S☆☆kie

His mask is cracked around the edges; not physically, but spiritually. You can see it in the way he carries himself, like the weight of all that devotion, all that noise, all those thousands of eyes… has finally caught up to him. He walks tall as if in the presence of gods, but the hunch of his shoulders tells a different story. 

He looks like a man who’s just walked out of a cathedral that caught fire mid-sermon. And the second he sees you, just past the security rope, pressed to the backstage wall where you’ve been waiting with your hands clutched in front of your chest, he falls apart. His frame practically melts as he reaches you. 

“Love,” he gasps, voice already fraying at the edges. He doesn’t even look at the crew members calling his name or the assistant reaching for his water bottle. He beelines for you like you’re his very oxygen. 

You don’t implore or hesitate. You catch him as he crashes into you, arms around his waist, hands fisting into the damp back of his cloak as he buries his masked face in your neck and sobs. 

Not a quiet cry. Not the trembling kind where the hot tears just leak down your face. These are deep, shaking, gut-wrung sobs. The kind you only let out when it’s finally safe to release, to come down from the cathartic high that is Vessel on stage. 

“Baby,” you whisper, your fingers slowly trailing up his damp back and slipping underneath his hood. You card your fingers through the soaked strands of hair at the base of his neck. “You did it. You did it, you fucking did it-” 

He’s gripping you so hard it almost hurts, arms locked around you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. The tremble in his shoulders tells you this has been building for hours, days, maybe. And now it’s all coming out, and he’s letting you see it. He’s taking shelter in your very presence. 

“I saw it,” you breathe against his ear. “I saw everything. Every moment, every fucking second of it. You were unreal.” You feel him let out a broken exhale, the mask shifting ever so slightly against your skin. 

“There were… so many,” he murmurs, like he’s still trying to process it. “So many people, love, I’ve never seen that many... not even at Wembley...” 

“I know,” you whisper. “It was a sea of them, Ves. And they all came to see you.” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy through the mesh eye holes of the mask, tears streaking his face paint. You wish he wasn’t wearing the mask, but you also know it’s his shield, his sanctuary. So you just rest your hand against the cool plastic and nod, your eyes on his, watching the grief leave his expression. 

“I’ve never been prouder of you in my life,” you murmur, your tone pouring pride and reverence. His breath catches and he exhales shakily. 

“I couldn’t breathe out there,” he admits. “Not because of the crowd. Because of what it meant. All those years. All that pain and work and- and... And they were just… there. Reaching for it. Singing every word back to me like the songs belonged to them. And they did. It’s- it’s all for them...” he finishes, and you feel his grip on you tighten ever so slightly. 

You nod, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “The music has always belonged to them. But it also belongs to you. You gave it to them. You’ve given them everything,” you tell him, tears threatening to spill from your own eyes. You’re overcome with so many emotions all at once. You feel incredibly proud, deeply grateful, and heartbroken all the same because even with all the fans and the love and success, you know he must relive all that pain, all that fear and anxiety over again when he’s on stage. You’re painfully aware of the toll it takes on him contradicted by his love of performing and bone-deep admiration for his true fans and the way they worship. 

You see and feel the quake behind his posture, the little shiver of disbelief, and maybe shock. You lean in and press your lips gently to the side of his mask, leaving behind a glossy print. “And now I’m going to give you something back,” you whisper into his ear, your voice switching from sincerity to sultry. He stills for a moment, his hands moving from around your back to rest at your waist as he pulls you in closer to him. You feel the hitch of his breath against your neck, the faintest tremble of restraint rippling through him like a taut chord pulled too tight.

For a long moment, he doesn’t speak, he just holds you there, your bodies flush, hearts beating an uneven rhythm into one another as they both accelerate. You wonder if he's trying to steady himself or if he’s simply overcome again, only this time not by the crowd, not by the magnitude of the night, but by you. He stands fully, his hands squeezing your hips as he looks down at you. 

Although you can’t see his eyes, you can feel them scorching you from the inside out. “Are you implying what I believe you are, darlin’?” he murmurs low, voice husky and close, almost lost in the space between your bodies. 

The heat in his tone curls through your belly like smoke. You smile faintly, dragging your fingertips along his heated skin beneath his cloak. He’s still trembling, still unraveling in your hands. You don’t waste another second. 

“Let me take care of you.” you whisper up to him, your eyes pleading. He exhales like it’s the first breath he’s allowed himself in hours. Maybe even all day. 

And when your mouth finds the edge of his jaw, just beneath the edge of his mask, you feel him melt. His body leans into yours, chest rising to meet you, hands gripping your waist harder now, anchoring himself to the only thing in the world that feels real anymore. 

