Pairings: Shuri Udaku x BlackFem!Reader
Warnings: Smut, semi-public sex (lab setting), risk of getting caught, fingering, oral (receiving), slightly possessive behavior, dirty talk, use of "princess" and "your highness" in sexual context, tech-related innuendo.
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The biometric lock disengages with a soft chime that feels louder than gunfire at 2 AM. "In," Shuri breathes against your ear, her hand at the small of your back pushing you through the darkened entrance of her private lab. "Before the Dora makes their rounds."
You stumble slightly on the polished vibranium alloy floor, still not used to the way Wakandan technology seems to hum beneath your feet—alive, watching, witnessing. Shuri catches you by the elbow, her grip firm and impatient. She's been impatient since she met you at the palace service entrance, since she pulled you through corridors meant only for royalty, since she decided you were worth the risk of scandal.
"Nervous?" she asks, but it's not a question. It's a taunt.
Her lab coat swallows her whole, white and pristine, the royal seal embroidered in gold thread at the breast. Beneath it, she wears a silk camisole and nothing else— you'd felt the absence of underwear when she grabbed your ass in the elevator.
"I should be," you manage. "If your brother finds out—"
"T'Challa sleeps like the dead when he's not being king." Shuri backs you against a workstation, her hips slotting between your thighs. "And I haven't been able to think straight since dinner. Since you wore that dress knowing I'd have to sit through three hours of tribal council with a hard-on."
The crude word sounds elegant in her accent. Wakandan cadence wrapped around English vulgarity. She drags the lab coat open, revealing the dark silk clinging to her breasts, her nipples already tight.
"You been wet for me?" she asks, fingers already at the waistband of your pants. "Tell the truth."
You nod, breathless. You'd been ready since she texted you an hour ago—a single line of code that translated to come break into my lab.
"Good." She sinks to her knees with the grace of someone who knows exactly how powerful she is. "Because I'm starving."
She doesn't tease. Shuri never teases when she's working, and she's always working—even now, her mind calculating trajectories as she yanks your pants down, as she spreads you open with thumbs that design technology centuries ahead of the rest of the world. She applies pressure with the same precision she uses to calibrate neural implants: exact, devastating, intentional. "Fuck," you gasp, hands flying to her braids.
She looks up at you from between your legs, dark eyes glinting in the blue glow of holographic displays. "Hold onto the console. If you make noise, I'm stopping."
It's a lie and you both know it.
Her mouth seals over you without preamble—hot, wet, demanding. She doesn't build slowly; she attacks your clit with the flat of her tongue, then sucks, then alternates in a rhythm that makes your knees buckle. You grip the edge of the workstation, knuckles white, trying not to moan as she works you open with lips and teeth and the occasional scrape of her nose against your mound.
"Hush." The vibration of the word against your most sensitive skin makes you jerk. She pulls back just enough to speak, her chin shining with you. "Do you know how many times I've touched myself in this lab thinking about you? How many times I've come with my hand over my mouth, hoping the Dora wouldn't hear?"
She slides two fingers inside you—curling immediately, finding the spot that makes you see stars.
"You're going to repay me for every interrupted fantasy," she whispers, pumping her fingers in a steady, ruthless cadence. "Every time I had to stop designing a new tech because I couldn't focus. Every time I smelled you on my clothes and had to lock the door."
Her thumb presses against your clit, circling in time with her thrusts. The lab is filled with the slick sounds of her fingers working you, the occasional beep of dormant machinery, and your desperate, stifled whimpers.
"Princess," you breathe, and her eyes flash. "Say it again."
She stands up suddenly, leaving you empty and aching, but only long enough to spin you around and bend you over the console. Holographic projections flicker to life around you—schematics for some new weapon, lines of code scrolling upward—but Shuri clears them with a swipe of her hand, replacing them with the reflection of your face, flushed and desperate.
"Watch," she commands, her front pressed to your back. She kicks your feet wider, hikes your hips higher, and slides her fingers back inside you from behind. "Watch me fuck you. Watch what you do to me."
In the holographic glass, you see her—lab coat hanging off her shoulders, camisole riding up to expose the tight muscles of her abdomen, her expression focused and ferocious. She looks like a conqueror. Like royalty taking what belongs to her. She uses her free hand to pull down the silk top, letting you see her own arousal—nipples hard, chest heaving. "You see this?" she pants against your neck, fingers curling harder, hitting deeper. "You see how desperate you make me? I could solve cold fusion right now and I wouldn't care. I just need you to come on my hand. Can you do that? Can you be good for me?"
You're babbling, nodding, pushing back against her thrusts. The risk of the guard returning, of T'Challa waking, of someone seeing the princess of Wakanda rutting against her girlfriend over a workbench—all of it coils tight in your belly, a secondary tension building alongside the primary one. "Ri—" you choke out, using the nickname only you are allowed to call her.
"That's it," she growls, her own hips stuttering against your ass, seeking friction. "Come for me. Right now. Let me feel it." You break apart with a cry she has to muffle with her other hand over your mouth. She doesn't stop fucking you through it—keeps stroking that spot, keeps the pressure on your clit with her palm, wringing every spasm from your body until you're limp and trembling against the console.
Only then does she slow, does she gentle her touch, does she press soft kisses to your spine through your shirt. Again," she whispers, and you feel her smile against your skin. "I want at least two more before sunrise. We have prototypes to test, after all." You turn your head to catch her mouth in a kiss that tastes like yourself and promise. "Your highness demands too much."
"Learned from the best." She spins you around, lifts you onto the edge of the console, and spreads your legs with proprietary hands. "Now, let's see how quiet you can be while I taste the second one." The holographic displays flicker back to life around you, bathing her face in blue light as she kneels again, as she opens you with her thumbs, as she leans in with the singular focus of a genius at work.
