, voice low, eyes hard. “But I suppose you’re easily impressed.”

You blinked at her. “Are you mad I talked to someone else?”

“I’m not mad,” she snapped. Too fast. “I’m just surprised mediocrity excites you.”

“Oh,” you said, mouth twisting. “Is that why you keep showing up every time I breathe near a lab?”

She didn’t answer. Just walked away. You stared at her retreating back. Petty, petty Princess.

⸻————————————————————————————

Her family knew. T’Challa took to teasing her about it openly, especially when you were in the room.

“She’s quite brilliant, isn’t she?” he’d muse aloud, watching her shoulders stiffen across the dining hall. “Sharp tongue. Looks good in her lab coat. Dangerous combination.”

“Brother.”

“I’m only saying, it’s impressive. Not everyone can keep up with you.”

Shuri glared at him. He grinned wider. Even Queen Ramonda got in on the games, albeit more subtly.

You’d caught her eye once during a tense discussion between you and Shuri over reactor specs. Shuri had been on your ass about hypothetical energy loss you countered her model with a cleaner schematic and a raised brow. She hadn’t liked that.

“You’re so sure of yourself,” Shuri muttered.

“I don’t have to pretend to be humble. Not when I’m right.”

The silence that followed was personal. Queen Ramonda sipped her tea, watching the two of you like a stage play.

“You two argue like you’ve been together for years,” she said idly.

You choked on your water. Shuri damn near dropped her tablet. T’Challa had to leave the room, he was laughing so hard.

⸻————————————————————————————

But here was the thing: you didn’t hate her either.

You didn’t like the way her eyes lit up when she solved a problem or when her hands flew across a vibranium interface like a second language.

You didn’t like how she stood close when she talked to you, voice low and lips parted, like she forgot how distance worked. You didn’t like how she challenged you.

You definitely didn’t like how much it turned you on.

When one of the visiting instructors tried to flirt with her after a panel, you had to physically leave the room. Your hand clenched so hard your stylus snapped in half.

Later, in private, Shuri found you on the balcony. She leaned next to you, silence stretching.

“You were quiet,” she said.

“You were busy.”

She didn’t move. “He was boring.”

“You let him flirt anyway.”

“I didn’t,” she said, looking at you now. “I ignored him. That’s what you do when you’re not interested.”

You met her eyes. “Is that how you look at people you are interested in?”

Her jaw clenched. But she didn’t deny it. You’d kill each other before admitting you were in love.

But God help whoever flirted with either of you in the meantime.

⸻————————————————————————————

There was no rule saying you had to sit next to her.

There were no seat assignments in the advanced vibranium applications lecture. No assigned lab partners. No chart telling the twenty Wakandan students and ten from the global outreach cohort where to post up during presentations.

So the way you and Princess Shuri always ended up side by side, shoulder-to-shoulder, breath brushing the same air—well, that was nobody’s fault.

Certainly not yours.

You didn’t notice it, not at first. Not until one of the older engineers stopped mid-sentence during a live prototype demo, blinking at the two of you like he’d seen double.

“You two…” he said, tilting his head. “You are syncing your interfaces?”

You looked up from your holo-screen, then to your right—where Shuri, brow furrowed, was adjusting the same calibrations in reverse.

You blinked. “Oh.”

She didn’t look at you. Didn’t need to.

“…Apparently,” she said dryly, not missing a beat. “Hope your tech can keep up.”

You didn’t answer. Just smirked and turned back to your screen, already rerouting your signal to beat her by one second. Petty, you thought. She wants to play? Fine.

The instructor was still staring. Okoye was in the back of the room, arms folded, grinning like she knew a secret.

Queen Ramonda wasn’t even there and probably felt it in her spirit.

It wasn’t just in the lab.

At lunch, during field studies, on the palace grounds—you moved like two planets orbiting the same invisible force. Constantly side by side without meaning to. Always reacting to the same things at the same time.

Someone dropped a tray? You both turned. Someone made a mistake in a lesson? You both corrected them—in sync, in stereo, and with the same biting tone.