“Wait,” he whispers, pushing you back just slightly. “there’s nowhere we can hide away here, dove.” Your shoulders slump and your face falls as you realize the truth he’s just stated. All they have is a little walled-off room to the side for show preparation purposes. You’re going to have to wait until tonight when you’re back in your shared hotel room. 

You’re not thrilled about this at all, but this just means that you can spend the rest of the evening teasing him and building up to the moment when you’ll finally be alone together. A wicked grin spreads across your lips as your expression changes from disappointment to seductive excitement. “Guess we’ll just have to wait until tonight then,” you mutter in a lower pitched flirty voice as you remove your hands from his body. You don’t even give him the chance to respond before you turn and saunter away, swaying your hips a little more than usual, smirking as you go. 

“You little tease...” he mutters from behind you, and you turn your head back to glance at him, your smirk widening when you see that his mouth is hanging open slightly, fists clenched at his sides, chest heaving. He’s practically drooling. You can feel the restraint emanating from him even from feet away as you retreat. 

In his mind, he wants to storm toward you, grab you up and push you against the nearest solid wall. He wants to grab your pretty little jaw and force you to look up at him as he defiles you right here, in front of everyone. He wants to ruin you, claim you and release all of his adrenaline and frustration right into your soaking velvety walls. He nearly reaches for you, but he has more respect for you than that. 

He knows you wouldn’t like to be bare and breathless, choking on his cock in front of the crew and other band members. And he knows he's going to need that kind of release after that performance. He decides in this moment that, sure, he’ll wait. He’ll exhibit self-control. For now. But as soon as you both cross that hotel suite threshold and the door clicks shut behind you, he will pounce. He will hold you close and love you into ruin.  

The corner of his mouth tilts up in a smirk as he turns and heads to the room to undress and prepare for the taxi ride back to the hotel, knowing what awaits him there. 

The cab smells faintly of leather and New Car scent, windows fogging slightly from the collective warmth of tired bodies and fading adrenaline. III is already halfway into a laugh about something no one else quite heard, and IV just smiles, leaning his cheek against the cool glass with his hood still drawn low. 

Vessel sits beside you, thigh pressed to yours. His posture is composed, but you feel it; electric and crawling beneath the surface, the quiet hum of want rippling off him like static. 

You say nothing. He says nothing. But your eyes meet. And in the low hum of the city outside the window, that silence screams with heat. 

His gaze lingers a second too long on your mouth. You lift your brow, feigning innocence, and shift just enough that your leg brushes more deliberately against his. The muscle in his jaw tightens. His hand rests over his knee, fingers twitching slightly like he’s thinking of reaching for you, but he doesn’t. Not here. Not yet. 

III nudges IV’s arm. “Reckon we ought to stop in somewhere, yeah? Raise a glass to the man of the hour?” 

Vessel finally looks away from you to answer kindly, “You guys go ahead.” But IV glances back. “You not coming, mate?” You shake your head as Vessel answers, fingers resting lightly over his. “We’ll meet you back at the hotel. Might grab a quick drink somewhere quieter,” he answers IV, his voice soft; a stark contrast to what’s about to happen in your rented room.  

III smirks knowingly, but doesn’t say a word, he just gives a devilish little salute before hopping out of the cab at the next curb, IV and II close behind. III does the ‘after you’ gesture, his dramatic flair showing through just a bit as he swings the taxi door shut, giving Vessel a two-finger salute and a wink. Vessel smiles back at III as he turns and follows II and IV into the bar. 

The bar you find is small and dimly lit, tucked off a side street where no one’s paying attention. You slide into a booth across from each other, still slick with heat and barely-contained laughter. Two drinks in, the air between you is thick with something darker, richer. He watches you over the rim of his glass, and you let your heel drag up his calf beneath the table, slow and deliberate. 

“Can I help you with something?” you tease, tone flirtatious yet innocent. 

“Oh, you will,” he replies, voice low and calm, eyes heated and locked onto you as a blush creeps up your cheeks and settles there, warming you. You tilt your head. “Think so?” 

His voice lowers as he purrs, “I know so, darlin’.” Your heart stutters as you fidget under his heated gaze. 

Another drink. Another graze of fingertips along the inside of your wrist. Another slow glance that sinks into you like molasses. Your legs press closer together beneath the table, aching now with the weight of want. His fingers drum against the wood, twitchy, pent-up. 

He’s cracking, you feel it. The moment stretches too tight, until finally he stands, drops a few notes on the table, and reaches for your hand. “Come on,” he murmurs. “I don’t want to wait anymore.” 

