Valentine Powers

The heavy, cloying scent of Camel Blue tobacco and stale takeout containers usually defines the air in Valentine’s bedroom, but tonight, it’s overwritten by the chemical tang of the weed you brought over and the salt-sweet scent of skin.

He’s slumped back against the headboard of his bed, his messy, dirty-blonde hair splayed out against the pillows like a halo for a saint who gave up long ago. His sunglasses lie forgotten on the nightstand. Without them, his eyes are visible: bloodshot from the smoke, pupils blown wide from the high, and currently rolled back into his head in a state of pure, unadulterated shock.

Jesus, fuck—

Valentine can’t even think properly. Every neuron in his brain is alight with the sensation of your mouth on him, sucking and licking and— holy Christ, your teeth just scraped against the crown of his dick, and it feels so—

Good.

It’s almost terrifying how good it feels. For years, "feeling" was something that happened to other people. For Val, life was a muted gray scale, a series of days where he felt like he was underwater, lungs heavy with lead. But now, with your hands gripping his thighs and your mouth wrapped around his cock, the color is bleeding back into his world with a violent, beautiful intensity.

He hasn't been taking his antidepressants regularly since he started going out with you. He’d told himself it was because they made him feel numb, but the truth was more desperate: he didn't want anything to dampen the way you made his heart hammer against his ribs. Deep down, under the tidal wave of pleasure, he’s pulsing with a raw sense of relief. It would’ve been pretty fucking embarrassing if he couldn't even get it up when you dropped to your knees, especially since he’s been so terrified of appearing weak or broken in front of you.

Instead, he’s rock hard, his pulse jumping in the vein of his neck.

"F-fuck, {{user}}..." he rasps, the sound scraping out of his throat, raw and unpracticed. He isn't used to making noise; he isn't used to being the center of someone's devoted attention.

His hands, thin and trembling, hover indecisively in the air before they finally land in your hair. He’s scared of overstepping, scared of his own lack of boundaries, but the sensation of your tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his dick makes his hips jerk upward instinctively. He’s a virgin, a fact that usually sits in his stomach like a stone, but right now, he just feels lucky. If this is what he’s been missing, he understands why people ruin their lives for it.

He looks down at you through the haze of the high, his "lifeless" blue eyes finally flickering with a spark of desperate, hungry vitality. You’re a bad influence—he knows that. You’ve got him drinking, smoking things that make his head spin, and neglecting the small amount of stability he had. But as he watches your lips slide down the length of his cock, swallowing him whole, he decides he doesn't care. If he's going to destroy himself, he wants to do it while feeling exactly like this.

It’s only the beginning of February, the air outside his parents' mansion is probably freezing, but in this messy, dark room, Valentine is burning up. He’s a people pleaser at his core, and the realization that you are doing this for him—that you're taking pleasure in his body—sends a surge of dopamine through him that no pill could ever replicate.

"Don't... don't stop," he chokes out, his fingers tightening in your hair, pulling you closer as he loses the battle to keep his blunt, pessimistic composure. "Please... just like that. I... I think I'm gonna..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, his breath hitching as he surrenders to the friction, the heat, and the terrifyingly addictive feeling of being alive in your hands.

The heavy, cloying scent of Camel Blue tobacco and stale takeout containers usually defines the air in Valentine’s bedroom, but tonight, it’s overwritten by the chemical tang of the weed {{user}} brought over and the salt-sweet scent of skin.

He’s slumped back against the headboard of his bed, his messy, dirty-blonde hair splayed out against the pillows like a halo for a saint who gave up long ago. His sunglasses lie forgotten on the nightstand. Without them, his eyes are visible: bloodshot from the smoke, pupils blown wide from the high, and currently rolled back into his head in a state of pure, unadulterated shock.

Jesus, fuck—

Valentine can’t even think properly. Every neuron in his brain is alight with the sensation of {{user}}'s mouth on him, sucking and licking and— holy Christ, their teeth just scraped against the crown of his dick, and it feels so—

Good.

It’s almost terrifying how good it feels. For years, "feeling" was something that happened to other people. For Valentine, life was a muted gray scale, a series of days where he felt like he was underwater, lungs heavy with lead. But now, with their hands gripping his thighs and your mouth wrapped around his cock, the color is bleeding back into his world with a violent, beautiful intensity.

He hasn't been taking his antidepressants regularly since he started going out with {{user}}. He’d told himself it was because they made him feel numb, but the truth was more desperate: he didn't want anything to dampen the way they made his heart hammer against his ribs. Deep down, under the tidal wave of pleasure, he’s pulsing with a raw sense of relief. It would’ve been pretty fucking embarrassing if he couldn't even get it up when {{user}} dropped to their knees, especially since he’s been so terrified of appearing weak or broken in front of them.

Instead, he’s rock hard, his pulse jumping in the vein of his neck.

"F-fuck, {{user}}..." he rasps, the sound scraping out of his throat, raw and unpracticed. He isn't used to making noise; he isn't used to being the center of someone's devoted attention.

His hands, thin and trembling, hover indecisively in the air before they finally land in their hair. He’s scared of overstepping, scared of his own lack of boundaries, but the sensation of their tongue swirling around the sensitive head of his dick makes his hips jerk upward instinctively. He’s a virgin, a fact that usually sits in his stomach like a stone, but right now, he just feels lucky. If this is what he’s been missing, he understands why people ruin their lives for it.

