You knew Waterdhavian summers would be warmer than those in Baldur’s Gate, but you hadn’t quite grasped how much warmer. No one had warned you that the heat could feel this oppressive, like being wrapped in a damp, sticky blanket that refused to let go.

For the first few days, the shutters of the tower remained closed in a futile attempt to keep the warmth at bay. Gale, to his credit, employed every arcane trick he knew to cool the rooms—conjured drafts, chilled stones, even an enchantment or two—but by the end of the week, even he conceded defeat.

You spent most of your time in the library by then, languid and drowsy, while a few mage hands dutifully waved fans to simulate the idea of a breeze. Your clothing—what little of it you tolerated—was perpetually damp with sweat, clinging to your skin before you gave up on modesty altogether.

Gale, ever the gentleman, grew visibly restless. His longing had always been tender, worn openly on his sleeve, but lately it took on an edge—his kisses lingered far longer, his breathing quickened whenever your lips parted. His hands, once a constant presence, now hovered in careful restraint; you had both agreed that the heat made touch unbearable.

And yet, in that suffocating warmth, the distance between you became its own kind of ache—one far more difficult to endure than the summer itself.

The sun had only just dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky painted in soft strokes of violet and dying gold. You lay stretched out on your stomach across a blanket on the balcony, utterly bare, as unadorned as the evening breeze that swept lazily across your skin. Warm—too warm still—but the faint touch of wind made it bearable, cooling the light sheen of sweat that had gathered along your spine.

Your head rested on your folded arms, eyes half-lidded, and you let out a long, quiet sigh. Not quite relief, but something close. The kind of exhale that came when the heat finally loosened its grip, when the world felt slow enough to simply exist in your own skin.

Then you heard Gale’s familiar footfall on the stairs. The gentle creak of the library door. And—most telling of all—the sudden stop. The silence. The way even the air seemed to pause.

His breath hitched audibly.

“My love…” he whispered, the words soft, but weighted with awe and unmistakable arousal.

You couldn’t help but smile. Without opening your eyes, you chuckled. “Enjoying the view?”

“Oh, you have no idea."

That tone—lower than usual, richer, threaded with both reverence and something darker, hungrier—sent a slow shiver down your spine despite the heat.

You lifted your head and finally glanced back over your shoulder.

Gale stood frozen in the doorway, lips parted, eyes blown wide. He wasn’t even pretending not to stare—his gaze roamed your body with unabashed wonder, like he was trying to memorize every sun-kissed curve, every line, every breath you took.

He swallowed hard, visibly, trying—and failing—to summon his composure. His attempted smile came out crooked, sheepish, utterly endearing.

And something in you pulled taut in response.

Not tension from discomfort. It was longing, raw and immediate. The kind that tightened low in your belly and softened your chest all at once. You missed him. You had missed his hands, his warmth, the way he sighed and moaned into your mouth.

You missed the way he looked at you like this.

You missed being wanted exactly like this.

The hunger in his gaze said he had missed you too.

You pushed against the blanket, attempting to lift yourself onto your elbows, but Gale was quicker.

“No—don’t move. Please.”

The urgency in his voice froze you instantly. You let yourself sink back down with a soft laugh. “Alright…”

Gale stepped closer and then he sank to his knees beside you. The breath he released was almost a tremor. His hand hovered for a moment — you could feel the heat radiating off it — before his fingertips finally brushed your shoulder.

The touch was featherlight, barely there, yet it sent heat rippling across your skin.

Slowly—achingly slowly—his fingers traced a single, delicate line down the length of your spine. All the way to the small of your back. Then up again, following the curve of bone and muscle with a care that felt almost worshipful.

It took everything in you not to shudder. Not to moan. Not to melt into the blanket.

Gale inhaled sharply, as if your silence required his own restraint. He leaned closer, his breath ghosting warmly over your ear.

“I missed you,” he murmured — quiet, raw, the confession slipping out as though he hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

Your eyes fluttered. Your heartbeat stuttered.

“I miss you too."

His fingers continued their slow, careful exploration. Down your spine again… then up, pausing between your shoulder blades, tracing the shape of you like you were a constellation he had been deprived of far too long.

“You feel… gods,” Gale whispered, breath catching, “you feel good.”

“You feel good,” you echoed, sinking into the truth of it—into the weight of his gaze, the gentleness of his touch, the quiet hunger pulsing beneath both.

And for a long, suspended moment, neither of you said anything more.

