#u.s agent

Maybe it was the knock-off Captain America suit–stitched to mimic valor but worn by a man who had never earned the weight behind the star that Steve wore. It was too clean. Too polished. And too fake. Like it was a whole PR stunt to make people forget about what Steve had foraged while wearing the suit. Or maybe it was the way he always had to be the one leading the charge, barking orders with that square jaw clenched beneath his helmet like he was still playing soldier on a stage meant for legends.

He never listened, and always thought he had the answer to everything–every intel breach, every tactical glitch, and every goddamn conversation during debrief that didn’t go his way. His confidence wasn’t earned; it was manufactured, inflated by ego and absolute delusion, straining at the seams of his self-importance.

And the worst part was that he returned your disdain in equal measure.

Walker was the type who matched other people’s energy with force–sarcasm for sarcasm, sharp glances for sharp words. You couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you, and that dynamic never changed. Not through group missions or close calls, not even through the quiet tension of mandatory team-building exercises. Not once.

So when you were told that the two of you were being paired up–alone–for a mission in the goddamn Sonoran Desert, your blood pressure practically spiked through the roof. No one else was available, and you couldn’t refuse the assignment. There was HYDRA tech that was reportedly hidden at a facility so deep in the desert it didn’t even exist on updated satellite maps, and they needed the two of you to go and scavenge the place.

——————

The HYDRA compound revealed itself slowly, half-sunken in the sand like a ruin the earth itself had tried to erase. The midday heat shimmered off rusted steel and scorched cement, and the sunlight was unrelenting as it bled into the sky–everything was a haze of orange, white, and bone-dry heat. Thorny mesquite curled around collapsed fencing, and weather-worn “NO TRESSPASSING” signs flapped weakly against the chain-links like the building was attempting to hide something while being a beacon of suspicion.

The facility itself was carved into the side of a low mesa, it was concrete and reinforced with steel paneling that had long since warped and peeled. Faded HYDRA insignias were barely visible on the corroded doors–faded off from the sun and from the time that had passed between being abandoned and rediscovered. There were old roots that crept over shattered vents, and every inch of the space reeked of disuse staleness, expired chemicals, and ozone.

Walker cracked the heavy steel door open with a loud creak, the hinges shrieking in protest after years of sunbaked neglect. His body shifted as he used his weight to hold it steady, his muscles flexing in his suit, rippling with the effort as he glanced back at you with a silent tilt of his head that said, Well?

You stepped past him without a word, ducking through the partially jammed frame and brushing your shoulder against the wall’s blistered edge. You felt rust bite at the tactical gear that lined your suit, scraping against the skin tight fabric, as you slipped into the shadows beyond. He followed a beat later, wedging the door wider with his taco-shaped shield so he could slide in behind you–because he knew damn well you weren’t about to stand there and hold it open for him.

The second the door slammed shut behind you, the desert heat that had been clinching to your skin like a wet blanket vanished.

Cool, climate-controlled air kissed the back of your neck and seeped into your sleeves. It smelled of filtered metal and aged antiseptic, a sterile coldness preserved in time. The hallway ahead sloped downward, the lights overhead flickering under layers of desert dust and age. You both unholstered your sidearms and moved wordlessly, your boots making muffled thuds against the concrete floor.

You didn’t hear any machinery humming, or any additional footsteps, it was just pure silence. The stairs that led down to the lab were cracked and slick with sand that had blown through the broken ventilation panels, and when you reached the bottom, the space opened up before you like the aftermath of a storm.

It was chaos–frozen in amber.

The lab was wide and low-ceilinged, lined with shattered containment chambers, broken glass, and desks covered in forgotten paperwork. The overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly in uneven intervals, painting the space in pulses of cold white light that caught the jagged edges of shattered beakers and tools.

Tables were overturned. Lockers were pried open and left gaping like rib cages. One wall had been half-blasted through, the steel reinforcement melted into curls like scorched ribbon. Chemical residue stained the floor beneath cracked Bunsen burners and mangled containment vats. And despite the years of abandonment, some of the terminals still flickered faintly–screens frozen on half-written formulas, the final lines of code interrupted mid-command.

Whoever had been here last hadn’t packed up. They hadn’t even tried to clean.

They had fled.

With a sharp glance between you, you and Walker instinctively split directions, guns raised and shoulders tense. You swept left, hugging the shadows along a row of overturned shelves while he cut a path along the right, stepping over debris like he’d done this a thousand times. You checked corners. Cleared doorways. Searched for movement in the stillness.

After a few minutes, the two of you circled back toward the main lab space and gave each other a nod. Weapons were returned to their holsters.

“You stay on your side. I’ll stay on mine,” You instructed, already turning your attention to a nearby filing cabinet.

You crouched beside it, the metal warped with heat but still intact enough to pull open. The drawers resisted with a groan, but gave way to reveal yellowed documents and rough-edged folders thick with dust. You flipped through them with gloved fingers, scanning for anything tagged with keywords–biotech, neurochemistry, mutagenic flora.

Across the room, Walker exhaled with a put-upon sigh and dragged his helmet off his head. His short, sweat-damp blond hair fell forward, a few stubborn strands sticking to his forehead before he ran a hand through them in frustration.

“Whatever you say,” He muttered under his breath.

You didn’t bother responding.

He moved toward the far wall of lab stations, setting his shield down against a broken chair and picking through scattered tools and abandoned datapads. The lab lights flickered again, casting long shadows over his broad shoulders and the deep furrow in his brow. You watched out of the corner of your eye as he moved slowly, his body flexing in the uniform, shaking his head like he was trying to exude some of the adrenaline that coursed through his veins, letting out a little huff.

The silence stretched.

You turned back to the drawer, pulling out a thick folder marked with a Hydra insignia that had bled into the paper with age. Its contents were more scientific than you expected–botanical diagrams, field notes in Russian and English, chemical breakdowns that included bizarre hormone pathways and neural reaction patterns. One particular document made your eyes narrow.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes of exposure. Compounds trigger sensory hypersensitivity, behavioural fixation, glandular spike in oxytocin and dopamine receptors. The subject displays signs of heightened arousal, increased aggression, and intense desire to imprint on the nearest organic source of stimulus. Compound variant D-324. Extracted from hybrid flora found near contaminated grounds. USE WITH CAUTION.”

You were just about to flip to the next page when a sharp crash split through the silence like a bullet.

Glass shattered and metal clanged.

You flinched, body tensing on instinct as your hand went to your holster–but it was just Walker. You snapped your head up and locked eyes with him from across the lab. You could’ve shot him right then and there and wrote in the mission reports that it was an accident, but you withheld your frustration.

He stood frozen in front of a tilted shelving unit, jagged-edged beakers and shattered Petri dishes in glittering ruin at his feet. One of the heavier drawers from the workstation had slipped off entirely, landing with a loud thud that echoed through the steel-and-concrete space.