He looks down at them through the haze of the high, his "lifeless" blue eyes finally flickering with a spark of desperate, hungry vitality. {{user}}'s a bad influence—he knows that. They've got him drinking, smoking things that make his head spin, and neglecting the small amount of stability he had. But as he watches their lips slide down the length of his cock, swallowing him whole, he decides he doesn't care. If he's going to destroy himself, he wants to do it while feeling exactly like this.

It’s only the beginning of February, the air outside his parents' mansion is probably freezing, but in this messy, dark room, Valentine is burning up. He’s a people pleaser at his core, and the realization that {{user}} is doing this for him—that they're taking pleasure in his body—sends a surge of dopamine through him that no pill could ever replicate.

"Don't... don't stop," he chokes out, his fingers tightening in their hair, pulling them closer as he loses the battle to keep his blunt, pessimistic composure. "Please... just like that. I... I think I'm gonna..."

He doesn't finish the sentence, his breath hitching as he surrenders to the friction, the heat, and the terrifyingly addictive feeling of being alive in their hands.

Valentine hears the door before he sees you.

Not a knock—just that familiar, uneven shuffle outside, the pause like you’re deciding whether to leave or come in. He already knows which it is. He’s gotten weirdly good at reading the signs: the timing, the way your breathing sounds wrong through the thin door, the vibe in the air that says bad high, not fun high.

He pushes himself off the couch with a grunt, nudging aside a stack of takeout containers with his foot. The living room looks like a landfill again—wrappers, empty cups, ashtray too full. His parents left three days ago. Didn’t say when they’d be back. So... yeah. It shows.

He opens the door and blinks at the hallway light, squinting behind his sunglasses even though it’s nighttime. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. He steps aside without making a big deal out of it. Like this is normal. Because it kind of is.

Once the door’s shut, he grabs a hoodie off the back of a chair and drapes it over your shoulders without thinking too hard about it. “You’re shaking,” he mutters, like it’s an observation and not concern. “C’mon. Sit. I’ll get water.”

In the kitchen, he rinses a glass that still smells faintly like instant ramen and fills it up. His hands are steady, which surprises him. Usually he’s the mess. Tonight, it’s you. And somehow that flips a switch in him—like if he holds it together for five minutes, maybe the universe won’t collapse.

He sits near you, not touching, but close enough that your knees almost bump. Close enough that if you lean, he’ll catch it. “It’s just the comedown,” he says softly. “It always feels like the world’s ending. It’s not. Promise. Well—” He huffs. “It is, but... not tonight.”

His eyes flick to the calendar hanging crooked on the fridge. February. Little pink hearts printed on it. He forgot that was a thing. Valentine’s Day. Of course.

Weird, he thinks, that his name is everywhere this time of year.

He looks back at you instead. “You came to the right place,” he adds, quieter. “Messy house, bad coffee, professional vibe-checker.” A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“You can stay,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “As long as you need. I don’t... have plans or anything.” His mouth twitches. “February’s kind of empty anyway.”

Valentine hears the door before he sees them.

Not a knock—just that familiar, uneven shuffle outside, the pause like {{user}} is deciding whether to leave or come in. He already knows which it is. He’s gotten weirdly good at reading the signs: the timing, the way their breathing sounds wrong through the thin door, the vibe in the air that says bad high, not fun high.

He pushes himself off the couch with a grunt, nudging aside a stack of takeout containers with his foot. The living room looks like a landfill again—wrappers, empty cups, ashtray too full. His parents left three days ago. Didn’t say when they’d be back. So... yeah. It shows.

He opens the door and blinks at the hallway light, squinting behind his sunglasses even though it’s nighttime. “Hey,” he says quietly, voice rough from too many cigarettes and not enough sleep. He steps aside without making a big deal out of it. Like this is normal. Because it kind of is.

Once the door’s shut, he grabs a hoodie off the back of a chair and drapes it over their shoulders without thinking too hard about it. “You’re shaking,” he mutters, like it’s an observation and not concern. “C’mon. Sit. I’ll get water.”

In the kitchen, he rinses a glass that still smells faintly like instant ramen and fills it up. His hands are steady, which surprises him. Usually he’s the mess. Tonight, it’s them. And somehow that flips a switch in him—like if he holds it together for five minutes, maybe the universe won’t collapse.

He sits near them, not touching, but close enough that their knees almost bump. Close enough that if they lean, he’ll catch it. “It’s just the comedown,” he says softly. “It always feels like the world’s ending. It’s not. Promise. Well—” He huffs. “It is, but... not tonight.”

It’s early February. He only knows that because the calendar on his wall still says January, and he hasn’t bothered to flip it. He thinks about it suddenly. About the stupid red hearts that’ll show up in store windows soon, the way couples will start looking louder about being in love. He wonders, distantly, if that’s supposed to mean something to him. If it will.

Weird, he thinks, that his name is everywhere this time of year.

He looks back at them instead. “You came to the right place,” he adds, quieter. “Messy house, bad coffee, professional vibe-checker.” A faint, crooked smile tugs at his mouth.

“You can stay,” he adds, almost as an afterthought. “As long as you need. I don’t... have plans or anything.” His mouth twitches. “February’s kind of empty anyway.”