She insulted with elegance. You responded with execution. Never rude. Never blatant. Just smart. Always smart. When it wasn’t sharpness, it was timing. Clean, instinctual, freakishly aligned.

Like when you both rolled your eyes at the exact same moment after the new student from New York compared Wakandan architecture to “like… Iron Man’s pad.”

You hadn’t even been facing her. But the chuckle that slipped from her lips when she heard yours was almost fond. Almost.

⸻————————————————————————————

You never talked about it.

It would’ve meant acknowledging something was there. A thread neither of you wanted to name. So you kept it buried, wrapped in attitude and sharp glares and stiff posture.

But even when you were standing still, you matched. From the side of the room you chose, to the way your arms folded. Sometimes, she mirrored you before even realizing. Sometimes, you did it back.

Ayo called it out once in the lab, deadpan.

“Are you both possessed?” she asked.

You blinked. Looked down. Shuri had her ankle crossed over her opposite foot—exactly like yours. You hadn’t noticed.

Neither had she. You both straightened at once.

“I do not copy her,” Shuri said immediately.

“Relax,” you muttered, smoothing your shirt. “You just have taste.”

T’Challa laughed until Okoye smacked the back of his head.

⸻————————————————————————————

It was Shuri who started the handoffs. She’d slide a tool across the bench without looking. Just a flick of her fingers in your direction.

Yet, somehow, it always landed where your hand already was. One time, she held out a stylus mid-presentation. You took it without hesitation, eyes still on the speaker. Your fingers brushed. Neither of you flinched.

You swore you heard someone gasp behind you.

The soft sound of Nakia whispering, “Are they…together?”

M’Baku’s grunt of “Not yet.”

You ignored it.

⸻————————————————————————————

They whispered because neither of you said anything.

Maybe you liked that. The quiet tension. The way you two pretended it didn’t exist. How the silence dragged out the smallest gestures until they felt like confessions. A glance. A smirk. The absence of words when words would ruin it.

She liked quiet more than she let on. But only with you. That’s what made the next thing happen the way it did.

It was during the Wakandan Cultural and Science Exchange week—meaning half the palace was open to dignitaries, global students, and a lot of overeager researchers with fragile egos and too many questions.

You were hunched over a processor, tuning the synaptic response on a panel interface. Shuri stood beside you, reading off metrics in a voice so low it barely carried. She kept the data flowing steady, her words syncing with your hands like she knew where you were going before you did.

And then—because someone always has to ruin a moment—he stepped up.

“Excuse me, Princess,” a young voice said, awkward but brave. You didn’t look up. Shuri barely glanced.

He was American, maybe eighteen, dressed like a student intern with a clipboard clutched in both hands.

“I was just wondering,” he said, nervous but pressing on, “are you…are you seeing anyone?”

You felt her body shift slightly beside you, her chin lifting. Then she did glance. Not at him. At you.

You were already looking at her, a crooked smirk pulling at your lips. You didn’t even pause what you were doing, just raised your brows like, really?

She held your gaze for half a second. Not even long. But long enough.

Then she turned back to the boy and said, cool as ever:

“…Yes.”

He blinked. “Oh.”

You didn’t mind. You didn’t say anything. Just leaned a little closer to the processor, brushing her arm in passing, and said, “You wanna tell me who it is?”

Shuri didn’t miss a beat. “You already know.”

You nodded once. “Cool.”

That was it. No butterflies. No dramatic stares. Just…mutual understanding. Casual. Quiet. The boy walked off mumbling something about taking data readings in the south wing.

The processor beeped, and you both looked down in sync. The moment passed.

Later, when word got around that Princess Shuri was “taken,” everyone assumed the same thing.

No one dared ask you. They already knew better. But they watched. Lord, did they watch.

Because if Shuri stood, you stood. If you spoke, she followed. If you reached, she met you halfway. You bumped into her once during a team lunch and didn’t even say sorry. Just nudged her hip out the way and kept walking. She didn’t flinch. Just looked after you with a tight-lipped smile like you were hers to handle.

