me gustas tu
Shuri Udaku x F!Reader
Summary: When a rising musician and Wakanda’s brilliant princess cross paths, sparks fly—but distance, duty, and misunderstanding threaten to keep them apart. Will they figure out exactly what they want?
Word Count: 4.8K
Warnings: Miscommunication, mentions of the mistreatment of Peter Parker (aka everyone forgetting him in N* W** H***), no smut? idk if that's a warning.
12AM, Havana, Cuba
The plane lands with a jolt that pulls you out of a shallow doze, Havana sunlight spilling in through the oval window before the engines have even begun to wind down. You should be buzzing—new city, new venue, a chance to make an impression in a place you’ve never played before—but your first thought is of her.
By the time you’ve stepped into the terminal and your phone is out of airplane mode, you’re already calling. The line clicks and there’s the faint background hum you know too well: lab equipment, faint beeps, a low whir like the heartbeat of Wakanda’s technology.
“Happy birthday, Princess,” you say, smiling into the phone even though she can’t see it.
“Mm,” Shuri murmurs, and it’s not the kind of sound that makes you feel warm. “You’ve landed?”
“Just now. And you—what are you doing in your lab?” You lean against a wall while the crowd swells past you, bags rolling and voices bouncing off tiled floors.
“I have things to finish,” she says, and the clipped edge is subtle but it stings. “It’s fine.”
“It’s your birthday, love. Shouldn’t you be out? Or at least not working?”
“I didn’t feel like going anywhere,” she says simply.
Your chest tightens. You picture her at one of her stations, alone, the cool light of the holograms casting soft blue shadows across her face. You swallow, then switch into a brighter tone. “Okay, Griot, light a candle for her. The fancy kind. She deserves it.”
There’s a faint flicker through the line, and you can hear Shuri huff a small laugh despite herself.
“Now blow it out for me,” you say. “Make a wish. Something good. Maybe about me.”
Her laugh fades quickly, replaced by a silence that you try not to read into. “Wish made,” she says quietly.
“Good. Now… try to take the day off, hm? Go sit in the gardens. Play with Riri’s hoverboard. Eat something ridiculous. Relax. You deserve it.”
There’s a pause, long enough that you think she’s going to protest. Instead, she says, “Have a good show tonight.” The click of the phone call ending reverberates through the room.
7AM, London, England
Your phone buzzes against the nightstand, far too insistent for this early in the morning. You squint at the screen—Shuri—and despite the heaviness in your eyes, you swipe to answer.
“’Lo?” Your voice is a husky mess, and you flop onto your back, dragging the covers with you.
“Sorry for calling so early,” she says, and even through the sleep-fog you can hear it: the excitement fizzing in her voice. “But I made a breakthrough. The design I’ve been working on for weeks—it finally works.”
That slices right through your exhaustion. “Wait, really? Shuri, that’s amazing!” You push yourself upright, rubbing your face, already grinning. “Tell me everything.”
She does, rapid-fire—details about a stabilising element you barely understand, her words tumbling over each other like she’s afraid they’ll escape her head if she doesn’t get them out fast enough. You nod along, smiling, even as you shuffle into the bathroom to brush your teeth.
By the time you’re lacing your boots, the grey London morning is staring back at you through the window. The trees outside sway hard in the wind, the kind that sneaks into your bones, so you bundle yourself into a scarf and coat before stepping out to hunt for coffee.
“You should go,” she says after a while, softer now. “I know you were up late last night performing.”
“I’ll be fine,” you murmur, balancing the phone between your ear and shoulder as you pull your scarf tighter.
There’s a beat of silence, then— “I love you.”
You freeze mid-step, warmth blooming up your neck despite the cold. It’s new, the way she says it, and it’s unguarded in a way that makes your heart flutter.
You bite back a smile. “Sod off.”
Her laugh is a low, rich thing that you carry with you down the street. “You’re cute,” she teases, and you hang up before she can hear the way you’re smiling like an idiot.
The wind bites at your cheeks as you queue for coffee, but your fingers are already typing before you’ve even ordered:
i love you too.