Your hands curled into fists.

”Jesus Christ, Walker,” You barked, rising to your feet, “Will you be careful for fuck’s sake? Are you a child? Do I need to tell you to keep your hands to yourself?!” He raised one hand in exaggerated surrender, while bracing the other lazily against the edge of his tactical belt.

”For god’s sake,” He muttered, clearly annoyed, “You don’t have to snap at me like I did it on purpose. It was a fucking accident. Ever heard of them?” The lab lights buzzed overhead, casting cold strobing shadows across his face. He was flushed from the heat, his jaw tight with irritation, sweat collecting at his temple just beneath the mess of damp blond hair.

You shot him a glare so sharp it felt like your eyes were burning holes into his skull.

”Go do a perimeter sweep outside. I can handle this myself.” Walker scoffed, pushing off the bench as he reached down to snatch his shield from where it leaned against the broken chair. He slipped the strap over his arm with practiced ease, flexing his forearm as it locked into place.

“Gladly. Hopefully your hot head will be cooled down by the time I get back,” He commented as he turned and stalked toward the hallway. Your jaw clenched so tight your molars ached. You resisted the urge to hurl a paperweight at the back of his skull and instead stood perfectly still, watching him disappear around the corner, his boots crunching softly over debris until the sound faded into silence.

Only once he was gone did you exhale sharply through your nose and turn your attention back to the folder in your hands, then you flipped the page to look at more chemical diagrams. Your gaze caught on a series of rough sketches–floral structures, seed pods, and bulbous, ocular fruits. The rendering was hand-drawn but detailed, each vein and spine delicately inked in colour with obsessive precision. It looked like a prickly pear cactus–but wrong. A little more rounded, with the outer flesh marked with pale orange freckles. From the diagram the person who drew and coloured it made it seem like there was a golden sheen on the skin, like it was supposed to attract people to pluck one and eat it. There was a note paper clipped to the drawings.

“Variant D-324. Unstable. Field tested on rodents. Significant behavioural alteration. Strong bonding behaviour. Reproductive fixation. Terminal trial recommended after Stage III symptoms manifest. Effects vary by subject physiology. Cross-species transmission likely via ingestion. Tested Subject killed mate.”

Your eyes trailed back to the drawn cross section of the fruit. Inside, the pulp was a deep reddish purple–smooth and glossy like syrup–surrounded by a fibrous membrane and glistening orange seeds.

”What kind of mad scientist bullshit is this?” You muttered under your breath. It wasn’t even a question to answer. Just an exhausted observation at the absurdity of what you were holding–botanical aphrodisiacs with cross-species imprinting behaviour? HYDRA had clearly never gotten tired of playing god. You flipped through another few pages, scanning the margins for legible notes. There were little scribbles in different inks–some frantic, some neat, one simply read “FAILED–DO NOT INGEST” next to a blood-stained fingerprint. The file practically radiated do not touch, which of course made it all the more dangerous, and all the more important.

You closed the folder and set it carefully on the nearest metal counter, brushing a layer of dust off the surface before placing it down flat. You would be bringing that back to the compound for sure. Even if it wasn’t related to the mission objectives, this was the kind of file that needed deeper analysis–and the team back home would want to know exactly what had been left behind out there in the half-rotted tomb of a lab, especially Bucky.

Turning away from the counter, you made your way further into the heart of the facility.

The containment area was cooler, and darker. The light there was more finicky, flickering overhead like it was on the brink of dying out. You moved past cracked display cases and sealed cabinets. Most were empty, their contents long removed or destroyed. A few still had test vials filled with discolored liquids that clung to the glass like they were alive, shifting slowly with gravity as you passed.

You rifled through drawers. Pulled at rusted handles. Tugged open sample trays and flipped through brittle paperwork. You found coded USB drives, decayed documentation, even an old lab coat still hanging from a hook that was burned at the bottom. Your curiosity got the better of you–you were in your element, entirely focused on the hunt. The quiet hum of machinery under your fingertips as you attempted to reboot a terminal. The delicate turn of a dial on an old refrigeration unit. The satisfying clack of a drawer sliding open to reveal its secrets.

You were so focused, in fact, that you didn’t hear the footsteps returning. Didn’t hear the approach behind you or the shift in air pressure. Nor did you catch the scent of something faintly sweet–like a juicy type of citrus and pepper–until a voice cut clean through the silence and made your heart jerk.

”Want a cactus berry?” You jolted violently, head snapping over your shoulder as adrenaline surged through your chest. Walker was standing behind you. Relaxed. His stance was easy, almost boyish in the set of his shoulders–except there was something in the way he looked at you that made your gut clench. His lips were stained a faint, dusty pink. Barely noticeable unless you were looking. But your eyes were looking–tracking every detail with sniper-like precision now.

There were a few drops of juice tangled in the hairs of his beard, catching the lab light in a soft shimmer. His tongue darted out to swipe the corner of his mouth as he lifted one of the small, alien-looking fruits toward you–half-sliced, its interior gleaming a vibrant, syrupy purple. The missing section was clearly in his stomach now. He held up a second one like a peace offering, his eyes trying to settle somewhere between your mouth and your expression.

A little smile pulled at his lips–hesitant, but there. Almost sheepish. Almost…Apologetic. Like this was his version of saying sorry. Like this was an olive branch wrapped in thorns.

You didn’t reach for it, you just stared at him, before your eyes dropped to the fruit. The pulp. The orange freckles…

The skin of the fruit gleamed faintly–just like the drawing in the file. A golden sheen, too perfect to be natural. Almost seductive in how ripe and rich it looked.

“Walker…” You said slowly, your voice losing all the heat you were going to meet him with, “Where did you get those?” He glanced down at them like he hadn’t realized they were significant. Then, with zero sense of urgency, he brought the half-eaten slice back to his mouth and shoved another juicy wedge between his teeth, chewing loudly.

”From outside,” He replied around the bite, his voice muffled and wet. Juice trickled over his lip and down his chin, catching in the hairs of his beard, “Few clicks past the perimeter. There was a whole cluster of them. Nice and ripe. Way better than the shit you find in stores.” He continued, with absolutely no sense of awareness of what was going on.

Your mouth opened–but no words came out.

Because what could you even say?

You had just read a declassified Hydra file about that exact fruit. About its neurochemical effects. Its impact on bonding behavior. Its ability to override basic inhibition. Its tendency to push reproductive drives to the forefront of cognition.

And here this idiot was, standing in front of you, cheeks flushed, pupils wide, tongue stained pink with chemical poison, acting like he’d found a damn trail snack.

You took one step back, your mind whirring, trying to calculate how long it had been since his first bite. Seven minutes? Eight?

