WET PANELS
Agent Z stood in the doorway, soaked to the bone. His shirt clung to him, every muscle outlined, his pants already dripping onto the tile. He didn’t even shut the door. He didn’t care. Not with Agent Q standing naked in the glowing glass shower, cock heavy, wet, and shameless under the orange-purple light like some club-god waiting to be worshipped.
The glass fogged just enough to tease. Not enough to hide.
Q turned, slow and fucking deliberate, eyes meeting Z’s through the steam. He dragged one hand down the glass, fingers spreading, like he was marking his territory. A dare. An invite. A command.
Z’s belt was undone before he even realized he’d moved. He didn’t speak. Just pressed his palm to the glass where Q’s had been.
The panel hissed open.
Z stepped in fully clothed, soaked shirt plastered to his abs, shoes squelching. Q didn’t flinch. He just stared. Water slid down his chest, over his hard stomach, pooling at the base of his cock. His body was heat. Z could feel it.
“You hiding it?” Z asked, eyes locked on Q’s groin.
Q gave the faintest smirk. “You’re the one wearing all the layers.”
Z reached up, fingers brushing Q’s throat, pretending to search for the microchip embedded there—but really, he just wanted to touch him. Q’s breath hitched. His cock twitched. No one moved for a second. Then Z dropped his hands, fast, grabbing Q’s ass and pulling him in.
Their mouths didn’t quite meet—just breath. Hot, wet, desperate.
Then Z pressed him hard against the panel. Q gasped, legs widening, chest slick against Z’s shirt. Z kissed him rough, grinding into him, letting the soaked fabric rub between them. He didn’t strip. He didn’t slow down. Q wrapped one leg around him, hands in Z’s hair, moaning now—low, needy, furious.
“Fuck,” Q muttered, hips rocking. “Do it. Just—fuck, do it.”
Z fumbled with his zipper, cock already hard, pressing into Q's thigh. Q turned, bracing himself against the wall. Z pushed in, growling against his neck, one hand on Q’s waist, the other gripping his soaked shoulder.
It was raw. Messy. Loud.
Water pounded down. Skin slapped skin. Q grunted into the panel, biting the fogged glass. Z thrust harder. Deeper. Until Q came, shuddering, his cum streaking the glass. Z followed seconds later, moaning into his back, his whole body jerking.
After, they collapsed on the couch—half-dressed, still dripping, breath catching.
Z held up the microchip, slick between two fingers.
“Gonna hand that in?” Q asked, voice hoarse, cock still twitching.
Z smirked. “Might need to double-check where it was hidden.”
Q grinned, already spreading his legs again.
The panel in the corner blinked softly, still dripping. Still open.
Waiting.
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