5PM, A Coruña, Spain
The golden hour light spills over La Coruña like it’s been painted just for you—streets glowing, sea breeze curling through the open-air restaurant, your friends laughing loud enough to turn heads. The table is crowded with plates of seafood, sweating glasses, and the kind of holiday chaos you’d normally sink into without thinking.
But your mind is elsewhere.
You swirl the condensation on your drink with your thumb, nodding absently as someone tells a story you’ve already lost track of. All you can picture is her—head bent over a desk in the palace, her brow furrowed in concentration, the low blue glow of Wakanda’s tech lighting her face. She hasn’t called in days. Weeks, maybe. And it’s not that you’re angry—how could you be? She’s doing what she has to do. You just… wish you were there. Not to fix anything, not to pull her away, but just to exist beside her while she bears it all.
“Come on,” one of your friends says, nudging your arm, “there’s a guy at the bar who’s been staring at you for twenty minutes.”
You smile politely and shake your head. “Not tonight.”
“Alright, what about that girl from earlier? She was totally into you.”
You wave them off again. It’s easier than explaining the truth—that your heart is already spoken for, and not in any way they’d expect. It’s yours to keep quiet, to protect from the noise of other people’s opinions.
Hours later, the night winds down into the clumsy shuffle home. You’re flushed from too much wine and the lingering salt air, shoes dangling from your fingers. The apartment is quiet when you slip inside, and it’s only then—half-drunk, half-lonely—that you pull out your phone.
miss you.
You hit send before you can overthink it, collapsing onto the bed with your coat still on. The room tilts faintly when you close your eyes.
There’s no reply from her. You don’t expect one—not when you know how deep she gets when she’s working. But a moment later, a voice note appears in response. Griot's robotic voice is soft through your phone’s speaker.
“She misses you too.”
You would never admit that you fell asleep and woke up with a smile plastered on your face.
2AM, Bogotá, Colombia
The roar of the crowd is still in your ears when you step out of the stadium into the warm Colombian night, adrenaline fading into a bone-deep exhaustion. Your throat is raw, hair sticking to your temples, sweat dripping down your skin, but you can still feel the buzz of the music in your chest.
You forgo getting unready in the dressing room, anxious to get back to your hotel and into the shower before bed, so you fall into step behind your new security. She's tall, poised, unreadable most of the time. She's only been on the team for a month, a recommendation from your old security guard, Larry, who retired to Ireland after a long, illustrious career. So far, Anita has proved to be a very competent security guard.
As she holds the door open for you, she says in a low, certain voice, "Her Royal Highness wishes to speak with you when we reach the hotel."
That pulls a smile out of you despite the tiredness sinking into your skin. "Yeah? Alright." The thought of her voice, her laugh, makes the thought of getting back even more enticing.
Except the second the car starts moving, the exhaustion swallows you whole. The city lights blur in the window, and before you know it, your head tips back against the seat, eyes sliding shut.
Somewhere far away, you can hear Anita's voice, speaking to someone too far into the abyss for you tell who they are: “She’s asleep.”
You are almost certain that Shuri's voice fills the car after a pause, but you chalk it up to wishful thinking.
Leave it. I will talk to her in the morning.
Morning comes late for you, sunlight slipping past the curtains in thin stripes. The first thing you do—before coffee, before even sitting up—is check your phone.
Nothing.
You try calling. Once. Twice. No answer.
You sigh, before grabbing your night bag. Onwards and upwards, as they say.
11PM, San Salvador, El Salvador
The ocean is ink-dark under the San Salvador night, waves folding in on themselves in a rhythm you could almost mistake for breathing. You lean against the balcony railing, salty air curling into your hair, the hum of distant music from the city behind you.
The first raindrops are light—cool specks against your arms—when your phone starts to ring. Shuri.
“Hey, love,” you say, smiling into the darkness.
Her voice is warm, but not quite as soft as you’re used to. You trade a few words—how your show went, what the weather’s like there, a couple of jokes that get small laughs from her. But there’s something in the pauses. A weight in the way she exhales before answering.
You can hear it—the faint clink of tools, the low hum of the lab—and you imagine her pacing between stations, mind half in your conversation and half somewhere else entirely.