You follow him out into the night without a word, fingers tangled in his, both of you too hot and too full of want to pretend otherwise. The second cab is quieter than the first. Less talk. More touch. His thumb stroking along the back of your hand. Your knees touching in the dark. 

You don’t speak until the lift doors slide open at your hotel floor. But when they do, it’s Vessel who leans in close, voice barely above a whisper, teeth grazing the shell of your ear. “You’ve been driving me mad all night, you little tease.” You just smile and tug him down the hall by the hand, knowing full well what’s about to happen once that door clicks shut. 

The hotel door clicks shut behind you with a finality that echoes. The silence that follows is louder than any roar of the crowd; thick, breathless, and heavy with promise. The hallway lighting fades as the room swallows you whole, and then it’s just the two of you again, bathed in the low gold of bedside lamps and the hum of something primal rising between your ribs. 

He’s on you in an instant. His hands find your waist, greedy and firm, backing you into the nearest wall like he needs to anchor himself or else he’ll burst apart. His mouth presses to your cheek, his breath ragged and hot where it fans your skin. 

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, voice frayed at the edges. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” You answer with an anticipatory whimper. 

You just reach up and tug at the base of his shirt, and he lets you lift it over his head in one smooth pull, baring his sweat-damp chest to the warm air between you. His skin glistens in the light, every inch of him thrumming with leftover adrenaline and something far more feral. 

His hands are already working at your jeans, unbuttoning them and jerking the fabric down with such desperation that you can’t help but smile. It’s rare, so rare, to see him like this. Unraveled, needy, and starved. And it’s all for you. He nibbles roughly on your thighs as he rises back up to finish undressing you. You gasp at the sudden pain, but it causes the arousal between your thighs to surge, and your knees nearly buckle. 

You lift your arms and let him strip you bare, piece by piece, until you’re down to nothing but your black lacy panties and the heat blooming between your thighs. He stares at you like he’s forgotten how to breathe, chest heaving, eyes dark and hungry. His fingers twitch at his sides like he doesn’t know where to start; like he wants to worship you and ruin you all at once. 

“You want me,” you murmur, stepping forward and guiding his hands to your hips. “Take me.” 

That’s all it takes. He spins you, pushes you up against the wall with a growl caught in his throat, his mouth finding the curve of your neck and biting down; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to claim. His hands are everywhere, kneading, groping, possessing, and when his thigh slides between yours, you moan softly against his shoulder and grind down, chasing the friction. “Jesus Christ,” he hisses. “You’re already soaked.” 

“For you,” you breathe. “Only you.” His fingers slip past the band of your panties, and the moment he feels just how ready you are, he curses low and filthy, forehead thudding softly against the wall beside your head. "You’re going to kill me,” he pants. “I swear-” 

“You’re the one losing it,” you tease, voice breathy and trembling. “What happened to composure, Vessel?” 

He answers by ripping – yes, ripping - your knickers in half over each thigh and discarding them in one swift motion, then sinking to his knees in front of you. You barely have time to gasp before his hands are spreading you open and his mouth is on you; hot, wet, and relentless. 

Your head falls back with a cry, one hand bracing against the wall, the other flying to your own breast as he devours you. There’s no other word for it. It’s messy and obscene, his tongue working you open like he’s trying to draw out every ounce of tension, every scream you didn’t let loose at the show, every tremble you’ve been holding in since the first look in the taxi.

He worships you as he consumes, his eyes staying on yours until you break eye contact, your eyes rolling back into your skull. He flicks his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves until your moans turn to whimpers and drunken cries, your peak rapidly approaching. 

And when you come, shaking, gasping, thighs trembling, he doesn’t stop. He grinds his mouth against you, holding you in place until you cry out again, until your legs threaten to give and you’re clawing at the wall. 

When he finally pulls back, your slick on his lips, chest rising and falling like he’s just run another set, you pull him up by the shoulders, dragging him into a kiss that’s all teeth and tongue and want. You taste yourself on him and moan into his mouth, fingers working his belt open as he backs you toward the bed. 

By the time he’s out of his trousers, you’re already pulling him on top of you, nails raking down his back as he lines himself up and thrusts inside with one long, deep, desperate stroke. You feel him stretching you deliciously, your soft, soaked chasm welcoming him in and adjusting around him. 

You both gasp like it’s a relief; like its salvation. He doesn’t ease into it, no. He snaps his hips against yours with every thrust, hard and punishing, grinding deep like he’s trying to root himself in you, trying to forget the crowd and the pressure and the weight of the world with every wet, filthy sound your bodies make together. “Say it,” he grits out, voice shaking. “Tell me you’re mine.” 

“You know I’m yours,” you cry, wrapping your legs around his waist, meeting every thrust with your own. “I’ve always been – fuck - I’ve always been yours.” 