“Walker…” You started, firmer this time. “You need to stop eating that right now. Spit it out. Wash your mouth. I’m serious. That’s not safe. That’s–” He looked at you like you were overreacting. That familiar smug edge crept back into his tone.

“Relax…It’s just a cactus berry, not a HYDRA bomb. I’ve eaten worse in the field.” He licked the juice from his fingers like it was honey, lips shining faintly under the lab’s sickly flickering lights. The sound of each indulgent pop of his fingertips leaving his mouth echoed through the cavernous stillness like a slap.

And then he swallowed the wedge you had just told him to spit out. You stared at him, stunned, a sound of pure exasperation tearing from your chest like it was dragged from the deepest part of your lungs.

“For the love of god, why can’t you just listen to me for once?” You snapped, stepped forward without hesitation now, “They’re not cactus berries, John, you idiot!” You didn’t wait for his response. You stormed across the space, closed the distance between you in three sharp strides, and smacked the other fruit clean out of his hand. It hit the ground with a wet thud, rolling beneath a scorched lab table and leaving a dark purple smear across the cracked tile.

Walker blinked in shock both still parted slightly, juice clinging to his lips like a bruise. You didn’t give him time to argue. Your hand found the crevasse of his shield–right where the taco formed– and you yanked him with you, dragging him toward the workstation where you’d left the folder, flipping it open.

”Read it, you dumbass.” You said, slamming your palm down beside the open file for emphasis. Walker leaned over, brows furrowed, still panting a little from the sudden movement. His hair, slightly damp with sweat, had started to fall loose again from where he’d slicked it back–tufts falling forward over his forehead as he squinted at the pages.

His blue eyes darted back and forth for a few moments.

You could practically see the exact moment his brain caught up to reality. His jaw ticked, then slowly dropped slack.

“Oh…Fuck.” He muttered under his breath, like it hurt to say aloud. He stepped back from the workstation like the file had burned him.

And then, without another word, he rushed over to one of the lab sinks–nearly slipping on a broken clipboard in his path-and shoved the old, rust-speckled tap on full blast.

The water came out brown at first, then clear, and he didn’t hesitate. He bent low and shoved his mouth directly beneath the flow, spluttering as the cold stream smacked his face. He cupped his hand around the flow so it went into his mouth, swished it hard, spat into the deep metal basin, then repeated the motion twice more–his shoulders heaving.

”Should’ve fucking known it was too good to be true,” He hissed out, voice rough, lips pink and wet now as he looked around the room in frantic desperation. “I need a trash bin–I’m gonna try to throw it up.” You were already moving, grabbing the one closest to the bench with the file, fixing the inner bag and handing the whole bin to him with one sharp motion. His eyes flicked up toward yours for half a second–less gratitude, more raw panic–before he dug his teeth into his gloves and slipped them off, turning his back to you quickly.

You heard the gag reflex almost immediately when he shoved his fingers into his mouth. A sharp, wet retch.

The sound of his knuckles forcing his throat to convulse.

He choked again–and this time, you heard the sickening splash of liquid filling the liner of the bin. Bitter-smelling fruit, stomach acid, and bile hit the air almost instantly.

You winced. Not from disgust–though it was disgusting–but from the growing realization that it might not matter if he made himself throw up, because if the timing was remotely accurate in the file…He had missed his opportunity. You heard him spit again–harsh and wet–the sound accompanied by another low gag that scraped out of his chest like he was trying to exorcise it. More liquid hit the bag with a slap, and a few raged breaths followed. His boots scuffed against the tile as he lowered the trash bin to the ground and shoved his face beneath the running stream once more, gasping as the cold water hit him again.

He spat hard–twice–before panting between swishes.

“Fuck…”

His voice was raspy, bordering on hoarse.

“Fuck’s sake.”

You stayed rooted where you were, back near the workstation, still watching him cautiously from across the room, eyes narrowed. You didn’t move. You weren’t sure if you should.

“Are you feeling anything?” You asked, voice firm but low, trying not to betray the knot tightening in your throat from the nerves that plagued you. Walker’s head snapped up from the stream. He shook it almost immediately, droplets of water flying from his damp hair and beading across the sink’s edge.

“No…No, not yet.” He swallowed thickly, “But I don’t think it’s gonna stay that way.” He pushed himself upright, wiping a slick hand down his face as he turned toward you–and that’s when you saw it.

The first sign.

His skin. It was already flushing.

Not just at the cheeks or the neck from exertion–but spreading low, beneath the collar of his uniform. It was a warm, creeping pink that suggested something deeper than physical strain. You weren’t sure if it was from the vomiting or from the fruit–yet–but you didn’t like the odds either way. You crossed your arms and leaned your hip against the workstation, watching him cautiously.

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to eat random fruit around abandoned Hydra facilities?” You asked, tone dry, bitter with disbelief and slight amusement. He groaned audibly, dragging both hands down his face.

“Please don’t fucking start with me.” The sound of his shield hitting the floor echoed hard and metallic–he’d unstrapped it from his forearm and tossed it aside with a thunk that made the overhead lights tremble. The bounce echoed in the cavernous quiet. “Now is not the fucking time.” He added, jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. You stepped back automatically, hands lifting in passive surrender.

“Sorry,” You mumbled, though it barely felt necessary. He was already unraveling. Walker stood there, shoulders heaving like his lungs couldn’t quite keep up. His forehead glistened beneath the mess of damp blond hair now curling slightly at the edges. He rubbed the sweat away, dragging his palm across his temple and then freezing–staring at the beads of moisture that pooled on his skin.

Then, slowly, with barely concealed discomfort, he began to unbuckle his gear.

You didn’t say anything. You just…Watched. Quietly. Carefully. In small, stolen glances, as if acknowledging it too directly might escalate something you couldn’t walk back. He moved methodically.

Snapped open a buckle. Loosened a strap. Peeled back a thick shoulder pad that clattered against the bench.

Another groan, this one deeper, vibrating through his throat as he reached for his chest rig and began unclipping the front latch.

His breathing was getting heavier.

You could hear it now–ragged, uneven, pulling in short through his nose and puffed out through parted lips. Like he was hot from the inside out, trapped in a body that was slowly catching fire.

He ripped the velcro at his side and slipped out of the gear, the stiff bulk of it landing with a heavy drop on the floor. One hand found the back of his neck, fingers curling against the muscle there, pressing like he could rub the tension out–but you could see it wasn’t helping.

”Shit…” He muttered to himself, rubbing harder now. You saw the muscles in his back shift beneath the fabric of his training shirt. Every motion was more urgent now. Like he was being driven forward by instinct, rather than reason.