“You sound tired,” you say gently.
“I’m fine,” she replies quickly, too quickly.
You tell yourself she’s just busy, that you’re imagining the way her tone feels distant, like she’s already stepping away even while still on the line. It’s just me, you think. Just my brain making something out of nothing.
The rain thickens, dripping from your hair, your fingertips. You wrap your free arm around yourself, grounding your voice in lightness. “I should let you get back to it. Just wanted to hear your voice.”
She hums something that could be agreement, could be goodbye, but she hangs up before you can decipher it. You place your phone back into your pocket, now soaked by midnight rain, and stare out at the blurred line where the sea meets the night sky, and convince yourself that everything’s fine.
It has to be.
1AM, Los Angeles, California
Eight Months Ago...
The club is drenched in neon and bass. The air smells of perfume and smoke, of something sweet you can’t name. You’re leaning against the bar, half-lost in the crowd, when she appears, dressed all in dark clothing, leather hugging her in all the right places, and the sunglasses hide her eyes, but somehow you can still feel the intensity of her gaze.
She’s tall, impossibly tall, but what really catches your attention are the sneakers—sleek, stylish, somehow effortlessly perfect—and you’re instantly jealous. The way she carries herself, weight shifted slightly to one hip, one hand tucked in a pocket, makes it clear she owns the room without even trying. In the dim light, the coils piled on top of her head catch hints of the neon, and you can’t help but stare, mesmerized.
You're not subtle. She notices your staring and smirks. Your face heats up as you turn around, mortified, looking for anyone you might know that could rescue you from yourself.
A voice startles you out of your spiralling: "Can I buy you a drink?"
Your mouth goes dry as she tilts her head, smirking in a way that makes the world feel smaller somehow. You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corner of your lip. “Nah… I’m good. Prefer to smoke instead.”
Her laugh is soft, knowing, and it lingers in your chest longer than it should. “Fair. Want to get out of here?”
Shuri’s hand rests lightly on the small of your back as she guides you to her car. The city lights streak past, warm against the night, and you can’t stop talking—about the music, the absurdity of the club, some joke someone made, anything that bubbles up from your adrenaline.
She glances at you through the rearview mirror, a small smile tugging at her lips, but doesn’t interrupt. Her plan was simple: drive you back, maybe take this somewhere more… private. But the way your words tumble over each other, your eyes sparkling in the low light, it catches her off guard.
By the time you reach her hotel, you’re rambling about some ridiculous tangent on music and travel and the best snacks for late-night munchies. She laughs softly, shaking her head. “You’re… kind of ridiculous,” she says, but there’s warmth there, the kind that softens the world around her.
And just like that, the tension she’d intended to build dissolves. She sits down on the edge of the bed, and you flop beside her, still talking, still laughing. Every time you pause, she leans closer, brushing a strand of hair from your face, the kind of small gestures that make your chest tighten.
Hours pass without notice. You talk about dreams and fears, music and science, the things you’d never tell anyone else. Every word, every laugh, every quiet moment builds a bridge between you two that feels effortless and infinite.
Eventually, your voice softens, sentences trailing off. Shuri reaches out, her fingers tangling with yours. You shift, instinctively, until your legs and arms are intertwined, warm bodies pressed together.
Sleep comes slowly, comfortably, like it’s always been waiting for this exact moment. And when you wake, it’s still night outside, but the quiet contentment of having her next to you feels enough—more than enough.
The sunlight is bright through the curtains, and you’re already awake, tangled up in blankets and limbs, humming softly to yourself. You glance at Shuri, still half-asleep, hair messy and jaw relaxed, and decide she needs to move.
“Come on,” you say, shaking her shoulder gently. “We’re going hiking. Now.”
She groans, burying her face in the pillow. “Hiking? At this hour?”
“Yes. It’s perfect morning-hiking weather,” you insist, tugging her toward the bathroom so she can get ready. She resists for a moment, but the stubborn little smile creeping onto her face gives away that she won’t actually argue too long.
By the time you reach the trail, the crisp air hits her, and she takes a deep breath, squinting at the view. You’re bouncing ahead, pointing out trees, rocks, and the ridiculous shapes of clouds. She watches you—your energy, your laugh, the way your eyes light up when you talk—and a strange, warm realization settles in her chest.