And that’s what breaks him. "Good fucking girl..." he groans through gritted teeth, and you whimper at the praise. His rhythm falters for just a moment, the weight of your words crashing into him like a second wave. He pulls out of you suddenly and you whine at the loss of contact. He scoots back on his knees a few inches, then he cups the backs of your thighs and brings them to your abdomen. He smirks down at you, then slams into you, fucking you like an animal.

He leans down, presses his forehead to yours, skin to skin, and fucks you like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded. Like if he stops, he’ll fly apart. You swear you can feel his cock in your chest as he drills deeply into you, your moans and whimpers escaping with every rough movement. 

You rake your fingers through his damp hair, anchoring him to the moment. You can tell he’s close as his thrusts get snappier and messier. “Let go,” you whisper, tears brimming your eyes from the intense pleasure. “Let it out. I’ve got you, Ves.” 

And in that moment, he does. With a strangled moan and a final, bruising thrust, he comes undone above you, hips jerking, breath caught in his throat, moans escaping through his swollen lips, hands clinging to your thighs like he’ll fall to pieces if he lets go. It’s not just release, it’s relief. It’s a whole lifetime of weight dropped in your arms. You feel him pulsing inside you, drenching your perfect cunt in his climax, the familiar molten feeling pooling between your hip bones. 

And you hold him through all of it. Every tremble, every quiet sob against your collarbone. Every inch of catharsis, fucked raw and sacred and real. 

The room is quiet now. The only sounds are your breathing and the soft hum of the city outside the high hotel windows; distant traffic, occasional laughter echoing off wet pavement below. The sheets beneath you are tangled and damp with sweat, and his body rests heavily atop yours, chest still rising and falling against your own. He’s since allowed your legs to rest in a natural position instead of squished to your tummy. 

You run your fingers slowly down his spine, tracing the shape of him, and he shudders just a little, just enough to let you know he's still here, still feeling. Still coming back down. 

He doesn’t speak, but he doesn’t need to. There’s so much said in the way his hands cradle your hips, the way his head remains tucked into the crook of your neck like it’s the only safe place in the world. You feel him press a slow kiss to your collarbone, then another, softer still. Almost like an apology for battering your insides moments ago. 

You whisper, “Alright love, I need to go clean up. You made a mess of me.” You giggle as you halfheartedly push him off you, and he groans in protest, going limp on top of you, knowing you're not strong enough to push his lean, lanky form off of you. “Come shower with me, then,” you tell him, giggling. His head lifts slowly, eyes barely open as he asks, “You sure?” You chuckle and affirm that you are indeed sure. 

He nods once, small and grateful, and you both rise slowly, bodies aching but warm. His eyes are heavy, rimmed red, lips puffy, muscles trembling from exhaustion just beneath the surface. 

You walk him to the bathroom, fingers loosely linked with his, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The light in here is soft, more of a golden glow, casting long, gentle shadows across the tiles. Steam begins to rise almost immediately as you turn the water on, and when you both step under it, the heat wraps around you like an embrace. 

He exhales, long and slow, as the water cascades down his back. His head tilts forward, eyes closing. You stand behind him for a moment, just watching, letting him lean into the warmth, into the silence. 

Then you reach for the soap. You begin with his shoulders, fingertips drawing small, circular motions into his skin, soft and reverent. He doesn’t flinch or tense, he just breathes calmly, relaxing under your tender touch. You glide the lather across his chest, around the curve of his neck, down the length of each arm, cleaning away the sweat and leftover body paint missed by the wipes he utilized at the venue. 

“You did something incredible tonight, y’know,” you murmur, voice barely louder than the water. He swallows hard. “You’ve given everything to them through the years, and now… this is mine. You’re mine, and I’m so grateful that I get to make sure you know how appreciated you are,” you kiss his cheek, “how amazing and awe-inspiring you are,” you kiss his other cheek, “and how incredibly adored you are,” you finish and kiss the tip of his nose. 

His eyes flutter open, just long enough to meet yours through the steam of the shower. There’s something raw in them, something vulnerable. 

He doesn’t speak, but his hand reaches for yours, thumb stroking the inside of your wrist. When you drop to your knees in front of him, it isn’t sexual, not this time. You soap his thighs, his calves, his feet, steady and careful. You kiss the side of his knee, soft and slow, and he lets out a breath that catches halfway through like it’s too heavy to carry. 

“I love you,” you say simply. “You’re not just the voice, Ves. You’re the heart.” He kneels with you then. The water streams over both of you, pooling on the floor of the shower as he cradles your face in his hands and kisses you like he means it; not hungry, not desperate. Worshipful. Like you’re the one who hung the stars. 