“You need to find something to tie me up with,” Walker rasped, voice low and strained, the words pushed between clenched teeth like he was holding back more than speech. “Or a room to lock me in. I can’t be walking around freely–this doesn’t feel right…” He let out a harsh breath, his chest rising and falling beneath the damp stretch of his training shirt. It clung to him now, soaked with sweat–darkened along his collarbones, down the deep line between his pecs, and beneath the sharp angles of his arms where the fabric stuck like a second skin. He dragged one palm across his jaw, then fanned himself with it in a feeble attempt to cool off, jaw ticking as another wave of internal heat rolled through him.

You looked around the lab, scanning for anything that could act as a restraint, heart kicking up speed despite your attempt to stay calm. Your eyes skipped over overturned chairs, scorched equipment, loose wires–and then caught on the lab coat. The one still hanging, burned at the bottom hem but structurally intact.

“Give me a second,” You said quickly. Walker grunted in response, the sound halfway between pained and resigned. He bent forward with a groan, bracing his palms on his knees as if just standing upright had become too much.

“Okay,” He panted. “Okay, just…Hurry.” You darted to the coat, fingers fumbling as you yanked it off the hook. The scent of char and chemical dust puffed into the air, but the sleeves were intact. Strong enough. You moved fast, crossing the distance back to him. Your boots clicked across the tile and skidded slightly on some scattered glass, but you didn’t slow down.

Walker had dropped to his knees now, his back pressed to the cool tile wall, close to one of the thick, metal pipes that ran along the base of the sink. He looked up at you with a flash of something wild behind his eyes–dilated pupils swallowing the color, jaw clenched so hard you thought he might shatter a molar.

“Sit over there,” you said firmly, motioning toward the pipe.

Without argument–without a single smartass comment–he crawled over on his hands and knees, shoulders hitching with each breath, and slumped back against the wall. The movement was almost desperate. Animalistic even.

You moved to him quickly, folding the sleeves of the lab coat into twisted restraints. His arms were thick, warm beneath your fingers. Radiating heat. You could feel his pulse hammering at his wrists as you wrapped the sleeves around them and tied him to the pipe behind him–tight and secure, double-knotting it despite the way your hands trembled.

He let out a groan that curled somewhere between agony and pleasure in your gut.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” He hissed, his head dropping back against the wall with a soft thud. His eyes fluttered closed for a second, throat flexing with a swallow so hard it looked painful. “You have to get away from me.” You stepped back a little, breathing hard despite yourself.

“I’m trying to do what you told me to, Walker. You said to tie you up.”

“I know,” He gritted out, nostrils flaring. “Yes. I know. But…Fuck.” His hips shifted slightly, knees spreading as he tried to stretch out, panting hard through his nose. “Are you…Wearing perfume or something?”

You blinked. “No.” He exhaled sharply, eyes opening–and the look in them made your stomach knot. It was raw. Frantic.

“You…” He started, then stopped himself, sucking in another shallow breath. His voice dropped to a whisper, hoarse with restraint. “Oh Jesus Christ, get away from me, Y/N.” His voice wasn’t angry. It wasn’t commanding. It was pleading.

You backed away instinctively, giving him space, stepping behind the perimeter of an overturned lab bench. Your pulse was roaring in your ears now–hot and fast and heavy–and your skin buzzed with adrenaline as you leaned one hand on the cool steel counter, trying to center yourself.

From across the room, you heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of his head as it gently bumped back against the pipe behind him.

“I can feel it kicking in,” He muttered, more to himself than to you. “I can feel it.”

Your gaze snapped to him.

You gulped a bit, your throat working around the dry tightness that had taken hold there, as if your body was instinctively reacting to the heat bleeding off him in waves. You could see the strain in his posture, the way the veins in his forearms bulged beneath the restraint of the lab coat, every muscle pulled taut like a bowstring on the verge of snapping. His chest heaved, each breath dragged in through gritted teeth, sweat slicking his brow and darkening the fabric of his shirt in a way that made it cling to the ridges of his torso.

“Are you in pain?” You asked, voice soft but edged with urgency, stepping just a little closer. His eyes snapped to yours, pupils nearly blown, and you could feel the answer in the way his gaze raked over you before he even opened his mouth.

“Of course I’m in pain,” He bit out, his voice raw and fraying at the edges. “I feel like I’m going to break out of my fucking skin.” His head tipped back with a soft thunk against the pipe again, like he was trying to ground himself, like the cold metal might be enough to anchor him to cool him down–but it didn’t. Not even close. You watched his throat bob with another swallow, the tendons straining as he let out a whimper–quiet, involuntary, and more desperate than anything you’d ever heard from him before. It lodged something tight and uneasy in your chest.

“How long is this going to last?” He asked, his voice breaking on the tail end, like the question physically hurt to speak. His fingers twitched, curling against the binds as though some part of him was still fighting the instincts flooding his system. You hesitated, your eyes darting back to the file, then to him again. His jaw was flexing, his knees shifting restlessly. The look on his face was enough to send a chill down your spine–part agony, part something else entirely. Something hungrier.

“You want me to check?” You said, carefully, trying to confirm. He hummed, eyes slamming shut again like the act of keeping them open was too much.

“Yes…Oh fuck,” He groaned, the sound drawn up from his gut, laced with a rasp that sounded far too much like want. You grabbed the folder with trembling fingers, flipping back through the pages, skimming for anything that might give you a definitive timeframe. The diagrams blurred for a moment–your hands were shaking, your mind running a mile a minute.

“Reactional pheromonal stimuli observed within 7-10 minutes… Symptoms persist for 4-6 hours depending on physiology…”You swallowed audibly.

“Well?” He barked, voice cracking, his body visibly shaking, “How long?”

“Four to six hours,” You said quietly, the words hitting the air like a death sentence. A strained laugh–short, bitter, disbelieving–escaped him.

“It’s probably going to be longer than that…” He rasped. His body flexed suddenly, jerking hard against the restraints. The fabric of the lab coat sleeves dug into his wrists, and his biceps swelled under the strain. He let out a guttural grunt, one that vibrated all the way up your spine. His head tipped forward, damp strands of blond hair falling over his brow as he sucked in a shaky breath through his teeth, “The Super Soldier Serum is going to make it worse…” He added, voice shredded and barely coherent, like every word was dragged through gravel.

”My heart is fucking beating so hard out of my chest I think it’s…It’s going to explode…I think I’m gonna die.” He groaned again, and this time the sound came from somewhere deep, primal. His body jerked once more against the restraints, and you heard it–clear as day.

The creak of the metal pipe bolted to the wall behind him.

It whined beneath the force of his flexed arms, the strain of his super-soldier-enhanced body tightening like a loaded spring. His biceps bulged, sweat running in rivers down his face, and his legs kicked slightly as if resisting the instinct to crawl forward toward you, to reach. You watched his jaw tremble, eyes squeezed shut, chest shuddering under the weight of whatever hell he was trying to hold inside.

It wasn’t going to be long now.