You pause at a ridge, looking out over the valley below, and she’s silent for a moment, trying to pin down what exactly she’s feeling. Then it clicks: this—this crazy, unpredictable, utterly charming person dragging her out of bed and making her climb a hill at dawn—this is exactly the kind of thing that makes her heart race without warning.
She smiles at you, and it’s different from before. Softer, slower, more aware. She’s infatuated, and there’s no way around it.
“Why are you smiling like that?” you ask, catching the glance.
“Nothing,” she says quickly, though her voice betrays her. “Just… enjoying the view.”
You raise an eyebrow, teasing, but you don’t press it. You just keep walking, hand brushing against hers, and the world feels impossibly wide and impossibly small at the same time.
9PM, Malasena, Spain
The party in Maláseña is electric—laughter bouncing off the walls, champagne corks popping, and congratulations flying in every direction. People are genuinely thrilled for you, cheering about your nominations, taking photos, and filling the room with energy. But no matter how good it feels, there’s a hollow spot in your chest, the one that only Shuri can fill.
By the time you make it back to your hotel, your feet are aching, your hair a little tousled, and your smile tired. You open the door to your room and pause—room service is waiting, but not just any meal. It’s yours, exactly as you like it, and your phone buzzes almost immediately.
It’s Shuri. She’s on video call, grinning, sitting in her lab somewhere in Wakanda. And there she is, plate in front of her, identical to yours.
“Thought you might like some company,” she says softly.
You laugh, your exhaustion melting into warmth. “I can’t believe you did this.”
“Of course I did,” she says, shrugging, trying to play it casual, but you catch the glint in her eye. “I figured we could eat together… sort of.”
So that’s what you do. You sit on your bed, fork in hand, and she mirrors you on her side of the screen. You smile and dig in.
4PM, New York City, USA
—finally—you’re back in your apartment. The city hums outside, indifferent, while you kick off your shoes and collapse onto the couch. Six months of constant travel have left you tired, wired, and slightly on edge.
Scrolling through your phone doesn’t help. The internet is full of comments about you being “single,” speculation on your love life—or lack thereof—and you feel that familiar tightness in your chest. You sigh, tossing your phone onto the coffee table, and decide you need a distraction.
The grocery store feels like a lifeline. You grab your jacket, pull on sneakers, and step into the bustling streets. The walk there is brisk, wind tugging at your hair, and the familiar rhythm of the city—honking taxis, chatter from cafes, the scent of roasted nuts from a street cart—starts to ground you.
The bag in your hand swings lightly as you walk back to your apartment, the sun dipping low over the city streets. You’re half lost in your thoughts—what to make for dinner, how nice it feels to finally be home—when you notice someone leaning against the wall outside your building.
He’s… kind of unassuming, but there’s something quietly interesting about him. Brown hair a little messy, hoodie zipped up too high, hands shoved in his pockets. He notices you looking and straightens up, blinking as if caught off guard.
“Uh… hey,” he says, voice a little hesitant.
“Hey,” you reply with a small, warm smile. “I live in the building. You new here?”
He nods, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie. “Yeah… been here a couple weeks. Just… keeping to myself mostly.”
There’s something endearing about the way he keeps glancing away, like he’s unsure whether to trust your friendliness. You decide to push your social exhaustion aside and extend a little kindness.
“Well, I’m about to make dinner,” you say casually, shrugging the grocery bag higher on your shoulder. “If you want, you could… um… come over? I don’t bite. I make a decent pasta.”
His eyes widen slightly, surprise and a little hope flickering across his face. “Really? You’d… let me?”
“Sure,” you say, grinning. “Consider it an invitation. No pressure. Just… company, maybe.”
He laughs softly, a little awkward but genuine, and nods. “Yeah… I’d like that. Thanks.”
He insists on carrying the rest of the groceries, muttering that it’s no problem, and you let him, secretly amused by how eager he seems. By the time you get into the apartment, the kitchen is alive with the clatter of pots, the scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil, and the faint hum of the city outside.