And now it’s his turn. You stand, and he takes the soap from you, hands trembling just slightly, and begins to return every gesture—rinsing your skin with patient care, brushing suds over your shoulders, your chest, your belly. When he reaches your thighs, he pauses, kisses your hipbone, rests his cheek against it for a long moment like he can’t believe you’re real. 

“You stayed with me,” he says, barely audible over the rush of the water. “Through all of it.” You cup his jaw, eyes stinging with tenderness. “Of course I did There’s nowhere I’d rather be, love.” 

He rises again, pulling you into his chest beneath the spray, and you wrap your arms around his waist, skin to skin. You stay like that for a long while, nothing moving but the water sliding down your backs and the faint flutter of his pulse beneath your cheek. 

Eventually, you guide him out and into a towel, drying him slowly, then yourself. There’s no rush or sense of urgency, just the calm after catharsis. 

You lead him to bed, kiss his temple, and climb beneath the sheets together, limbs tangled, hearts steadying. 

You don’t know when you succumb to your tired state, only that you do, somewhere between his fingers brushing softly up and down your spine, and the weight of his arm slung protectively across your waist. You both fall asleep relatively quickly after such a big day. Between concert prep, the show itself, and everything you’ve shared for the past few hours, you’re both completely exhausted.  

He whispers something against your hair just before sleep claims him, though you’re not sure what it is; only that it was full of love for you, and you can only hope and pray that one day, he will be able to fathom even a quarter of the love that you harbor for him. You nuzzle into him, your back to his front, and you allow your eyelids to flutter closed, and sleep takes you not long after. 

Silence. Then - a sound. A soft, groaning noise, almost a whimper. "I need you to come over. Right now. It's - it's an emergency. A medical emergency."

Your heart skipped a beat. "Steve, are you hurt? Did something happen? Is it the Upside Down?"

"No! Nothing like that! Just - " he lowered his voice to a frantic whisper that vibrated with strain, " - just please come over. And maybe bring ice? Lots of ice? Cold things. Frozen things."

He hung up.

You stared at the phone, equal parts worried and annoyed, then grabbed your bag and headed for your car.

Steve's house was dark when you arrived, which was strange for 4 PM on a Saturday. You let yourself in with the key he'd given you two years ago with a cute, very you keychain attached - "for emergencies," he'd claimed, though mostly you'd used it to feed his mom's cat when they were away cause you loved that little furball.

"Steve?" you called, dropping your bag in the entryway. "Where are you?"

"Upstairs," came the muffled reply, thin and strained. "My room. Please hurry."

You took the stairs two at a time, concern overriding everything else. You pushed open his bedroom door and froze.

Steve was on his bed, fully clothed in jeans and a t-shirt, but his face was flushed a deep crimson that spread across his cheeks and ears. His hair was damp with sweat, plastered to his forehead in dark strands, and he was - oh God - he was holding a bag of frozen peas against his crotch with both hands, his knees drawn up, his whole body curled in on itself like he was in pain.

"Steve?"

"Don't look at me," he groaned, his voice cracking, throwing an arm over his face. His chest heaved with every breath, his t-shirt clinging to his skin. "I'm a monster. I'm broken. I'm - oh god - " he broke off with a whine, high and desperate, his hips bucking upward involuntarily, his hands pressing the frozen bag harder against himself.

"Why are you holding frozen vegetables to your - " you gestured vaguely, " - your area?"

He peeked at you from under his arm, his eyes glassy and slightly wild, pupils blown wide and black. "Remember Cheryl Matthews?"

"Vaguely. Cheerleader? Dated Tommy Hagan?"

"She gave me chocolates." He pointed with one trembling hand to a heart-shaped box on his desk, already empty, his movements jerky and uncoordinated like muscle spasms. "For Valentine's Day. Said she wanted to 'give me something special.'" He made air quotes, then winced, a full-body shudder running through him as he adjusted the peas. "I ate them. All of them. Because I'm an idiot who can't pace himself."

"Okay..." you said slowly, still not understanding. "So you have a stomachache?"

"I wish!" He laughed, slightly hysterical, the sound breaking into another whine as he shifted restlessly against the mattress. "No, Y/N, I - " he dropped his voice to a whisper that shook to your core, " - I can't make it go down. It's been two hours. I've tried everything. Cold showers. Thinking about my grandma. Math equations. Sad puppies - and nothing works! It just - " he broke off with a gasp, his head falling back against the headboard, his throat exposed and vulnerable, lined with sweat, " - it won't stop! It's aching, Y/N. It hurts."

Realization dawned. Slowly, horribly, hilariously.