He simply touched you, his breath caught somewhere between awe and longing, while the last light of sunset gilded your skin in gold and pulled him further, deeper into the orbit he had never truly left.

You felt everything in his touch—his longing, his restraint, the trembling edge of want he tried so very hard to hide. His fingertips traced the slope of your back with maddening delicacy, always stopping just at the curve where your spine dipped. Never lower. Never giving you the touch you truly craved.

He wasn’t simply holding himself back.

He was toying with you.

Intentional. Controlled. Knowing.

Each time his hand drifted downward, you shifted—subtly, innocently—spreading your legs just a little wider, offering just a little more of yourself. But Gale resisted every invitation with infuriating composure.

You breathed out a long, aching sigh, your body humming with want… and though you couldn’t see his face, you could feel the smirk curving his lips. That soft pull of amusement in the way his fingertips lingered on your skin. The warmth in his breath as he leaned just a little closer, yet still not close enough.

He dragged this out deliberately.

Touching you everywhere except where you needed him—stroking the length of your spine, brushing the slope of your waist, dipping beneath your ribs with maddening tenderness. It was a dance of tension and tease, a slow burn he was clearly savoring. A delicate game the two of you often played, but today, desire was clouding every thought in your mind.

You wanted him.

All of him.

Now.

But you held on for one last moment, one last breath of patience before your resolve slipped. Your voice came soft, warm, edged with plea,

“I’m yours."

Gale’s breath hitched audibly. The sound tightened everything inside you.

“I know, my love,” he murmured. “So beautifully patient for me…”

You exhaled shakily, nodding into the blanket. “But it’s hard.”

“I know,” he replied, the smile undeniable in his voice. His fingers grazed higher up your back, featherlight, infuriating. “You’re doing so well for me.”

It was pure, delicious torment now.

A game of control you both understood.

He teased because he could.

You trembled because you wanted to.

And beneath the gentle cadence of his voice, beneath the warmth of his touch, you could feel the promise.

You shifted your hips again, a subtle, instinctive plea for more, for him, but the moment you tried to push yourself up onto your elbows, Gale’s hand slid between your shoulder blades. He pressed down with gentle firmness, pinning you exactly where you were.

“Stay down."

This command sent heat rushing through you so fast it stole your breath.

“Yes, Sir,” you replied, teasing but breathless, unable to hide the tremor in your voice.

Gale’s answer was a soft, devastating kiss pressed to your shoulder. No more than a brush of lips, but it burned through you all the same. And then he rose, his warmth leaving your back as he stepped inside.

You heard him moving around the room, the faint sound of drawers, objects shifting, the small, familiar clink of glass against wood. Whatever he was retrieving, he did so with the calm purpose that only made your anticipation tighten.

When he returned, his footsteps were deliberate, measured. You could feel him before he touched you—his presence heavier. And hungrier.

“You know I love you."

You chuckled softly into the blanket. “I love you too.”

But something in him shifted with your answer. A deeper note entered his voice, curling through the air like smoke.

“I love your body,” he continued, tone dropping, each word sinking into your skin before his hand even found you. “Every line… every curve…”

And then—finally—his fingers slipped to your hips, gliding lower with slow, deliberate appreciation before settling on the firm curve of your backside. His touch was confident, sure, claiming without aggression, full of the longing he’d been holding back.

A soft sound escaped you, somewhere between sigh and relief.

Gale chuckled, low and pleased, the sound vibrating through your entire spine.

“The way your skin dips here…” he murmured, tracing the contours of your waist with languid, exploratory lines. You could feel his breath hovering just above your lower back. “The way your body fits perfectly into my hands…”

His palm curved over you as though made for that purpose alone—holding, appreciating, savoring.

“You are,” he finished,, “a masterpiece I’ll never tire of studying.”

Every word settled into you like a warm weight, grounding and electrifying all at once.

And you stayed exactly where he’d placed you—heart open, skin tingling, breathing slow and deliberate—because with Gale, surrender never felt like loss. It felt like being seen.

You felt it before you understood it: a faint, feather-light sensation gliding across your back.

Not his fingers.

Not his breath.

Something softer. Something that tickled just enough to make your muscles twitch.

Fabric, you realized. A thin strip of cloth dragged with meticulous care.

Gale moved it slowly, shaping strokes across your bare skin with the precision of a scholar. Each pass sent a warm shiver spiraling down your spine, his silence only heightening the anticipation coiling in your belly.