You hand him a cutting board and a knife, and he follows your instructions with a careful, almost shy attentiveness. There’s something comforting in the simplicity of it—chopping vegetables, stirring sauce, teasing each other over minor kitchen mishaps. For a while, the weight of travel, internet drama, and even missing Shuri drifts away.
Then your phone buzzes on the counter. It’s Shuri. You pick up immediately, excitement and warmth blooming, ready to hear her voice. Peter slips out the door as Shuri's face pops, quietly whispering about the 'bathroom' and 'privacy'.
“Hey,” you say, smiling at the sound of her name.
“Hello?” There’s a strange edge to her tone, quiet but sharp. “Who’s with you?”
Your heart stutters. “Uh… no one? Just… Peter—my neighbor? He’s helping me with dinner because I have too many groceries.”
There’s a pause on the line, tense and heavy. “Dinner?” she asks slowly. “You… you’re cooking with someone else? On your own? Alone?”
You frown. "Umm, yes? Peter's new in the building and he seems sweet. And lonely." You add as an afterthought, under your breath.
Her voice wavers, a mix of frustration and hurt. “I… I just… I can’t believe you would…”
You groan, pinching the bridge of your nose. “Shuri, listen. You’re the only one I care about. I miss you. I’d never—never—cheat on you. I promise. I just… I didn’t want to be alone tonight, that’s all.”
There’s silence on the line, longer this time. You hear her breathe, tense and uneven.
“I… I don’t think this is working,” she says finally, her voice tight but quiet. “I… I can’t keep feeling like I’m not enough, like I’m losing you to everything else around you.”
Your chest tightens. You open your mouth, but the words won’t come. You carry a bowl of salad to the table as Peter reappears, but he wisely doesn't say anything about the few tears that have slipped down the side of your face.
11PM, Managua, Nicaragua
The arena is buzzing with energy, but you can barely hear it over the drum of your own heartbeat. It’s been three weeks since you last spoke to Shuri—three weeks of silence, of texts unanswered, calls ignored, both of you stuck in this stubborn stalemate. You’ve tried to focus on the music, on the tour, but the ache in your chest is persistent, gnawing at the edges of every song.
You glance at your setlist, hand trembling slightly as you approach the last song of the night. It’s a love song, one you’ve written in moments you weren’t even sure she’d hear, moments when you were convinced the world had stopped listening except for the two of you.
Taking a deep breath, you strum the first chords of your guitar, letting the notes ring through the arena. Then, leaning into the mic, you speak with quiet clarity:
“Shuri, Sthawanda, this one’s for you.”
A hush falls over the crowd for a moment, then the arena explodes with voices joining in, singing the words you’ve poured your heart into. Your fingers move across the strings, weaving every ounce of longing, every ounce of frustration, every ounce of love into the melody.
Far away, in Wakanda, Shuri pauses from her work, her fingers stilling over a set of blueprints. The sound reaches her through a live stream, and her chest tightens. She watches you, glowing under the stage lights, and something inside her shifts.
She sees it all—the dedication, the way the audience mirrors your voice, the sincerity etched into every note. And she feels it: a sharp, sinking guilt that she hasn’t heard you out, that she assumed the worst of you without a single reason.
“I should have listened… I should have trusted you…”
You finish the last note, and the arena erupts. The lights in the crowd are blinding but you can't see them through blurry eyes.
5PM, Guatemala City, Guatemala
You’re in your hotel room in Guatemala, the quiet hum of the city outside mingling with the faint scent of your cinnamon candle. It’s the last show of the tour, your first tour, and even though excitement buzzes through your veins, there’s a tight knot in your chest. You still haven’t heard from Shuri. Not a call, not a text. Not a word.
You try to push it out of your mind, focusing instead on the small rituals that always get you into performance mode. You turn on your reggae playlist, letting the warm, rolling beats seep into your bones. You sway a little, letting the music loosen the tension in your shoulders.
The door opens, and your bodyguard steps in, holding something so large it nearly brushes the ceiling. Your eyebrows knit in surprise.
“Uh… what’s that?” you ask.