"Steve," you said carefully, fighting a small smile, "are you telling me those chocolates were - "

"Laced with something!" he wailed, his voice cracking on the last word. "I don't know what! But I feel like I'm going to die, and I can't go to the hospital because they'll think I'm some kind of pervert, and I can't tell my mom because she'll kill me, and you're the only person I could think of who wouldn't - " he broke off, groaning, the sound low and wounded and needy, his hips rolling upward in a slow, helpless grind against the frozen bag, " - who wouldn't think I'm completely disgusting."

"Wouldn't laugh at you?" you supplied.

He peeked at you again, his eyes desperate and pleading, wet at the corners with frustration or pain or both. "Okay, you're clearly laughing now, but I thought maybe - maybe you'd know how to help. Before I have to start thinking about amputation. Or jumping in the quarry. Or - oh god - " he gasped, his whole body going rigid, his knuckles white where they gripped the peas, " - please think of something to help me. Please. I can't - I can't stand it anymore. It won't stop throbbing."

You did laugh then - you couldn't help it, a sharp burst of sound that made him groan and cover his face again, his shoulders hunching with embarrassment. "Steve, I - this is - this is the most ridiculous thing that's ever happened to you. And that's saying something."

"I know," he moaned, the sound muffled by his arm. "I'm cursed. I'm actually cursed. Probably by a witch. Or a demon. Or - "

"Or Cheryl Matthews just wanted to mess with you," you suggested, crossing to his desk to examine the chocolate box. There, tucked under the velvet lining, was a small handwritten note: "Hope you enjoy these as much as I'll enjoy watching you eat them. Happy Valentine's Day! ;)"

You showed him. He turned an even darker shade of red, if that was even possible.

"She poisoned me," he said, outraged and breathless. "This is assault. This is - this is chemical warfare!"

"It's Viagra, Steve," you said, trying to be practical despite the absurdity of the situation. "Or something similar. You're not going to die. You're just... enhanced. For a while."

"How long is 'a while'?" he asked, slightly panicked, his voice rising.

"I don't know? A few hours?"

"Hours?" The word came out as a wail, high and broken. He dropped the bag of peas - finally - and you couldn't help it. Your eyes dropped down.

He was hard. Impossibly, almost painfully hard, the outline straining against his zipper, thick and obvious and there. You could see the shape of him clearly through the denim, the way it curved up toward his hip, the way it twitched slightly with his pulse. He noticed you looking and made a wounded noise, his hands flying to cover himself, his face buried in his pillow.

"Don't - don't look at it," he begged, his voice muffled and miserable. "It's obscene. I've been like this since my lunch break. I had to stand behind the counter at Family Video trying no to crumble. I had to keep pressing my hips into the counter between customers, Y/N. I couldn't walk properly. I had to wait until everyone left, closed up shop and then I ran home and I've been here ever since, trying to make it stop - "

He broke off with a gasp, his hips jerking upward into his own hands, a shudder running through his whole body. "It hurts," he whispered, and you realized he was actually trembling - not just embarrassed, but in real, physical distress. "It's too much. I can't - I can't think. I keep having these - " he broke off, his face screwing up with shame, " - these thoughts. About you. About people. About anything. And I can't make it go away."

You sat on the edge of his bed, careful not to jostle him, and tried to think. You were his best friend. You'd been his best friend since you were toddlers, since he'd chased you around the yard yelling cooties. You'd seen him cry over Nancy, seen him covered in Demogorgon, seen him do everything.

But you'd never seen him like this. Desperate, flushed and aroused, his body betraying him in the most intimate way, his usual confidence stripped away to reveal something vulnerable and raw underneath. His hands were still pressed between his legs, but you could see the way his hips kept shifting, rolling, seeking friction he wouldn't let himself have.

And you definitely shouldn't be noticing how good he looked with his hair messy and his pupils blown wide, his chest heaving under that thin t-shirt, his mouth red and bitten where he'd been chewing his lip.

"Okay," you said, forcing your voice steady. "Okay. We need to get you comfortable. Those jeans are probably not helping."

"Can't take them off," he mumbled into his pillow. "Then it's just - there. Out. And I can't - I won't - I'll - " he broke off with a whine, high and desperate, his hips bucking upward again, " - I can't control it, Y/N. I touch it and it just gets worse. I tried, earlier, I thought maybe if I just - but it wouldn't stop, it wouldn't finish, and I was so sensitive it hurt, and I - "

"Steve." You reached out, touching his arm, feeling the heat radiating off his skin, the fine tremor running through his muscles. "It's me. We've been friends for years. I've seen you in swim trunks. I've seen you throw up at a party. I've seen you cry during E.T." He made a small sound of protest. "This is just... biology. Unfortunate, chemically-induced biology. Let me help."