Your breath hitched as you realized it–Walker wasn’t just fighting off heat or confusion anymore. His whole system was boiling over. His skin glowed pink with fever. His hands twitched, aching to grab. His spine arched like his bones themselves were begging to act. And once that pipe gave way–and it would–you were going to be the closest living thing in range.

The primary target.

You bit your bottom lip hard, trying to focus, to breathe through the way your pulse was thundering in your ears. Your eyes fluttered shut for a second, searching for clarity in the blur of adrenaline and dread. And then, before you could talk yourself out of it, you said it.

“I have a solution,” You started, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s not going to be fun for either of us.” For a moment, all you could hear was the stuttering sound of his breath–then a low, hoarse gasp.

“What’s the solution?” He breathed out, his voice breaking in two like it hurt to even speak. His eyes opened, glassy and blown wide, and locked on you. There was no trace of smugness or arrogance in them now–only sheer agony. He looked absolutely wrecked. You hesitated, swallowing thickly. Then slowly, carefully, you stepped out from behind the lab bench, folder still clutched in your hand.

“The cactus berries are basically…Aphrodisiacs on crack,” You explained, each word leaving your mouth heavier than the last. “It seems like they wanted to use them for reproductive purposes–at least, that’s where it looks like the research was going before they bailed. Rapid hormone flooding, biological imprinting, instinctive bonding. It’s…Extreme.” Walker’s breath was ragged, his body trembling with strain as he yanked against the restraints again–harder this time. The pipe behind him screamed.

“Just get to the fucking point, Y/N,” He growled through clenched teeth. “What do I have to do to stop this?” You let out a huff, sharp and shaky, then met his eyes.

“You need to have sex,” You said flatly, like pulling a trigger. “Your body is in reproductive overdrive. That’s why you’re in pain. That’s why–”

“That’s why I can smell you through your tactical suit?” He snapped, voice strained, cutting you off before you could finish. You froze. Just for a second. Then looked away, heart hammering in your chest.

“…Yeah,” You murmured, voice low, almost ashamed. “Yeah, pretty much.” Walker groaned, letting his head thunk back against the pipe with a dull, defeated sound. He exhaled through his nose like a bull, nostrils flaring, the heat radiating off him in waves so strong you could feel it from across the room. He didn’t say anything for a moment–just let the suggestion settle like smoke between you, thick and suffocating.

Then–quietly, hoarsely–he rasped, “I’m not going to ask you to do that for me.” You looked at him, blinking, brows furrowed. “I’m serious,” He added, struggling to lift his head again, his jaw flexing like it was taking everything he had just to hold himself together. “I’m not gonna ask. I might be a lot of things, but I’m not crossing that line.” You stood still for a moment, spine taut, before taking in a breath.

“If you get out of those restraints…” You began, voice cool and even, “I’m the only thing here that can actually provide relief. So it’ll happen either way.” He flinched like the words hit him square in the chest, and then he thrashed against the pipe. The metal shrieked. The sleeves pulled tight around his wrists. His shoulders rolled forward like he was trying to physically crawl out of his skin.

“Y/N–” He gasped, his voice cracking under the weight of something feral just beneath the surface. “We fucking hate each other, I–”

“I may hate you, Walker,” You interrupted, your voice sharp enough to cut through the haze that clouded him, “But I don’t want to watch you die in some rotting lab in the middle of the goddamn desert.” He fell silent. Breathing like he’d just run a marathon. Sweat poured down his temples, soaking the front of his shirt. His body shook–with effort, with need, with the unbearable weight of what you’d just laid out.

“I also don’t want to have to explain how it happened. Because we both know the team will blame me first.” You added bitterly. Walker closed his eyes. Tensed his jaw. And breathed–slow and harsh and uneven. You could see the war going on inside him. The battle between pride and survival. Hatred and heat. You and him. The sharp lines between enemies, blurring. There was a long, heavy silence. The kind that stretched out between heartbeats, between decisions you couldn’t take back. His breathing was a raw, uneven rasp–his chest rising and falling like he was drowning in the air around him. His hands strained in the bindings, knuckles flexing, arms trembling. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

Not until you saw the faintest tremble in his jaw…And then his voice, low and broken, barely audible over the hum of the flickering fluorescents:

“…Are you sure?” You stared at him. Watched the war behind his eyes. Watched the sweat trickle down his temple, the tension in his arms, the split-second flashes of something vulnerable flickering beneath the pain. His body was betraying him–flooded with chemicals he couldn’t fight–and the worst part was that he knew it. You bit the inside of your cheek. Hard.

“If I was in your position,” You started slowly, your voice steady despite the whirlwind in your chest, “I’m sure you’d help me.”

His eyes locked onto yours, sharp and wide. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t blink. Knowing the look said it all.

“So I’m sure,” You added firmly, tugging at the hem of your gear.

“But we will never talk about this.” You punctuated each word like a promise, like a threat, like a sacred rule of survival. “Ever again. You understand me, Walker?”

He swallowed, his throat bobbing visibly. His eyes flicked down for a heartbeat, then dragged back up to your face as he rasped, “I understand.” Your fingers moved quickly, unbuckling the clasps of your tactical vest and shrugging it off your shoulders. It hit the ground with a thud beside his discarded shield and gear. You peeled the long-sleeved top over your head, revealing the sweat-slicked cling of your black training tank beneath.

You could feel him watching you.

His gaze followed every movement–heavy, desperate, hungry in spite of itself. But he didn’t say a word. Didn’t dare breathe too loud.

You reached for the belt at your waist and undid it with a swift twist of your fingers, the metal clinking as it came loose. You shimmied out of your cargo pants slowly, pushing them down your legs and letting them pool at your feet before taking off your boots and kicking the pants aside, leaving you in your black panties. The lab air was cool on your thighs, brushing against your skin like ghost fingers. His eyes trailed up the exposed skin, seeing scars and old battle wounds scattered around on the surface.

You moved toward him, slow and deliberate, the concrete cool beneath your bare feet. Every step closed the distance between you and the raw, trembling thing he’d become. You crouched down in front of him, your knees brushing against the dark tile, and you saw it–the way he flinched now that you were in his space. His entire body recoiled and leaned forward at once, caught between wanting to run and wanting to lunge.

And from this angle, from this proximity, you finally noticed it.

His cock was straining hard against the fabric of his pants, pressing tight against the zipper like it had no more room left to give. The outline was unmistakable, painfully prominent, the fabric darkened slightly with what you assumed was pre-cum. Your breath caught–just for a moment–and his let out a low, wounded groan at your reaction, his eyes flickering shut like just being seen like this was too much.

He didn’t say anything as you climbed over his lap.