He paused for a heartbeat, and then, in his most ceremonious tone, the one he reserved for grand pronouncements and theatrical flair, he declared, “You are…”

A tiny hitch of amusement colored his voice, rich and warm against the evening breeze.

The cloth traced another sweeping curve across your back.

“…mine.”

He emphasized the last word—deep, resonant, tender and possessive all at once.

The syllable landed on your skin like a kiss made of sound.

Only then did the meaning settle, blooming through you with heat and quiet awe.

He had written it. He had written the word onto your back. Carefully, lovingly, as though you were parchment and he was inscribing a truth that had lived in him far longer than his voice admitted.

The tickling stopped, but the warmth lingered, spreading through your chest, your stomach, your breath.

And you couldn’t help the soft exhale that escaped you, a sound halfway between a sigh and something far more surrendered.

“I am yours,” you breathed, though the words trembled on your tongue. Not from fear, but from the quiet, overwhelming serenity that came with saying them.

With meaning them.

There was a profound peace in that surrender, in offering the most tender, hidden parts of yourself to the one man who touched you with nothing but devotion and love.

A giving-over of trust as intimate as any kiss.

You barely had time to exhale before Gale’s lips found the small of your back—a warm, reverent press that made your breath catch.

Then the faint graze of his teeth followed, gentle but claiming, little nips that traced a path along the curve of your spine, down to the soft swell of your backside.

Each touch was loving and edged with the slightest hint of hunger.

Every time his teeth closed around your skin in the faintest bite, he hummed against you—a low, pleased sound that vibrated straight through your bones into your loins.

“Gale…”

“So good for me, my love,” he murmured against your skin, lips never wavering—warm breath ghosting over your skin, grounding and undoing you in equal measure.

His hands drifted lazily up the insides of your thighs, mapping you with that unhurried certainty only he possessed.

Each stroke was light and conscious, coaxing rather than claiming, teasing you open with nothing more than touch and the unwavering promise of his affection.

Meanwhile, his mouth continued its devastating pilgrimage—soft kisses melting into feather-light nips, his lips brushing along sensitive skin with all the tenderness of a man savoring a rare and precious delicacy.

Every gentle scrape of his teeth sent a warm shiver unfurling through your entire body, each kiss setting your nerves sparking in quiet anticipation.

Gale touched you with the patience of someone who cherished every inch of you, and the confidence of someone who knew—without question—that you welcomed every bit of his attention.

When he finally, finally let his fingers slip between your thighs—tracing you, parting you, touching you— the sound that tore from your lips was nothing short of a plea.

A desperate, trembling whine you had no hope of containing.

Your hips buckled helplessly toward him, chasing his touch with the instinctive urgency of someone who had been held on the edge far too long.

“Patience.”

Gale’s voice sharpened, a single word that vibrated straight through you as his fingers only glided over you, maddeningly gentle.

You gasped, voice breaking.

“Please…”

“I know, my love,” he soothed, his tone turning molten, full of reverence and quiet command. “I know. You’re doing so well for me.”

His fingers stroke you once more, your hips buckling into his touch.

“You can take this a little longer for me.”

“I can’t…” you whined, the sound thin and trembling, hips shifting helplessly toward his hand, chasing even the slightest increase in pressure—anything to get more of him, more of that touch that already had your body unraveling.

“You can,” Gale murmured, the words low and firm, heat simmering beneath the command, “and you will.”

The whine that tore from your throat was nearly desperate. You shifted again—only a fraction, only enough to try and coax more from him—before forcing your eyes open.

And gods, he was devastating.

His robe hung open around his waist, baring the breadth of his chest. A sheen of sweat caught the dying light, tracing every line of muscle and making him look half-sculpted, half-unmade. His breath came hard and uneven, lips parted, pupils blown wide—not from control, but from the effort of holding it.

He was aroused. Visibly, powerfully, almost painfully so.

And yet he still held himself back—for you.

For the game. For this exquisite, slow-burn torture he loved almost as much as he loved you.

Your gaze finally met his, and the moment your eyes locked, something in him cracked.

Gale dropped lower, bracing himself on one hand beside you. The other still hovered over the heat of your body, his feather-light touch dragging you to the very brink without ever letting you fall.

But when you pulled him down into a fierce, hungry kiss, when your lips crashed together with all the longing and ache that had been pulling you apart, his control shattered beautifully.