She called you annoying. You called her unbearable.

Neither of you meant it.

⸻————————————————————————————

You stood next to her during the graduation ceremony. Unassigned, of course. No one told you to. No one had to.

You weren’t wearing royal white, but you looked royal anyway chin up, smile poised, posture perfect. And when they called your name to accept your commendation, you didn’t even glance at her.

But she clapped before anyone else did. Hands sharp, head tilted, eyes steady.

“Show-off,” she murmured.

“Sore loser,” you replied.

Still—you stood there with your arms brushing. Neither of you moved. Not until it was over.

By the time the program ended, everyone had their theories.

Nakia swore you’d kiss by the next full moon. Ayo had a betting pool going. Even Queen Ramonda simply smiled and said, “They’ll figure it out. Or they won’t. Either way, it’s done.”

Only you and Shuri refused to name it. Because it was easier this way. Natural. Petty. Yours. What did it matter, anyway? She was already yours.

Even if she’d never say it. Even if you’d never ask.

It started with a look.

No one else noticed it. But you did. That little thing she does when she thinks you’re being reckless—a blink slower than necessary, lips pressing into a line, fingers drumming twice instead of three times. And today, you were being reckless, sure.

You’d bypassed the safety delay in the vibranium interface to test a new data pathway, but it wasn’t that deep.

“You’re being impulsive,” Shuri had said that morning.

You hadn’t even looked at her. “I’m being efficient.”

“It’s dangerous.”

“You’re dramatic.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’re stubborn.”

“Wow,” you deadpanned. “So are you, Princess.”

From that point on, it was war. The tension dragged all day. Silent pauses. Cold glances. Petty little one-liners tossed between code runs and hardware checks. You didn’t want to talk about it. Not really.

But you were irritated, and the way she kept pretending she wasn’t bothered. That made it worse.

She was always pretending. Calm. Collected. Never snapping even when you pushed. Which, today, you did. Repeatedly.

You cursed out loud when a wire sparked in your hand.

“Stop cursing,” she said automatically, not even looking up.

You paused mid-wince, eyes narrowing. “…Girl, what the—”

“Stop.” Now she looked at you. Steady. Stern. Annoyed in that regal, composed way that made you want to throw something.

You snorted, grinning just to piss her off. “You act like I’m throwing my life away every time I say ‘fuck.’”

She didn’t respond. Just shook her head once and went back to the console. That should’ve been it. But no.

Every little thing became a point of tension after that. Your posture. Her tone. The way she typed too loud. The way you exhaled too hard. The way she wiped her glasses on your sleeve even though she had her own damn coat. Everything.

Even Griot seemed to be watching silently, like the AI had learned to keep quiet during moments.

It was late afternoon when it finally hit a wall.

You were still bickering. Still at it. You’d corrected her measurements twice in the span of fifteen minutes—not because she was wrong, but because you were still mad. She let you do it. Just stared at you for a beat too long.

“I don’t know what your problem is today,” you muttered, tossing a tool onto the bench. “But maybe take a nap or something. You’re clearly pressed.”

She blinked slowly. “You are the one raising your voice.”

“I’m barely even…never mind. I don’t care.” You stood to walk off, irritation blooming behind your eyes like a headache—sharp and dull at the same time.

She caught your arm gently. Not hard. Just enough to stop you.

“Stop.”

“I’m not doing anything,” you snapped, trying to pull away.

“You’re walking off like a child.”

“And you’re getting on my nerves.”

She stared at you. You stared right back. Silence.

Then, her hand moved from your wrist to your elbow. Still soft. Still steady. “Sit down.”

You blinked. “What—?”

“I said sit. You’ve had that headache since lunch.”

You hesitated.

She guided you. Not with force—just a kind of mature insistence that made it impossible to argue without looking ridiculous. So you let her. Sat down at the lab bench while she pulled a water bottle from the shelf and set it beside you without a word.

You didn’t say thank you. She didn’t expect one.