You moved slow, careful not to jostle him too hard as you straddled the thick muscles of his thighs. His body was hot beneath yours, pulsing with tension, every part of him vibrating just under the skin. You leaned in, close enough for his forehead to tip forward and press against your bare shoulder with a tremble. His breath hit your skin–wet, hot, and desperate–and he inhaled deeply like he couldn’t help himself, taking in your scent now that you were so close to him.

“I’m gonna untie you…” You whispered, your voice soft but unwavering. Walker nodded once against your shoulder, and the movement was sharp, frantic, like holding still was getting harder by the second. His nose brushed your collarbone as he breathed in again, longer this time, and you heard the soft, broken exhale that followed. You hesitated–just for a beat.

“Control yourself,” You warned, voice firm despite the undeniable heat building between you.

His hands didn’t twitch, but you felt the tension in them as you reached back. Slowly, methodically, you untied the makeshift restraints, your fingers working the lab coat sleeves loose. First one wrist. Then the other. They were red, and raw from straining–hot to the touch and trembling as they dropped to the floor, free. He didn’t move right away, didn’t reach for you like some part of him still remembered what was coursing through his body.

You leaned back just slightly to look at him, and his eyes met yours. Blue. Blown wide and shimmering, drunk on the haze from the cactus fruit. He was breathing heavily, keeping eye contact.

And then he surged forward.

His mouth crashed into yours with a heat that knocked the breath out of your lungs. You let out a muffled groan at the first contact, startled but not resisting–his lips were warm, slick from spit and sweat, his beard scraping roughly against your chin as his hands found your waist. They clutched you like he needed to anchor himself or he’d float right out of his skin. You responded without hesitation, resting your hands on his shoulders, gripping tight, grounding both of you.

The kiss was awkward at first.

It was all teeth and too much pressure–his lips crashing into yours like he was trying to win a fight instead of sharing a breath. It was messy, desperate, driven by the chemical storm brewing in his veins. He was battling you for dominance, kissing like it was the only way he could stave off the fire beneath his skin, and your mouth struggled to match the frantic rhythm. Your lips were softer, more searching–trying to navigate the overwhelming force behind his desperation, trying to find a place where tension didn’t have to mean violence.

His nose bumped yours. Your teeth clicked once. His beard scraped hard across your chin and jaw, leaving a burn in its wake. But neither of you stopped.

He groaned into your mouth, low and broken, like the taste of you was making it worse, not better. His hands gripped your waist tighter, fingers pressing into the flesh–like your body was the only real thing in a world that had dissolved into hunger and heat. His hips jerked once beneath you, like instinct was already pulling the strings.

Then–something shifted.

The frantic edge dulled just enough for your mouths to meet at a better angle. He eased back slightly, panting against your lips for half a second before his mouth found yours again–slower this time, fuller. His lips dragged against yours with heat but less pressure, like he was learning your shape now, giving you room to answer. Your tongue slipped forward to meet his, testing, brushing–searching for rhythm. He groaned again, deeper this time, and responded by sucking your bottom lip between his teeth. It was sloppy still, yes–but it was working. His hands flexed at your waist as he pulled you tighter into his lap, pressing you flush to the hardened line of his cock beneath his pants.

The groan that tore from his throat was almost feral.

You felt it before you heard it–the tremble of his chest as it rattled through him, and the way his whole body tensed as he pulled back from your lips, panting like he’d just run miles.

“Don’t think I’ll be able to control myself, Y/N…” He rasped, his voice hoarse and soaked in restraint, like it was physically painful to hold back. His pupils were blown wide, his cheeks flushed, lips swollen from the kiss and glistening with your spit. He looked wrecked. And he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

You didn’t get a chance to reply.

His hand left your waist, the fingers trailing a path up your body with the kind of reverence that felt violently out of place in the middle of so much urgency. He brought them to your face, calloused pads brushing your cheek before they moved lower. Two fingers dragged along your bottom lip, gently, almost tenderly.

“Open,” He breathed, his voice guttural, tight with need. His jaw clenched, like he was barely holding back a snarl. “Let me get my fingers wet…So I can at least do something for you before I lose my mind.” Your heart stuttered in your chest at the contradiction laced in his voice–that brutal, aching desperation colliding with the unexpected gentleness in his request. Even now, even wired with synthetic hunger and burning from the inside out, he was thinking about you. Your pleasure. Your comfort.

Not just what he needed.

You lifted your eyes to his, and something in you softened–just enough to take the edge off the fear thrumming through your body like static. He looked so wrecked. Pupils blown wide, sweat slicking his hairline, jaw clenched tight like he was chewing on every shred of restraint he had left. But his hand trembled where it hovered near your face, fingers open in quiet request rather than demand.

So you leaned forward and took his fingers into your mouth.

Warm and solid against your tongue, the pads of them rough with calluses and scar tissue. You sucked them deep, hollowing your cheeks as your lips sealed around them, saliva slicking the digits in slow, deliberate strokes. You could feel the tremor run down his spine at the sensation–heard the sharp hiss of breath he dragged through his teeth, the flex of his thighs beneath you as his cock twitched against the inside of your leg.

“Fuck…” He groaned, voice breaking against your shoulder. “That’s not helping, sweetheart.” You hummed around his fingers, dragging your tongue over the creases of his knuckles, your eyes locked to his until finally he pulled them from your mouth with a slick pop. And then you felt it–his hand slipping down, knuckles dragging along your stomach until they dipped beneath the waistband of your panties.

You adjusted without thinking, shifting your hips forward, parting your thighs over his lap to give him better access. And when his fingers reached your core–hot, swollen, slick with arousal–it was like all the air left his lungs.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, like a confession, “You’re wet…” He said it like he was shocked. You bit your bottom lip, but it didn’t stop the little gasp that escaped when the pads of his fingers glided through your folds–his saliva mixing with your arousal in a perfect, messy cocktail that let him slide easily through the heat of you.

He groaned again. Sharper. Desperate.

And then–without warning–his other hand left your waist and gripped the back of your neck, not hard, not rough, but with a kind of trembling urgency as he pulled you down and kissed you again.

It was filthy this time.

Sloppy and fast, his tongue slipping between your lips before they even met fully. His mouth was hot and insistent, panting into yours, lips parted like he was drinking you in. His fingers pressed more firmly between your thighs, finding your clit with almost surgical precision, and when he started to rub tight, aching circles, your hips jerked forward into his hand.

Your moan caught in his mouth–raw and breathy.

And then your hand dropped between you, fumbling for the heavy bulge straining in his pants. The fabric was damp and sticky with his pre-cum, and you could feel the sheer size of him beneath your palm as you cupped him fully, pressing the heel of your hand into the length of his cock. He bucked up into your touch so hard it knocked your chest into his. The kiss faltered for a second–just enough for him to let out a muffled, feral groan into your mouth.

His fingers immediately mirrored the pace you set on his cock–rubbing your clit faster, harder, like your touch lit a fuse in him.

