Chapter 30
He is going to die happy.
Like, fully, 100 percent gonna die happy.
Charlie’s straddling Nick Nelson’s lap in the backseat of the car—Nick Nelson, rugby lad, sweet golden retriever, actual sex god in disguise Nick Nelson—and they’re making out like the world’s ending. Like they’ll die if they stop kissing for more than a second.
And maybe they will, because holy shit, Charlie’s lungs are struggling and his brain has stopped working and his thighs are shaking.
He is in heaven. No, scratch that, he's in hell. A very sweet hell that's holds on the gays and lets them get pegged.
Jesus, he ain't getting saved but damnit, he doesn't need saved.
The windows are completely fogged up, slick with condensation, which is… kind of hilarious in a cinematic, “we’re definitely going to hell” kind of way.
Five stars. Would make out here again.
He is literally in his lap. Grinding on him. Moaning into his mouth like a fucking Victorian ghost girl. Focus, Charlie. Fucking focus.
His hands are fisted in Nick’s curls, and Nick’s hands are everywhere, and Charlie thinks he might ascend.
Or combust. Or die.
Probably all three.
Nick groans into his mouth—low, breathy, needy—and Charlie actually whimpers. Like, audibly.
Which is mortifying, but also? Kind of deserved.
Nick is groaning into my mouth. Can you blame me?
No, nope, nope. He's ascending to hell. Screw the stories on heaven being high above. Truly, fuck that.
Nick’s cock is hard, pressing right up against his through their jeans, and Charlie can feel every bit of it.
Jesus Christ. Holy shit.
Jesus again. Hello, God? It’s Charlie Spring. Thank you for this divine blessing.
He wraps his legs tighter around Nick’s waist, instinctive and desperate, because he needs to be closer. As close as humanly possible. Or inhumanly. He’s not picky.
He just wants all of him.
Nick’s hands are on his waist, guiding him, grounding him, like he knows Charlie’s about to vibrate out of his skin.
His heart is thundering. He swears it’s shaking the car.
Nick’s kissing him deeper now, slower but more intense, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of Charlie’s mouth.
Which is stupidly hot.
No, seriously. Fuck this Rugby Lad Rich Man. Fuck him. Seriously, fuck him!
Charlie’s hands move again, dragging through Nick’s curls and then down his shoulders and oh fuck his shoulders. Broad and solid and stupidly perfect.
What kind of rom-com muscle anatomy is this?!
Then he shifts—just a little—and their cocks slide together through layers of denim and heat and holy mother of God. Charlie jerks, his hips moving without permission. He whines—actually whines—and bites down on his lip to keep from making another embarrassing sound.
Spoiler alert: It doesn’t work. He makes the noise anyway.
Nick looks at him then. Really looks at him. Pupils blown, lips kiss-swollen, chest heaving. He looks like Charlie’s the only thing in the world that exists. Like he wants to ruin him and hold him in the same breath.
Charlie’s dizzy.
Like, lightheaded.
Like someone replaced his bones with jelly and then told him to function as a human boy.
He’s so turned on it’s funny, actually. Like his whole body is in a permanent state of "what the fuck is happening" and all he can think is: Nick Nelson wants me. Is hard for me. Is literally letting me hump him like a goddamn bunny in heat.
He doesn’t even feel like himself.
He feels like a version of himself that got left out in the sun too long and became a puddle of lust and longing and really good decisions.
And God, Nick’s hands.
Straggle me. Pin me. Hold me. Wreck me.
One is sliding under his shirt now, splayed against his ribs, thumbs brushing skin that makes Charlie shiver. It’s not even sexual—it’s tender. Intimate. Like Nick’s memorizing him by feel.
Don't feel my scars. Not my scares. Please.
Breathe in.
Savor it.
Be okay.
Charlie swallows hard. His brain is still yelling things like Mark him. Lick his neck. Grind harder. Own him, but under all of that is something so deep it feels like it could split him open.
Because it’s not just the friction or the heat or the dizzying pleasure of it all.
It’s Nick.
And Nick wants him.
Not anyone else. Not in theory.
Him.
And fuck that, man. No, fuck that man. Seriously, give me that ass.