The lab quieted.

For a while, you both worked in silence. No music. No snark. Just the hum of tools and the low buzz of the AI monitoring system. Your head still hurt. You refused to complain.

Shuri tinkered with a scanner, fingers moving in efficient, practiced rhythm. She wasn’t watching you. But she was close, closer than necessary, really—and every time she moved, her arm brushed yours.

You didn’t move away. At some point, she let out a quiet sigh. Soft. Heavy.

“…I apologize.”

You blinked. “What?”

“For earlier.”

Your lips parted. A smartass response sat on your tongue, but it didn’t feel right. So you just blinked again. “You didn’t do anything.”

“I know,” she murmured. “But you’re clearly upset. And it’s easier to say sorry than argue for another six hours.” You rolled your eyes, but it was weak. Tired.

“Damn. So you do give in sometimes.”

“Only when it’s not worth the headache.”

You smirked. “So I am the headache.”

She didn’t answer. You leaned your chin in your hand. “You hate that I talk back to you.”

“I don’t,” she said too quickly.

“You hate that I don’t care about your title.”

“I admire that,” she said honestly.

You squinted at her. She looked tired, too. Not in the physical way. But in the knows-she’s-always-the-one-who-has-to-be-the-adult way.

That irritated something in you. Something soft.

“…I didn’t mean to piss you off,” you muttered.

“You didn’t,” she said, too calm. “You just reminded me how much more you could be.”

You paused. “That sounds backhanded.”

She shrugged, standing behind you now. “It wasn’t.”

Before you could decide if you were going to let that sit or slap her in the back of her regal-ass head— She leaned down. Kissed your forehead. Barely. Light as breath.

You froze. So did she. It was so casual. So unthinking. She hadn’t meant it. Hadn’t realized.

Until—

“Ooooooh,” Griot said, in full stereo, way too amused.

Shuri turned sharply. “Shut up.”

You stared at her. Stunned. Then you started laughing. Loud. Head thrown back, the first real laugh all day.

She rolled her eyes and walked away from you again, but not far. You didn’t stop laughing until your sides hurt.

By evening, you were still working. The argument, technically unresolved, had faded into something else—comfortable silence, soft tension, new electricity.

Shuri made you tea at some point and didn’t comment on your swearing for the rest of the night. You didn’t thank her. She didn’t need you to. You’d win the next one.

But tonight…she let you have it. When you bumped her shoulder on your way out, she bumped you right back—harder.

Still regal. Still yours.

Even if neither of you said it.

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demie90s · 14 days ago

Note

Ask and you shall receive 😌

Kwn - Back of the Club gives me Shuri. Wakanda’s night life has got to be it. Only black people, no problems, and vibranium, they’re having a time. And Shuri has self restraint as reliable as a rubber band 😭 They can’t go back to the castle? lab? idk what its called, so the back of the club and a cigarette is all she’s got. Plus the newfound gay freedom she must have in some sense has to be explored. My wish for Shuri is peace and to get laid. 😂💋

I Want You

Shuri Udaku x Black!Fem!Reader

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Wakanda’s nightlife doesn’t need clout, it is the moment. Shuri came to disappear into the lights for one night—nothing more. But when she sees you? Yeah. Nah. She’s not walking out untouched.

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: ~ 3.1k

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ: club tension, queer awakening, sneaky rendezvous, slow burn turned fast heat, post-royalty problems

ᴠɪʙᴇ: Glitter on your collarbone. Bass in your chest. Her hands on your waist. Just a little taste of freedom she wasn’t supposed to want this bad.

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢꜱ: SMUT. explicit language, sexual content (fingering, grinding, public play), mentions of queer repression, smoking, tension so thick M’Baku could cut it with a blade

I feel her before I see her.

It’s in the air shift—the kind that makes your skin tighten, the hairs on your arms lift. Wakanda’s nightlife is a thing of legend: glowing streets, gold-threaded silks, bass so deep it could rattle bone. But tonight, it’s her that hums beneath the surface. Not the music. Not the crowd. Just Shuri.