“Jesus–” He gasped, his lips breaking from yours for half a second to suck in air, “–gonna lose it if you keep doing that.”

You didn’t stop. You palmed him again, dragging your hand along the ridge of his cock through the damp fabric, and he whined against your lips.

His breath was hot against your cheek as he pressed his face into the curve of your jaw, rutting up into your hand with quick, desperate thrusts while his fingers danced between your folds. Each flick against your clit felt more precise, more hungry, like he was attuned to every tremble in your thighs, every stutter in your breath. He slipped two fingers inside you without warning, and your breath hitched–shallow and sharp–right against the corner of his mouth.

“Fuck,” You whispered, the word barely more than a gasp as your thighs instinctively tightened around his lap. His fingers were thick and warm, coated in slick and spit, curling as they sank deeper into you. The sound of it was obscene–wet and rhythmic as he began thrusting them with sharp, practiced movements, dragging against the spot inside you that made your vision blur.

“Jesus Christ,” Walker hissed, like the feel of you around his fingers was short-circuiting his brain. You could barely focus–your hand still palmed the heat of his cock through the fabric of his pants, and the pressure of him rutting up into your palm made the friction even filthier, desperate, hot. You pressed your other hand to his shoulder, then tangled your fingers into his sweat-damp blond hair, tugging hard enough to make him grunt.

He bucked into your hand again, shameless now, grinding up into your palm like he didn’t give a shit about control anymore.

And then he bit your collarbone.

His teeth sank into the soft flesh where your neck met your shoulder–not hard enough to break skin, but enough to leave a mark. Your entire body jolted at the sensation, a strangled moan slipping free as your walls fluttered around his fingers.

You could feel the sweat dripping off his face now, beading where your bodies met, sliding between your ribs and over the curve of your chest. He was panting, shaking, his fingers working you fast, relentless, and soaked.

“Oh god, Walker–” You moaned, your breath hitching again as your thighs started to tremble. He growled into your skin, licking where he’d bitten, his stubble scraping over your flushed flesh.

“Come on, sweetheart,” He rasped. “Soak my fucking fingers. I can feel how close you are…Don’t hold it.”

You let out a whimper as your stomach clenched and the pressure burst—your orgasm crashing over you in a wave that ripped through every inch of your body. Your hips jerked, thighs quaking around his, as your core pulsed around his fingers and your panties grew damp with the spill of your release. His fingers didn’t stop, working you through every second of it, stroking and curling and milking every twitch from you until you were gasping into his shoulder.

“Shit…John–” You cried out, your voice cracking.

You yanked at his hair as it happened–your grip tight, near vicious, as the climax wracked through you. His head tipped back with a groan, and then he surged forward and kissed you again, mouth hot and slick and panting against yours.

“I really need to fuck you now,” He breathed against your lips, voice ragged and hoarse, “because I feel like I’m being edged over here.” You let out a laugh–breathy, dazed, still twitching from the aftershocks.

“Driving you crazy?” He shook his head, jaw tightening, cheeks flushed.

“In any other situation, I honestly would’ve finished in my pants just from you doing that to me…” His tone was deadly serious, but then he added, with a breathless huff: “Don’t let that get to your head by the way.” You rolled your eyes, still breathless, and reached for the waistband of his pants, snapping the damp fabric against his hip with a sharp flick.

“Don’t worry,” You teased, voice low and wicked. “I know you haven’t gotten any since the incident.” His breath caught–and you felt it, sharp and full in his chest, like you’d punched through the last bit of his restraint.

He exhaled slowly, bitterly. “Not a good time to bring up my ex-wife, Y/N.”

“I’ll admit,” You muttered, breath still shaky as you braced a palm on his chest, “That one was a little below the belt… Sorry.” Walker let out a breathless laugh–half grunt, half exhale, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the strain in his eyes.

“It’s fine…Now can you sit up a bit so I can take these stupid fucking pants off before my cock breaks in half.” You let out a huffed laugh–half in disbelief, half because the image he painted was a little too vivid. You pushed yourself upright, your thighs still trembling faintly from the aftershocks, and watched as he worked quickly to undo his fly, movements urgent, frantic with need.

The second the button popped and zipper came down, his cock sprang free–angry red and leaking heavily, the flushed head smearing a wet line across the front of his shirt as it slapped up against his stomach. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was thick. Veiny. Long enough that you could see the throb in him, the pulse of desperation rippling under his skin like it had a heartbeat of its own. And fuck, he looked pained–like every second he wasn’t inside you was another mile stretched across a desert with no water. His jaw clenched as he looked down between your bodies.

“Jesus Christ,” You muttered under your breath, unable to stop yourself. His eyes flicked up to yours, sharp and glazed with lust.

“You see what you fucking did to me?” He ground out, his hands already moving–one dragging your soaked panties to the side, the other wrapping around the base of his cock to guide himself through the slick heat between your folds. You shifted instinctively, rolling your hips just enough to coat him in your wetness, the head of his cock catching on your clit and making both of you flinch. You bit your lip. He hissed through his teeth.

“Don’t fucking tease me right now, Y/N.” His voice was fraying at the seams.

“Then stop talking and do something about it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

His hand found your hip, fingers bruising as he gripped tight–and then he pushed you down. Hard. The head of his cock breached you with a stretch that bordered on too much, but the slide was fast, brutal, and so fucking deep. You both cried out–separate, messy sounds of relief and overload that echoed through the hollow lab space like some primal duet.

Your head dropped forward with a whimper. “Oh my god–”

“Fuck–” he bit out, his hands digging into your hips now, pulling you fully down onto him, burying every inch until your thighs were flush against his and your cunt was fluttering around his cock like it couldn’t decide if it wanted more or less. “You’re so fucking tight, Jesus–how are you this fucking tight?”

You couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t think past the burn and stretch and the way he throbbed inside you like a live wire. He was so deep it felt like he was in your fucking stomach.

He leaned his forehead against your collarbone, shuddering violently, his body twitching beneath you like he was trying to hold back from just railing you into the tile right then and there. You felt him grit his teeth.

“I’m gonna ruin you,” He whispered, his voice soaked with strain, with heat, with that cracked desperation that came from having no choice but to fuck or die. “I’m gonna ruin this smart mouth of yours. Gonna make you forget how to insult me. Gonna fuck you so hard the only thing you’ll remember is my name in your throat.”

You inhaled sharply at the sound of it–at the pure, unfiltered possession dripping from his words.

And then you slapped your hand over his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up,” You panted, eyes wild as you looked down at him. “You talk too much.”

His eyes went wide, but his cock twitched violently inside you like the shame turned him on harder. He let out a growl behind your palm and then snapped his hips up into you with such force your breath stuttered.