His free hand clamped onto you, possessive in its certainty, knowing exactly where to hold, exactly how to draw you closer. His mouth moved over yours with a kind of helpless devotion, breath hot, kiss unrestrained.

You moaned into him, your breath breaking against his lips as the world dissolved to heat and wanting. Gale chuckled softly, the sound dark and delighted, his tongue brushing teasingly against yours in a way that sent your pulse spiraling, but his fingers never wavering.

“I can’t wait,” you gasped between kisses, fingers trembling as they tangled in his hair. “I need you.”

“You have me—”

He barely got the words out before you shifted beneath him, lifting your hips just enough to slide your hand down and free him from the confines of his pants and the sharp, ragged sound he made as you touched him was worth every second of restraint he’d demanded from you.

You moved before he could even gather another breath.

Diving down, you took him into your mouth in one hungry, fluid motion—lips parted, breath hot against his skin as you engulfed him as deeply as your body allowed. The effect was immediate. Gale gasped—sharp, startled, almost losing his balance as his balance buckled beneath the wave of pure sensation.

He steadied himself only barely, one hand braced against the wall, the other flying to your hair as though he needed something—anything—to anchor him through the shock of pleasure.

You showed him no mercy.

You needed him, needed the taste of him, the weight of him, the feel of him twitching against your tongue. Every instinct in your body screamed to take, to savor, to drown in him.

He tasted faintly of salt—sweat, desire, the first trace of arousal that always stirred in him the moment you touched him like this. Familiar, intimate, grounding in a way that made your whole body heat with wanting.

“My—my love—!” It started as a surprised cry and broke instantly into a helpless, shuddering moan that vibrated all the way through him and you. The sound alone made your lips curl into a wicked, satisfied smile.

You worked him slowly at first—measured pressure, your tongue gliding along the sensitive underside of him with sinful precision, drawing more of those beautiful, breathless noises from his lips. When his hips jerked forward, you rewarded him by adding your hand, stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach, syncing your movements in a way that made him groan, low and unrestrained.

“Gods—” he choked out, his voice rough with disbelief and pleasure. His fingers slid deeper into your hair, not to guide you, but because he had nowhere else to put the sheer desperation coursing through him. He was trembling. Completely undone by his touch and your longing. His breath came in ragged bursts, every exhale uneven, every inhale sharp.

Gale was usually composed, articulate, deliberate. Now? He was nothing but longing and need, shuddering under your touch, helpless in the best possible way.

And you reveled in every moment of it.

You worked him for as long as your trembling restraint allowed, savoring every sound you drew from him—those ragged gasps, those helpless moans, the way his breath kept catching in his throat as if the pleasure you gave him stole his ability to speak. Each noise fed your hunger, made your own need pulse sharper, hotter, harder to contain.

But eventually, desire became too much—too consuming, too unbearable to remain separated from him for even a heartbeat longer. You needed him inside you. Needed the deep, anchoring warmth of him, needed to feel him at your very center.

So you let him slip from your mouth with a soft, wet gasp, your hand stroking him in the same steady, relentless rhythm. His entire body shuddered at the loss of your lips, a desperate noise slipping from him as you rose.

You shifted forward, knees bracketing his hips, your breath shaking with anticipation. Gale understood immediately—instinctively—despite the dazed heaviness in his eyes. His hands flew to your hips, guiding you with careful strength, steadying you as you aligned yourself with him, helping you settle over him with a touch that trembled from wanting.

You sank into a kiss at the same moment you sank onto him. His mouth opened under yours willingly, hungrily, one of his hands sliding up your spine, the other cradling your jaw as though he needed to feel every part of you at once.

Your breath caught against his lips, a shuddering exhale mixing with his own, the heat of him filling you until your mind dissolved into nothing but the sensation of him and the fire connecting your bodies.

“I love you,” you moaned into his mouth.

Gale’s answering sound wasn’t a word but something deeper, something reverent, his entire body trembling as he pulled you closer, as if he could fuse you to him, as if the force of his love alone might hold you together.

“Mine,” Gale managed, the word torn from somewhere deep in his chest. His hips bucked up helplessly, driving into you with a force that made your breath break, and you met him with the same desperate urgency. The world around you vanished. There was only this. Only him inside you, filling you, claiming you as wholly as you claimed him in return.

Nothing else mattered.

Nothing else existed.

Only the reverent hunger binding you together; love braided with longing, lust entwined with devotion.