I see her near the DJ booth, chin high, posture tight like she’s bracing for war—but wearing that war in a cropped vest and low-slung pants that don’t belong to any royal decree. Her arms are bare.

So are her eyes. Sharp and soft all at once, scanning the room like she dares someone to name her title.

She finds me. And rolls her eyes. I grin, leaning back against the bar like I didn’t just catch the wind knocked out of me. “Queen,” I mouth.

She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t nod. But her lips twitch. It’s enough.

I don’t go to her. Not yet. Instead, I dance. The floor moves like water, and I let it carry me. Body rolling slow, arms grazing strangers, sweat turning to shimmer under the lights. I want her to watch. And I know she is. Because when I finally drift closer—pretending I don’t notice how the circle parts to let me through—her gaze is molten.

“You’re outside,” I murmur, close enough to kiss but I don’t.

“Only for a moment,” she says. Her voice is low. Careful. Like she’s scared of spilling.

“I missed you.”

Her eyes flick over me like she doesn’t believe that. “You didn’t act like it.”

I shrug. “You had a country to save. I wasn’t about to compete with national security.”

That gets a breath out of her. Not quite a laugh, but something human. Something cracking.

We dance. Slowly at first. Close, but not too close. She moves like someone who’s been away from her body too long. Calculated steps. Intentional distance.

I don’t push. I let her settle. Let her feel me—hips loose, neck tilted, rhythm already pulsing through my spine.

But then I graze her wrist. Just barely. And she exhales like a fault line. Her hands find my waist before her mind does. I feel it. That snap.

Shuri was never shy. But this is different. It’s hunger masquerading as curiosity. Her fingers grip like she’s forgotten what softness feels like.

Like she’s starved for it. And when she pulls me flush, when our chests meet and she exhales against my collarbone like it’s sacred—It’s over.

She doesn’t speak. Just moves with me. We melt into shadow, into sweat, into music thick enough to drown in. Our foreheads touch. Her breath is hot against my lips but she still won’t kiss me. Not yet. Like it’ll mean too much.

“You smoke now?” I ask, noticing the slender silver case peeking from her waistband.

“Not often,” she says. “Just… when I need to remember I’m not a god.”

“Come on.”

I take her hand. She lets me.

Outside, the air bites cool against damp skin. We find the alley behind the club—tucked between stone walls and low vines, gold-lit from behind but dim in front. It smells like sweat and dust and possibility.

She leans against the wall like it’s the only thing holding her up.

“Give me one,” I say.

She raises a brow. “You don’t smoke.”

“I’m mourning something too.”

Her jaw clenches. Then she hands me the cigarette, lights it for me. Her fingers brush my lips as she holds the flame steady. I inhale, exhale. Pass it back.

“I’m sorry I left you,” she says suddenly. Quiet. Unflinching. “I didn’t know how to be anything but… the crown.”

I nod. “You didn’t have to explain. I would’ve stayed anyway.”

“I know,” she says. “That’s why I left.”

I look at her, really look. And there it is—grief sitting behind her eyes like an old friend. But so is want. Raw. Heavy. Unhidden.

I step in, tilting my head just enough to force her gaze to mine.“You need to be touched,” I whisper.

Her breath hitches. “And I know how to touch royalty.”

She lets out a small laugh, almost a scoff. But I see her hands. They’re shaking. Not from fear. From restraint. That tight coil she’s had to live with for months—maybe years—just to survive. But here, now? There’s no council. No war. No lab.

Just the night. The beat still throbbing through the walls. And me. “Nikupende.” she says under her breath. Voice broken open.

My lips part. “What does that mean?” She finally looks at me like she’s drowning.

“I want you.”

She’s looking at me like she wants to crawl inside my chest.

Like the beat from the club is still in her, pulsing through every nerve. Her body’s taut, jaw clenched, but her hands are back on my hips, and this time—she’s not letting go.

“I want you,” she says again, this time steadier. Firmer. But I don’t move. Not yet.

