S☆☆kie

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.