“Yours,” you breathed back. “Always yours.”

And it was the truth—not a vow, not a promise, but a simple, undeniable fact spoken into the space between your bodies.

You moved together in a rhythm that felt older than breath, older than thought: pulling yourself up and letting him draw you back down, meeting him stroke for desperate stroke. It was no longer just intimacy. It was a merging, a becoming, something raw and sacred and exquisitely human. A need met, a longing answered, a truth confessed not in words but in every shuddering motion.

You felt him tense beneath you, felt the subtle shifts in his body with each thrust—his restraint fraying at the edges, his composure slipping. Even as he rocked up into you, unravelling, he held himself back with shaking control, refusing to end things too quickly, refusing to pull you into your own release before he’d coaxed every ounce of pleasure from you.

He breathed you in like a prayer between kisses: longing pressed to your lips, devotion trailing down your throat, his hands gripping your hips with a tenderness that contrasted the urgency of his movements. Every push into you came with a soft, helpless sound; every retreat came with a low groan of restraint, as though he were fighting his entire body not to fall apart yet.

He was tasting you even as he worshipped you, teasing and touching and drawing you closer to the edge with each careful, trembling motion.

And gods, you could feel how close he was.

How close you both were.

“Good heavens, Mr. Dekarios! When did this library of study and arcane mastery turn into a den of sin?!”

Tara’s voice hit the balcony like a thunderbolt, and both of you froze mid-movement—every muscle locking, every breath snagging in your throat. It felt exactly like someone had upended a bucket of ice water over your intertwined bodies.

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. Neither of you breathed.

You froze, utterly horrified, as the realization struck you with the force of a falling tower: Tara could read Gale’s writing on your bare back.

Your gaze snapped to Gale’s at the exact same moment he seemed to arrive at the same dreadful conclusion. His eyes widened, scandalized, mortified, and then—swift as a spell well-practiced—his hand darted for the nearest blanket, quickly covering you with it.

“Your penmanship is atrocious!” she scolded, scandalized in that uniquely Tara way that blended outrage with motherly concern. “Truly abysmal! What would your mother say?!”

Gale made a sound somewhere between a strangled choke and a mortified gasp. His entire face went crimson so fast you swore you could feel the heat of shame radiating off him.

“T—Tara!” he sputtered. “We had, if memory serves, come to an agreement that you would announce your arrival upon moving into Mother’s estate, did we not?”

Still straddling him, you slapped a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing hysterically. Your entire body shook—not from pleasure anymore, but from trying desperately not to scream into the night with second-hand embarrassment.

You dared to glance over your shoulder, adjusting the blanket now covering you.

Tara hovered at the doorway, ears flattened, wings puffed out in complete outrage, squinting at your now covered back.

“Oh Mystra preserve me,” Gale groaned, dropping his head back onto the floor and covering his face with his hands. “I cannot—Tara, go.”

“I will—once you fix that handwriting!” she sniffed, then finally vanished in a flutter of indignant feathers.

You collapsed forward onto Gale’s chest, wheezing with suppressed laughter, while he lay there in stunned horror, hands still covering his face.

“Never,” you whispered between giggles, “never again will you live this down.”

Gale only let out a long, pitiful groan.

Would you like some more? This way please....

since winter is almost over, john received ten paid leave days, already planning to spend his free time with you, at home. better in bed though. he missed you like hell when he was on duty, wanting to be in your warm embrace more than anything else.

this winter was harsh for the team. though they all were hybrids, only john had the tendency to hibernate. despite the fact that the world has changed, everyone has plenty of food and a warm home to stay, captain’s body just screamed for the good hibernation. but he just couldn’t rest that easily! being a SAS captain is about responsibilities. there’s no time to rest, a lot of work needs to be done. besides, short naps in the afternoon in his office aren’t that bad—

eventually they sent him home a few days later after that long stressful operation and even the longer day of the countless briefings, considering there were no urgent missions or tones of paperwork, so he can spend time with his family.

fucking finally.

the moment you saw him, tired and heavy-eyed, you knew your own mission was making him hibernate no matter what.

poor, poor john! he must be so tired, you thought.

you were cooing around him like he’s your baby right after he stepped inside your cozy warm house, feeding him a lot of nutritious homemade food, massaging his aching muscles, kissing his cheeks and neck, lulling him into sleeping delight, even though you had supper just a few moments ago!

“c’mon, john. let me take you to bed, yeah?”