He rolled onto his back, slowly, his movements careful and pained. He looked at you - really looked at you - and something shifted in his expression. Something dark and hungry that he'd never aimed at you before, not in all your years of friendship. His eyes dropped to your mouth, your throat, your chest, and he made that sound again - that low, wounded noise.

"Y/N," he said, his voice dropping an octave, rough and slightly dangerous, strained with effort. "You should probably go."

"What? No, I - "

"I mean it." He shifted, and you saw it - the full shape of him now, thick and hard against his hip, straining the denim. He was bigger than you'd thought, or maybe just harder, more desperate, the outline clear and obscene. "Whatever this is - it's making me think things. Want things." His hand moved, almost involuntarily, pressing against himself, and he gasped, his head falling back, his throat working. "And I can't - " he swallowed hard, his jaw tight, his whole body trembling with effort, " - I can't control it. And I don't want to - " he broke off, his hips rolling upward into his palm, a groan tearing from his throat, " - I don't want to scare you. Or hurt you. Or do something we'll both regret."

"Want what?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed, harsh and humorless, his hand still pressed against himself, kneading slightly, his face twisted with pleasure and pain. "You. I've always wanted you. Since sophomore year. Since you laughed at my terrible joke in the cafeteria and I thought - shit." His eyes met yours, dark and desperate and honest. "But we're friends. Good friends. And I didn't want to ruin that, so I never - " he gestured helplessly with his free hand, the other still working against himself, " - I never said anything. And now I'm drugged and desperate and I can't stop thinking about what you'd taste like, what you'd feel like, and you need to leave before I do something - fuck - " he broke off with a gasp, his hips jerking upward, his hand moving faster, " - before I can't stop myself."

The room went silent. Your heart hammered against your ribs, loud enough that you were sure he could hear it.

"Steve," you said carefully. "Look at me."

He did. His eyes were dark, glazed with arousal and something else - fear, maybe, or hope. His hand was still moving against himself, slow, desperate strokes through his jeans, and he didn't seem to realize he was doing it.

"I've wanted you too," you admitted. "Since you helped me with with my scrapped knees and you were so patient, so kind, even though I was frustrating and stupid and - "

"You're not stupid," he interrupted, his voice rough, his hand stilling. "You're perfect. You're - fuck - " he broke off, his hips jerking upward, his hand flying back to press against himself, " - you need to go. Now. I'm not - I can't be gentle right now. I can't be careful." He looked at you, his eyes wet, his face flushed and desperate. "I want to pin you down. I want to fuck you until you can't walk. I want to - " he broke off with a whine, high and broken, his head falling back, " - I want you so bad it hurts, Y/N. Literally hurts. And I don't want to hurt you."

"Then don't be gentle," you said.

You reached for him.

The kiss was desperate from the start - teeth and tongue and need, his hands tangling in your hair, pulling you closer, deeper, his mouth hot and hungry and starving. He tasted like chocolate and mint and Steve, familiar and new all at once, and you moaned into his mouth, feeling the vibration of his answering groan.

His hands were everywhere - rough and trembling, tearing at your shirt, your jeans, stripping you efficiently despite his shaking. He was whining into your mouth, small desperate sounds that vibrated against your lips, his hips grinding against your thigh where he was still trapped in his jeans.

"Off," he gasped, pulling back just enough to fumble with his zipper, his fingers clumsy and uncoordinated as you fumbled with your own clothes. "Please, I need - oh god - " he broke off with a gasp as he finally freed himself, his cock springing up against his stomach, thick and flushed a deep ruddy pink, the tip wet and achingly hard.

He was beautiful. Bigger than you'd imagined, curved slightly upward, a vein running along the underside that pulsed with his rapid heartbeat. He wrapped his hand around himself immediately, stroking once, twice, his head falling back with a groan that sounded like agony.

"Can't - " he panted, his hand moving faster, his hips bucking into his fist, " - can't stop touching it. Feels so good but it's not enough - need more - need you - "

"Steve," you breathed, reaching for him, wrapping your hand around his where he was stroking himself. He was hot - burning - the skin like silk over steel, pulsing and throbbing against your palm. He made a sound - high and broken and desperate - and his hand fell away, letting you take over.

"Yes," he whimpered, his hips jerking upward into your grip, his whole body trembling. "Yes, please, please - "

You stroked him slowly, experimentally, watching his face. He was wrecked already - mouth open, eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaving with every breath. A bead of wetness gathered at the tip and you swiped your thumb over it, spreading it down his shaft, making him slick and slippery in your grip.