Charlie doesn’t know where to put his hands anymore. They’re everywhere—on Nick’s shoulders, down his chest, then gripping his stupid shirt because it’s in the way, everything is in the way.
He wants skin. He wants heat. He wants to see.
Needs to see.
His fingers are fumbling at the buttons, shaking with urgency and the sheer overwhelming fact that Nick Nelson is under him, and they are doing this, and he’s going to die. His brain has stopped functioning.
He has one brain cell and it’s screaming boobs even though he knows that’s not what pecs are called.
It doesn't matter.
They're Nick’s.
Oh Lord, he's gonna see Nick's boobs!
He manages one button, maybe two, before Nick pulls back—breathing hard, eyes feral.
“You’re taking too long,” Nick rasps, and then—
RIP.
That's him, too. R. I. P.
Rest. In. Pecs.
Charlie gasps. Full-on chokes on air. Because Nick just grabs his shirt and tears it open like a damn superhero, buttons flying into the void, possibly smashing into the window, possibly hitting Charlie in the eye (he’s too turned on to care), and then the shirt is gone, tossed into the front seat like a casualty of war.
And Jesus Christ on a bike.
Nick Nelson is shirtless. And not just shirtless—Nick Nelson is sculpted like a Greek tragedy.
Rest. In. Pecs.
Rest. In. Pecs.
Rest. In. Pecs.
Chest hair in all the right places. Golden skin. Shoulders that could carry emotional baggage for miles. There’s a tiny scar near his collarbone that Charlie suddenly wants to write poetry about.
His pecs rise and fall like something out of a music video Charlie definitely shouldn't have watched at thirteen, and his arms—oh, God, his arms.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Perfect. Beautiful. Mine!
Charlie’s brain short-circuits. Sparks fly. All systems offline. His gay little hands reach out before he can stop them, reverent and slow, and he drags his fingertips down the center of Nick’s chest.
This is real. This is happening. Nick Nelson has chest hair and pecs and I’m touching them and I have not been smited yet.
Jesus or whatever gay deity game him love, thank you!
Nick shivers. A real, physical shudder that goes through him like Charlie’s hand is made of static electricity and temptation.
So naturally, Charlie leans in and licks him. Right over the collarbone. Then lower. Mouth trailing heat and awe and pure greed over warm skin.
Again, can you blame him? Sex god. Truly.
His lips brush over Nick’s pec and when he hears that rough, low groan Nick lets out—Jesus Christ—he files it away in his mental library titled "Sounds That Will Ruin Me Forever."
Again. It's hot and sexy and raw and Charlie only has so much self control!
Nick’s hands snap back to his hips, tight, grounding, like he’s fighting gravity. Or sanity. Or maybe both.
Charlie grins against his chest, a little smug, a lot gone.
“This is insane,” he murmurs, dazed. “You’re so—fuck, you’re so hot. Like, offensively hot. Like I want to sue you.”
Nick laughs, breathless, and it sends a whole new shiver through Charlie’s spine. “So are you,” he growls, then grabs Charlie’s chin and kisses him again—hard and sweet and holy shit, yes, ruin me, please.
He has never been wanted like this before. Cherished like this before. And he's still fully clothed.
Ben never let him touch him with passion and greed and yearning. His one night stands never cared enough to bother kissing him. This is truly, forever, locked into memory.
And when their chests pressed together—heat-on-heat—Charlie practically sees God. His entire body hums. Sparks down his spine. There’s too much contact and not enough, all at once. Nick’s thigh shifts beneath him and Charlie gasps into his mouth, because pressure, because friction, because he is a problem now.
A problem he wants to dissolve. To love. To fucking wreck havoc on and rebuild again and again and again until the little fragments don't match and need to be glued.
He wants to be glued.
Nick is warm and solid and every little muscle flex makes Charlie want to write confessions and burn them in a fire.
How is this real? How is Nick real? How is this not a scene from one of those stories he used to read at 2 a.m. on A03 with the brightness turned all the way down?
Nick Nelson is hot. And he’s hard. For me.
I am going to throw up from joy and arousal. Possibly at the same time.
Charlie’s thighs are shaking again, partly from nerves, partly from the wild, relentless fact that he wants to climb him like a tree and never come down. His mouth moves on autopilot—kissing, tasting, claiming—while his mind spirals in a loop of mine mine mine holy fuck mine.