“but love, i wanted to help ya with dishes—”

“it’s okay. you need to rest”, you led him to the bedroom slowly, tucking him under the warmest blankets you have.

surrounded with such care and affection, feeling safe and secure, he fell into a deep slumber immediately.

—

for a moment he felt like a lost child, not knowing how he ended up here, being tucked into the blanket, curtains covered and room is dark. but then he realized that he actually hibernated. you were there, lulling him into a deep sleep so easily, your voice and your scent always helps him to feel so much better. ah, he doesn’t deserve you.

after a few minutes of intensive yawning and groaning he slowly makes his way into the bathroom to do his own business, washing his hands, brushing teeth and doing the rest of his self care routine.

later you find him sitting on the bed, curtains half-open, trying to put his right sock on, too drowsy to do it fast, so he just takes his time. he even didn’t notice you entered the room.

you smiled softly as you sat next to him, kissing his cheek.

“hi, my big bear…” you murmur softly. you can smell a strong scent of his mint aftershave and deodorant.

“mornin’, dove…” his voice is deep and coarse from sleeping, but he gives you the sweetest smile in return, too happy to see you. his sock is already forgotten on the floor as he nuzzles your neck lazily, seeking the warmth and comfort he needs the most.

you fell on the bedsheets with a soft giggle, defeated by such affection and love.

“how is my lovely bear doing?.. does your belly feel okay?” you ask initially, caressing his back with one hand and ruffling his hair with another one. he swears you know more about his hybrid’s body than he does.

“yeah—” he grunts. “‘m good, love… how long have i been sleepin’?”

“seven days and a half”, you murmur as you kiss his ear.

“fuck… should spent my days off with ya, not sleepin’ like a dead man”.

you laugh quietly, running your hands over his sides now. not that prominent as you remember. you can work with it later.

“john, i’m fine. you needed that rest, have been working so hard”, you kiss his neck softly. “besides, you looked so peaceful and cute, my pretty bear”, your giggles fill the bedroom and he smiles too, feeling more wakened than before.

“was i snorin’?” an awkward smile bloomed on his face. you laughed again, rolling your eyes.

“duh”, you chuckle softly and he groans. “like a tractor”.

“‘m sorry, lovie…” he mutters, the tips of his ears turn pink. “didn’t mean to bother you, really”.

“you didn’t bother me at all, silly. i was pretty sure that my steps were too loud, so i could wake you up easily… i’m glad you’re okay and you’re home… with me, my poor little teddy bear”, you sniffed him. “you smell so good though. like honey”.

“just used tha’ new shower gel ya brought. ya like it that much?”

you hum, nuzzling your nose further into his neck, playfully trying to bite him. he squeezes his waist tighter, rolling you over just to pin you underneath him.

“ya should use this gel too. want ya to smell like honey, so i can taste ya all day long, though i love yer natural scent the most”, he says, pawing at your sides now, trying to get rid of your hoodie. “nah, you better smell like me— god, need you— missed your skin and this delicious body”, you smirk at his sweet nothings.

god, he’s so needy. but you have your own plans for now.

“behave, john. no dessert before i cook you a proper dinner, john”, he groans almost immediately at your request. “i need your guts to be happy, yeah? should make a soup or whatever—” you smile fondly with hearts in your eyes as you kiss his nose.

You had no passage of time. But knowing Steve, it had been at least an hour. Sixty minutes since your clothing fell to the floor and he began exploring every inch of you with his fingers, his lips, his sweet words.

He felt it. He felt everything. The scent of your perfume, the softness of your skin, the tiny creases in your forehead as his teeth grazed your shoulder. Every one of his senses was heightened. A side-effect of the serum and a sure-fire guarantee during alone time with you.

Increased sensitivity wasn’t torture during sex. For Steve, he savoured it. He enjoyed the feelings. He lived for the delayed gratification, the moment when finally, eventually, he felt he had worshipped you enough to deserve the feeling of your warmth around him.

He was hard. He had been for quite some time. You could feel his length pressing into your thigh. It was only when you whispered to him that he removed his boxers and tossed them to the floor.

“Steve. I need you. Please.”

“Okay honey.” His forearms were either side of you, his face above yours. “Keep your eyes on me.”

His blue eyes pulled you in, drawing you into a hypnotic calm. You watched his mouth subtly open and his eyelids flutter shut for a fleeting moment as the feeling of entering you washed over him. Within the beating of a butterfly’s wings, his eyes were back on yours. They remained there as he slowly thrusted, the intensity of his eye contact making your limbs go weak.