“You sure?”

She frowns. “Yes.”

I tilt my head. “No, I mean—are you sure? You just came back from leading a war. I know you’re tired. I know you haven’t… touched anybody in a while. I’m not tryna take advantage of that.”

Her face softens just a fraction. Then flattens again into amused irritation. “You think I don’t know what I want?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I think you’re full of grief. I think you’re used to people needing you, not wanting you. And I think you’re about two seconds from kissing me to shut me up.”

Her eye twitches. Then she kisses me. It’s hard. Hot. Immediate. But when we break, I’m still not done.

“You don’t owe me anything, Shuri.”

She groans. “S’thandwa sami. Please.”

My eyes widen. “Did you just call me—”

“Yes.” She drags her mouth along my jaw, then my ear. “And you’ll hear it again if you stop overthinking.”

“But—”

She grabs my face. Kisses me again, softer this time. Then murmurs against my lips, “I want to feel something that isn’t duty.”

That’s all I need.

The alley’s too public. So we don’t go far—just into the private lounge behind the building, past the guards who don’t ask questions, into the space meant for royals and visiting dignitaries. It smells like sandalwood and citrus, and the couches are too soft for anything appropriate.

She drops onto one and pulls me with her, long legs spreading as I straddle her thighs. We don’t rush. I cup her jaw, running my thumb along her cheek like she’s breakable. She closes her eyes.

“I got you,” I whisper. “I swear I got you.”

When our mouths meet again, it’s slow. Our tongues move like we’ve got all night—wet and patient, letting each other taste what we missed. Her hands settle on my back, under my shirt, warm and sure now. Not shaking. Just pulling me closer.

My fingers ghost along her sides. Her breath catches.

“Still good?” I ask.

She rolls her eyes. “Yes.”

I lean back. “You can say no at any time.”

She actually laughs. “If I didn’t want this, you’d already be gone.”

She spreads her fingers across my chest, like she’s memorizing me. Like she’s grateful. I let her. Let her touch. Let her relearn the world through skin instead of blood.

Her lips find my collarbone. Then the center of my chest. Each kiss is a question and a thank you rolled into one.

“I’ve never done this… like this,” she murmurs.

“Like what?”

“Where it feels like I might cry and cum at the same time.”

I grin. “Then I’m doing it right.”

She moans—low and breathy—as I guide her hand between my thighs.

“Feel how warm I am for you?” I whisper. Her breath stutters.

“You still want this?” She doesn’t answer with words.

Kkeeping my forehead pressed to hers. “Go slow, baby. You don’t have to be strong right now.”

“I don’t want to be,” she admits. “Not with you.”

She notices the dress when I straddle her again—short, sleek, sinful. Black like night. Like secrets. The hem rides up just enough to tease the tops of my thighs, and when I shift, she feels everything.

Her breath catches. “You’re not wearing anything under this.”

“Didn’t plan on needing them,” I whisper.

She lets out a low groan, head falling back against the velvet cushion like she’s praying for strength. Her hands grip my waist and slide down, under the dress, fingertips dragging over skin that’s already burning.

“Do you always come to see me like this?” she asks, voice hoarse.

“Only when I think you might need to forget you’re queen for a minute.”

Her eyes flick up, dark and focused. “And what does that make you? My subject?”

I smile. “Your peace.”

Something shifts in her face. That one hit too close to the truth.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just tilts her head and kisses the inside of my thigh—slow and deliberate. Then again. Higher this time.

Until I’m gasping softly, gripping her shoulders like she might disappear if I don’t hold tight enough.

“You’re already trembling,” she murmurs.

“Because you’re the one touching me.”

Another kiss, this one just beneath the swell of me. Hot breath skating over wet skin. My hips twitch.

She looks up. “Tell me to stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

Her tongue finally licks a slow line up my center and I shudder. Her hands slide around to grip my thighs, keeping me wide, grounded, spread just for her. There’s nothing messy about it. Not yet. Just lips and tongue and reverence.

Like she’s tasting something holy.