The Dora member—ever stoic—sets it down gently. The sight that greets you makes your breath catch: a massive bouquet of roses, rich reds and soft pinks tangled with delicate greenery, almost too perfect to be real.
You reach for the small note tucked among the petals. Your fingers tremble slightly as you read the familiar handwriting:
"Good luck, my love. I miss you and I'm sorry. Love, S.U."
The world seems to pause for a moment. You know before you even read the initials. Shuri. Your chest lifts, the tightness easing as a smile spreads across your face, bright and wide—the first genuine smile in weeks.
“I’ve missed you too,” you murmur softly, pressing your hand to your heart.
You glance back at the roses, then at the candle flickering on the table, and take a deep breath. The weight of the past weeks seems to lift just a little. Tonight, you’ll perform with everything you’ve got—and for the first time in weeks, your thoughts of Shuri feel like warmth, not ache.
You turn up the music, let it fill the room, and start moving, dancing lightly as you get ready. The stage awaits, and this time, you feel her there with you, in spirit and in love, guiding your steps, just as she always has.
6PM, Berlin, Germany
The evening air in Berlin is crisp, carrying the faint scent of roasting chestnuts as you and Peter sit around a small fire in the courtyard of the hostel. The sky is painted in deep shades of indigo, the city lights flickering in the distance. You lean back in your chair, letting the warmth of the flames seep into your chilled bones.
Peter holds a chestnut on a stick over the fire, turning it carefully. “So… how’s Shuri?” he asks suddenly, his voice quieter than before.
You freeze mid-laugh, chestnut halfway to your mouth. “Wait… you know Shuri?”
He shrugs, avoiding your eyes. “Yeah… I used to know her. Internship a few years back. I… I messed up. Made a couple of really big mistakes, and it kind of… ruined things for me. With her, with the project… with myself.”
The words hang in the air, heavier than the smoke curling up from the fire. You set down your chestnut, leaning forward slightly. “Peter… Shuri’s the forgiving type. She’s sharp, yeah, but she also sees people for who they really are. You can’t hold yourself to the worst version of your past forever.”
He lets out a humorless chuckle, but you catch a flicker of hope in his eyes. “You really think so?”
“I know so,” you reply firmly. “And if she’s ever been part of your life, I promise you—she hasn’t stopped caring entirely. That’s just who she is.”
Peter nods slowly, staring into the fire. For the first time that evening, he seems lighter, like maybe he’s finally letting himself believe that redemption—and maybe even friendship—is possible.
You reach over and hand him another chestnut. “Here. Eat. Berlin air’s cold enough to freeze your regrets if you don’t keep moving.”
He smiles, small but genuine, and for a moment the world feels warm again, even if only from the fire and the crackling hope between the two of you.
4AM, Birnin Zana, Wakanda
The Wakandan night is quiet when you touch down, the humid air carrying a faint scent of the nearby forests. Your heart beats a little faster as the car takes you through the quiet streets toward the palace. You’re nervous—this is the first time you’re seeing Shuri since the fight, since the argument that left everything unsaid and heavy between you.
When you enter the lab, the glow from the screens and the hum of equipment are familiar, comforting. And there she is—Shuri, completely absorbed in her work, her hair slightly tousled, glasses perched on her nose. She looks up, and her eyes widen, then fill with disbelief and joy.
“You…” she starts, voice catching. “You’re here?!”
Before you can even answer, she’s across the room, pulling you into a tight hug. Her arms squeeze around you as if she’s trying to make up for all the lost time. Warm tears drip down your face, and she presses her cheek to yours.
"I love you. I love you. I love you so much.” she whispers, her voice trembling. She whispers the words over and over again, peppering kisses into your hairline.
She pulls back to gaze into your eyes, “You don’t have to say it back yet, okay? You don’t have to—because I don’t deserve it.”
Her words hang in the air, but you’re not about to let her carry all of that weight alone. You tilt her face toward you, press your lips to hers in a soft but insistent kiss, silencing her frantic confessions. She responds in kind, parting her lips to deepen the kiss, pulling you into her lap as she drops into her chair.
Breathless, you pull back just enough to whisper into her ear, your breath warm against her skin.
“Me gustas tú.”