“Is it okay, honey? The pace?”

Yesterday, he had thrown an adversary from a roof. Last week he left a hole in the wall when he turned a corner at pace, chasing down a rogue agent, thrusting his shield into concrete and making it crumble like drywall. Shattering glass as he jumped through windows was a regular occurrence. He was durable. Sturdy. You weren’t. He used all of his concentration to use only a fraction of his strength on you. None, if possible. You were a civilian. He had to be gentle.

Dumbly, you nodded your response. The languid pace was perfect.

He continued to slowly rail you. He broke eye contact only to lean down and kiss your lips. He closed his eyes, the softness of your lips coaxing a moan from his. Whispers and sweet words replaced soft kisses, his voice low and raspy in your ear.

You’re so beautiful.

I love you so much, honey.

You feel so good.

He cycled through rounds of kisses, whispers and intense eye contact, his thrusting gratuitously slow. Indulgent, even. The deepest kisses gave you shivers. The ones where his tongue did the talking, where it felt as though he was attempting to kiss your soul. The whispers following these deep ministrations were simple.

I’m lost for words, honey. God.

It wasn’t about climax for either of you. Steve figured the longer it took to fall over the edge into bliss, the better. He wanted to draw it out. Make it last as long as possible. It was the same reason he ate slowly. Why it took him weeks to finish a book he loved. He didn’t want the pleasure to end. His life hadn’t always been filled with so much tenderness. Maybe that’s why he savoured it.

He couldn’t be selfish. It wasn’t in his DNA. The very moment he saw a flicker of frustration, a sense he was taking too long, his fingers would cease their faithful trail over your skin and inch their way down to your inner thigh, writing love letters in their wake as he reached your most sensitive spot. His fingers applied gentle pressure, slow circles, picking up his thrusting slightly, bringing you towards climax safely. Less like a freight train hurtling past an abandoned Midwest station. More like a passenger carriage coming to a gentle, rolling stop. If he thought about it too much, even he had to admit it was incredibly on-brand.

The soft moans from your lips and the way your mouth opened, your neck arching back into the pillow, your hands gripping fistfuls of Egyptian cotton.... the mere sight of your pleasure was enough to tip him over the edge. He would climax slowly, the pleasure coursing through his arteries like the serum did all those years ago. Your eyes were on him, watching him press upright onto his palms, arching backwards, the hard lines of his face softening into pleasure.

He bathed in the ecstasy. But he never allowed himself to become lost to it. He remained in control enough to lower himself down gently. He couldn’t afford to lose it and collide his body into yours. He could hurt you.

His face would nuzzle into your neck post-coital, sweet kisses peppering your shoulder as your hands tangled in his hair. He was soon back on his forearms, intense in his gaze, brow creased as he checked you were alright. His expression softened, the tense muscles in his jaw relaxing when he realised you were safe. Of course you were. You were underneath him. It was the safest place to be.

“That was… wow.”

He chuckled, cheeks flushing just slightly. He said the same thing every time but it never got old. He was here, fully present and absolutely entranced by you and unable to connect words together. He was articulate. He gave commands. You rendered him dumb-struck.

Aftershocks of his pleasure varied. Sometimes he would offer his hand and pull you up, inviting you into the shower with him. Other times you would stay just like that, kissing and starting up another round. Often you would remain wrapped in each other and fall into a brief slumber, napping for half an hour before a particularly loud truck honked its horn on the streets below and jolted you awake. In these moments, Steve rarely slept. He would lay awake, his arm around you as you snoozed on his chest. His hands ran through your hair. He smiled, his gaze soft and focusing on nothing in particular.

Today, you simply put your clothes back on and talked about food.

Steve looked towards the window. “I don’t know about you but I could really go for a hot dog.”

At a leisurely pace, you picked up the street food, glancing up at Steve’s apartment five floors up and wondering just how much was audible at street level. You walked around the local park hand-in-hand, connecting with an elderly couple sat together eating ice cream. They gave you a nod before their gaze returned to each other.

Steve felt a warm sensation in his chest. Some days, he wasn’t sure if he trusted the gifts he had been given. In his cloudier frames of mind, he imagined losing it all again and facing the prospect of processing immeasurable grief. Thankfully, those days were becoming passing storm clouds in an otherwise sunny disposition.