As T'Challa pursued him through the enclosure, Steve Rogers couldn't tell if they were fighting or the other F-word people of this era were obsessed with. The king darted through the foliage so fast he caught only the blur of a tail vanishing out of sight. Sometimes she would pause in full view, tail raised and ass presented as if daring him to mount her. If he approached, she would attack. If he retreated, she would also attack.

A few tatters of clothing still clung to his skin, adhered by the blood pouring from his wound. The rest of his armor was shredded beneath her vibranium claws. Only his shield still protected his modesty.

The pantheress pounced one last time, knocking the shield from his grasp and pinning him to the dirt. She crouched over him, tail whipping back and forth in excitement as she positioned herself, lowering her blazing hot pussy around his dick with a yowl of satisfaction, as she mounted herself around her prize.

He knew better than to keep the girl waiting, blowing his load into her fertile womb after just a few thrusts. That seemed to calm her breeding frenzy, though she was far from done with her mate. It was only after he'd bred her a further four times that the animalesque instincts completely faded in her eyes, and T'Challa looked down at his own transformed body to find himself impaled upon his friend's manhood.

"S-Steven?"