"Fuck - fuck - " he choked out, his hips snapping upward, fucking into your hand with desperate, uncoordinated thrusts. "Too good - it's too much - but I can't - I won't - " he broke off with a whine, his hand flying to grip your wrist, stilling your movements. "If you keep doing that I'll = I'll finish - and I want - I need - " he looked at you, his eyes dark and pleading, " - I need to be inside you. Please. Please."

You nodded, breathless, and he was on you immediately - pushing you back against the mattress, looming over you with dark, hungry eyes. He was shaking - actually shaking - his whole body trembling with the effort to go slow, to be careful.

"Tell me," he demanded, even as he was already positioning himself, the tip of him nudging against your entrance, hot and wet and there. "Tell me to stop and I will. I swear - "

"Don't stop," you breathed, reaching for him, pulling him down into another kiss. "Please, Steve. I want you inside me. Now."

He pushed inside in one long, hard thrust - no teasing, no hesitation - filling you until you were breathless with it, until your back arched off the mattress with a cry that he swallowed with his mouth. He was thick, big - perfectly, impossibly thick - and he stretched you just right, the burn fading quickly into pleasure so intense it made your eyes water.

"Oh my god - " he groaned, his voice breaking, his forehead dropping to yours. "You're so tight - so wet - so perfect - " He pulled back slightly, just an inch, and thrust back in hard, making you cry out. "Can't - " he panted, his hips already snapping forward, seeking friction, seeking more, " - can't go slow. Can't be gentle. I'm sorry - I'm sorry - "

"Don't be," you gasped, nails digging into his shoulders, your legs wrapping around his waist to pull him deeper. "Don't be gentle. Move, Steve. Please - "

He moved. Started a rhythm that was hard and fast and desperate, each thrust snapping his hips against yours with enough force to move the bed. He was whining with every stroke - high, broken sounds that vibrated against your neck where he'd buried his face, his breath hot and damp against your skin.

"So good," he panted, his voice wrecked, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. "You're so good - so perfect - fuck - " He shifted his angle, grinding against your clit with every thrust, and you moaned, your head falling back. "Love you - love you so much - can't believe you're letting me - oh god - "

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes dark and wet, his face flushed and desperate. "Touch yourself," he begged, his voice cracking. "Please - I want to feel you come around me - I want to - " he broke off with a groan, his hips stuttering, his cock throbbing inside you, " - I'm close - I'm so close - but I want you to - "

You reached between you, your fingers finding your clit, circling in time with his thrusts. The pleasure built sharp and hot, coiling tight in your belly, and you were gasping, moaning, your free hand gripping his hair, pulling his mouth down to yours.

"Steve," you gasped against his lips. "I'm gonna - I'm gonna - "

"Yes," he whimpered, his thrusts becoming erratic, harder, needier. "Yes, please, come for me - now - "

You shattered. Came apart with his name breaking across your lips, your body tightening around him until he shouted - actually shouted - and followed you over, spilling inside you in hot, pulsing waves that seemed to go on forever. He kept thrusting through it, milking his own orgasm, whining high in his throat as he overstimulated himself, until finally he collapsed, careful to roll to the side, pulling you with him.

For a long moment, there was only breathing. The sound of his heartbeat under your ear, still racing but slowing. The smell of sex and sweat and chocolate.

"Still hard," he mumbled eventually, his voice dazed and slightly horrified.

You laughed, breathless, reaching down to confirm. He was - improbably, impossibly - still thick and hot against your thigh, still pulsing with arousal, though slightly less rigid than before. "The drugs," you reminded him. "They last a while, remember?"

"Right," he said. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his face - wicked and delighted and Steve, even as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. "So... we have time for round two?"

You laughed, pressing closer, feeling him twitch against you. "You're insatiable."

"Only for you," he said, and kissed you - sweet and slow and full of promise. "Only ever for you."

They made it to round three before the effects finally started to fade, leaving Steve exhausted and sated and covered in marks that you'd have to explain to Robin later. You lay tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow to normal, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your back.

"So," he said eventually, his voice rumbling under your ear. "Best friends?"

"Best friends who have sex," you corrected. "Best friends who are probably dating now? If you want?"

He tilted your chin up, his eyes soft and serious, all the desperation gone now, replaced by something warm and certain. "I've wanted to date you for three years, Y/N. Of course I want."

"Good," you said, and kissed him. "Then you should probably know - this was the best Valentine's Day I've ever had."

He laughed, loud and delighted and yours. "Even with the drugged chocolates?"

"Especially with the drugged chocolates."

Outside, February wind rattled the windows. Inside, two best friends who were definitely something more now made plans for pizza and movies and maybe, eventually, sleep.

But for now, this. Sticky skin and soft words and the lingering taste of chocolate on your tongue.