You didn’t remove your hand. You just held it firm over his mouth, pressing his head back against the pipe, riding him now with slow, grinding movements–circling your hips, letting him feel every flutter and pulse inside your core as it clenched around him, dragging tight and wet along the thick length of him. His eyes rolled back for a second.

“See?” You whispered, voice dark and shaking, your other hand pressing into his chest. “You’re better like this. Mouth shut. With nothing to fucking say.” He groaned against your palm, biting at your skin but not hard enough to break it. His hands gripped your hips like vices, guiding your movements now, pushing you down harder, faster–trying to get deeper, even though he was already bottomed out.

The rhythm built fast. Frantic. His hips snapped up to meet every roll of yours, filthy slaps echoing in the sterile room. You bounced on him harder, sweat dripping between your breasts, thighs burning from the pace–but you didn’t stop.

You were both panting. Sweating. Grinding into each other like the world had collapsed and this was the only thing left. There was nothing tender about it–but there was something desperate. Intimate in its violence. Two enemies finding solace in each other’s destruction.

He slipped his palms under the hem of your tank top, dragging them up along your sides with a rough edge that made you shiver. His fingers were hot and trembling as they scratched the bare skin of your hips, nails digging in hard enough to leave angry crescents in your flesh. His mouth was still covered by your hand, but the grunt that rattled in his throat was pure feral. He bit you again–this time harder–sinking his teeth into your palm like he was trying to brand you.

“Shit–” You hissed, yanking your hand away. “Jesus Christ, Walker!”

He looked up at you through dark lashes, chest heaving, and smirked.

“Told you I was gonna ruin you,” He rasped, his voice low and wrecked with heat, “But fuck, sweetheart…You already feel so good around my cock, I might just fucking die right here.”

You let out a breathy, incredulous laugh, half-moan, half-disbelief, “Don’t worry, if you don’t die here, I’ll kill you after this.” he groaned, grabbing your hips and slamming you down onto him again with a strength that made your spine arch and your head fall back.

Your thighs quivered with the force of it.

“Fuck…John–” You gasped, the name torn from your throat like it didn’t belong there.

His hands left your hips only long enough to shove beneath the waistband of your panties, gripping your ass so tight it made you jerk. His fingers were everywhere–digging, spreading, grabbing at you like he didn’t care what he got as long as it was skin. He gave one cheek a sharp slap, and the wet sound of palm against flesh cracked through the lab like thunder.

You choked on a moan. “Oh my god.”

“You like that?” He growled, biting at your jaw now, dragging his stubble down your neck as he thrust up into you again. “God, I knew you were a fucking brat under all that tactical shit. Always mouthing off to me, acting like you don’t want this dick. Bet you think about it when we fight, don’t you? Fucking bet you do.”

You whimpered–sharp and high–and he did it again. Another slap. Rougher. Meaner.

“Say it,” He snapped, one hand gripping the meat of your ass while the other shoved your tank top up over your chest. “Say you wanted it.” You dug your nails into the thick muscle of his chest, dragging downward hard enough to make him hiss, then leaned up just enough to slam your hips down onto him harder, matching his thrusts.

“I wanted it,” you spat. “I fucking hate you, but I wanted it.”

His eyes rolled back like that was the hottest thing you could’ve said.

“Jesus fuck, you’re unreal,” he groaned, then gripped your hips with bruising force and started rutting up into you like a man possessed. “Take it. You take every fucking inch, sweetheart. You’re so fucking wet for me—so goddamn warm—”

Your body was melting around him, your thighs trembling from the brutal pace, sweat glistening on your skin as your moans pitched louder. The slap of your bodies echoed in time with each guttural grunt from him—fast, sharp, relentless. It wasn’t even sex anymore. It was war.

And then you felt him twitch inside you.

“Y/N…Fuck…I’m gonna cum–” He growled, voice broken and desperate. “Shit…Shit, I’m gonna–” He grabbed you hard and slammed you down onto him one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His hips jerked once, then twice, and the heat of his release hit you so hard it nearly stole your breath.

You gasped–whimpered–as you felt him fill you. The sudden warmth of it spread through your core, thick and hot and raw. He groaned low and deep, like it was being torn out of him, his head pressed to your collarbone as his cock pulsed inside you, ropes of cum spilling against your fluttering walls.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he panted, still holding you tight. “You’re squeezing me so goddamn good…Fuck.”

Your nails dug into his arms, anchoring yourself as he thrust up into you a few more times, slower now, each one drawn out and shaky, like he couldn’t bear to stop yet. His breath was ragged against your skin, his hands still cradling your ass as he rocked his hips up, pushing his cum deeper inside you.

You were both trembling. Gasping. Slick with sweat and breathless from the crash.

And he didn’t let go.

He kept you seated fully on his cock, his forehead pressed against the side of your neck, his fingers twitching slightly as you both tried to catch your breath in the silence that followed. His cum was seeping out of you slowly, slick and hot, and the only thing you could do was hold onto his shoulders as your body pulsed around him in the afterglow.

After a long, quiet beat, he murmured against your neck:

“Still hate your guts by the way…But…Thank you for doing this…I don’t feel like I’m going to fucking die of horniness anymore.” It was almost said like an afterthought. But it wasn’t cruel. It was dry. Tired. Honest. There was even the faintest trace of amusement buried under the exhaustion in his tone. Your fingers twitched where they curled against his neck.

”Well…That’s a relief. Cause I still hate you too…” You hesitated just a second longer–then added under your breath, barely above a whisper, “And I hope we never have to do this again.” The words hung heavy for a moment. But the silence that followed wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t hostile. It wasn’t even fully honest. And he heard it. You felt the way his breath caught. The subtle way his fingers twitched against your back like he’d noticed the tonal shift. Like he heard what you hadn’t said. He let out a quiet exhale.

”…I mean…We don’t have to write it off completely, though.” He murmured near your ear. Your brows furrowed slightly, confused. His hand brushed your lower back, featherlight now, not rough or demanding. Just…Resting there. Casual. Like he wasn’t feeling like the end of the world was coming anymore.

“We could arrange a hate fuck here and there, couldn’t we?” He added, a faint smirk curling into the words, like he was testing you. Testing the boundary. Poking at the embers to see if they were still warm.

You lifted your head and leaned back, just enough to look him in the eye.

His hair was damp and sticking up in unruly angles, his cheeks still flushed, lips swollen and pink from your teeth, from your spit, from everything you’d done to each other in the span of minutes that would never exist again in normal daylight. His pupils were still wide, but less feral now. More…Grounded. Curious.

You stared at him for a long moment. Letting the weight of the suggestion settle.

Then your lips curved–just barely.

“Maybe,” You said, voice low, eyes gleaming. You slid a hand down his sweat-slicked chest, over the wrecked tactical shirt still bunched beneath you.

“We’ll see.”

And just like that, the truce was drawn.

Fragile. Tense. Unspoken.

But it was there.