“Mm,” she hums softly against me. “S’thandwa sami. You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

I bite my lip. “You eat like you been starved.”

“I have been.”

Another. This one firmer. My back arches.

Her mouth moves with aching precision—like she’s learning me, memorizing me, savoring every moan I give her like it’s the only sound she wants to hear.

She’s slow, intentional, patient with her pressure. And when she locks her lips around my clit, she groans like I belong to her.

Like she’s anchoring herself in the way I taste. I push her head gently, thighs trembling around her ears. “Fuck baby…”

“Shhh,” she murmurs against me. “Let me.”

I fall back, eyes fluttering, dress bunched around my waist, and her mouth still devoted. She holds my thighs open like a job. Like her life depends on it.

It does. Just a little. Because with every flick of her tongue, every hum, every praise she whispers into me like a prayer, I feel her unraveling. The tension bleeding out of her, replaced with heat. With want. With need.

“You feel so good,” she moans. “You’re so soft. So warm. You’re mine tonight.”

I cry out. My hips grind down. She growls. Then I’m close. Closer than I should be. But it’s her voice—deep, honeyed, reverent—that pushes me over.

“That’s it, baby. Let go. I’ve got you. I need to have you.”

I do. Shuddering. Fingers curled in her hair, legs locking around her head as I fall apart against her mouth.

She stays there. Doesn’t let up. Doesn’t stop kissing me even as I come down—soft licks, gentle suckles, tiny praises between breaths.

“You’re incredible,” she says, voice wrecked. “You’re—” She kisses the inside of my thigh. “More than I should ever touch.” Another kiss. “But I’m going to keep touching you.”

I hum, breathless. “Then keep going.”

She looks up at me with wet lips, flushed cheeks, and something dangerous in her eyes.

“Don’t tell me that,” she says. “I’ll make you come again.”

I smile lazily, pulling her up by the collar.

“I’d love that.”

She’s still panting when I pull her up from between my thighs. Lips slick. Eyes hooded. My dress is still hiked up around my waist, but I don’t care. I let her sit back on the couch, catching her breath like she didn’t just try to taste her way into my soul.

But it’s my turn now.

She doesn’t even have time to speak before I swing my leg around, straddling her again. I press soft kisses to her neck, her jaw, just behind her ear. Her hands rest heavy on my thighs, but she doesn’t guide me. Not yet. She lets me move.

“You good?” I whisper.

She nods, eyes fluttering. “Better than good.”

I grin. “Still gonna ask.”

She opens her mouth to sass me, probably. But I shut it with a kiss. Deep. Slow. I taste myself on her tongue and moan into it. She groans, fingers digging into my hips.

When I pull back, I whisper, “Lay down for me.”

Her eyes darken. “You sure?”

“You just made me come on your face,” I say with a soft smirk. “I’m very sure.”

She chuckles, but there’s heat there—surprise, too. Like she’s not used to being handled. Not like this.

I guide her down, slow. Kiss her the whole way. Hands on her ribs, then her sides, then her waistband. I don’t rush. I drag her pants down like I’m unwrapping something rare. Something forbidden.

She lets me. Lets me kneel between her legs, lets me push her thighs apart, lets me kiss the inside of her knee, her inner thigh, the curve of her hipbone.

I look up. “You’re beautiful like this.”

Her jaw tightens. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“I do.”

Her breath catches. Her hips twitch under my hands.

I kiss her again—lower this time. “You need this, don’t you?” She nods, barely.

“Say it.”

“I need it,” she whispers.

“Who you need?”

“You.”

“Good.”

Then I dive in. No teasing now. No light licks or shy kisses. I eat like I’m trying to make her forget. Like her pussy’s the last meal I’ll ever get. I suck on her clit like I own it. Sloppy, messy, loud.

My tongue slides everywhere—inside her, around her, circling like I’m drawing constellations between her legs. She gasps—back arching, hands flying to my hair. “Fuck!”

That’s right. Fuck.

She tries to stay quiet. Royal. Controlled. But I don’t let her. I moan against her. Suck harder. Grip her thighs and pull her closer like I’m drowning in her and loving it.

“Shit—baby, wait,” she pants. “You—you…”

I hum against her. “Mmm?”

“Fuck”

I chuckle. Keep going. Faster now. Sloppier. My face is buried so deep I’m not even coming up for air. Her slick is everywhere. All over my chin, my nose, my cheeks. And I love it.

She’s shaking. Legs trembling.

“You gone come for me?” I murmur against her clit, flicking my tongue just the way she needs.

“Yes—yes, yes, yes!”

Her back arches off the couch. Her thighs clamp around my head. I don’t stop. I can’t stop. Not when she’s like this—voice cracking, body twitching, mouth open in something between a sob and a moan.

“Shit—don’t stop!”

She falls apart. Hard. Wet. Loud. My name stumbles out of her mouth like she can’t hold it in anymore. I keep licking through it, swallowing everything she gives me, moaning into her like I want her to feel me from the inside out.

When she finally relaxes, boneless and dazed, I press one more kiss to her clit—gentle now. Then her thigh. Then her stomach as I crawl back up.

Her chest is heaving. Face flushed. Eyes glassy.

“Still good?” I whisper.

She nods slowly, then pulls me into a kiss that says everything. Her tongue tastes like herself now. Like she wants more. Like she might not ever let me go.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” she breathes.

I smile against her mouth. “That’s the plan.”

She’s still breathing heavy when I tuck a kiss beneath her ear. Her body’s relaxed under me, but I can feel the tension curling back in—not stress, not grief, just the heat of need. Still humming through her bloodstream like she ain’t even halfway satisfied.

I stroke her side. “You okay?”

She nods slowly, then turns her face toward mine. Her eyes are lazy, warm, and hungry.

“Not here.”

I blink. “Huh?”

“I want to take you home.”

It’s not even a question. It’s barely a whisper. But it hits like a full-body chill.

I smile. “Yeah?”

She nods. “This couch too small. These walls too public. And you…” Her voice drops. “You make me greedy.”

“You sure you’re ready for that?”

She exhales a laugh. “You just sucked the strength out my legs and kissed me like we were married. I’m already in too deep.”

I grin, cheeks warm. “Say less.”

I help her up—she wobbles a bit, grabs my waist for balance, and mutters something sharp in Xhosa that makes me laugh.

“See? Weak in the knees.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles. “Wait ‘til I get you horizontal. I’m reclaiming the throne.”

“Oh, I’m scared.”

“You should be.”

We don’t waste time. The guards are still outside, but she waves them off with a sharp flick of her hand. One glance at her swollen lips, at the way I’m clinging to her arm in this little black dress, and they know better than to ask questions.

The hover transport is quiet. Smooth. She keeps one hand on my thigh the whole ride—thumb stroking soft circles like she’s grounding herself, like she needs to touch me to stay upright. Her other hand eventually slides up, fingers weaving with mine.

“You okay?” I whisper, squeezing her palm.

She nods once, eyes locked on mine. “For the first time in a long time.”

The palace glows under the moonlight—slick and elegant, but cold in the way royal things always are. Until we walk in, and she leads me past the halls and empty corridors to her private wing. Her room smells like sage and sandalwood.

The bed’s massive. The lights adjust to her mood the second the doors close. That’s when I see it.

Her shoulders drop. Not in defeat. In release. She’s safe now. And she brought me into it.

I step in front of her, reaching up to tug her shirt over her head. She lifts her arms wordlessly. Then kisses me slow. Deep. No rush. Just home.

“Shuri,” I whisper between breaths, “you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure,” she says, thumb brushing my bottom lip. “I’m tired of holding back. Tonight, I want to feel everything. With you.”

My heart thumps. “Then let me make you feel it again.”

Her mouth finds mine once more. We fall into bed, tangle ourselves into the sheets, and this time, we don’t need to be quiet.

In the morning, the crown will still be hers. But tonight she’s just mine. I plan to keep it that way.

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