Nick growls into another kiss and rocks his hips up just once and Charlie gasps, whole body arching.
If this is a dream, Charlie is never waking up. Let him sleep forever. Let him die here.Naked (hopefully soon) in a car with a beautiful boy who wants him.
Thank you, universe. Thank you to the gay gods. Thank you to every poor decision that somehow led me here.
Charlie shifts in Nick’s lap, trying to breathe, trying to think, but then their hips press just right and—oh God—he feels it. The hard, undeniable line of Nick’s cock against him, heat and friction sparking right through layers of denim and desperation, and holy shit.
He lets out a sound—half gasp, half sob—and buries his face in the curve of Nick’s neck, fingers digging into his shoulders like he might fly off the planet if he lets go. He’s going to cry. Actually going to cry.
Not because he’s sad. No. Because he’s overwhelmed. Because he’s never felt this good.
Because Nick Nelson—his Nick—is hard under him, every breath catching, every moan sounding like it’s being pulled out of his lungs just for Charlie.
It’s too much. It’s everything.
Everything he’s ever thought about while curled under his blankets, flushed and aching and silent. Everything he’s imagined, but better—hotter—realer—because now Nick’s hands are sliding down his back, big and warm and everywhere, and Charlie is grinding on him, shameless, and Nick is letting him. No, not letting—encouraging.
Urging him on with every shaky exhale, every tiny thrust of his hips, every rough-sounding, “Fuck, Charlie…”
Charlie’s thighs are trembling.
He can’t stop moving.
Can't stop. Won't stop.
Every drag of their bodies together lights up his spine. He’s never felt anything like this, not even close, and the fact that Nick is into it—into him—that’s what’s going to kill him.
Nick is into a boy grinding on him.
Nick is into Charlie humping him.
Holy fucking yessss!
He feels Nick twitch beneath him, the heat of him, the pressure building with every roll of Charlie’s hips, and his brain is just… gone.
Melted.
Reduced to a puddle of sex-addled chaos.
His lips find Nick’s jaw, messy and frantic, kissing down to his neck. He mumbles something—he has no idea what—because his mouth is moving faster than his brain.
“Fuck, Nick—God—you feel so good—I can’t even think—I want to live here—on your lap—grinding on you forever—holy shit!"
Nick laughs, breathless, and cups his face to kiss him again, slower now, anchoring him. It’s soft. It’s grounding. But also? It makes Charlie even more desperate. Like, horny on a cellular level.
He grinds again, just a little shift, dragging their cocks together through denim and sweat and sin, and stars explode behind his eyes. He makes a sound that could definitely be classified as a whimper, his fingers clinging to Nick’s shoulders like lifelines.
“I’m gonna lose my mind,” Charlie gasps, laughing because it’s either that or combust. “You’re gonna ruin me. I’m gonna ruin you. We’re gonna ruin this car. I don’t care. Fuck, you smell good—your skin tastes good—your cock feels so good, I think I’m broken, I think—”
Charlie. Really?!
Cool it!
Nick groans again, deep and wrecked, and Charlie grins, almost feral. His mouth is on Nick’s throat, licking, biting, pressing sloppy kisses wherever he can reach, whispering the filthiest things his brain will let him form words for.
“Bet I could make you come without even touching you. Just this. Just grinding on you like this. Want you to lose it for me, Nick. Want you to fucking fall apart under me. Let me wreck you. Let me—fuck—let me ride you.”
Nick’s head drops back, a very real moan falling from his lips, and Charlie actually giggles, unhinged, dizzy with lust and love and all the tangled, wild feelings crashing through him.
His hips keep moving. His mouth keeps moving.
His whole body is humming with want.
And for once in his life, he’s not scared of it.
Because Nick wants this. Wants him. And he’s never felt this powerful or desired or alive.
Charlie presses their foreheads together, panting, eyes wide, voice ragged. “You’re gonna come, aren’t you?”
Nick nods, barely able to breathe.
Charlie smirks. “Good.”
It’s hot. It’s so hot.
Nick is gonna come!
He is going to see him come!
The kind of heat that clings to skin and makes your clothes feel like they're melting off. But Nick’s already shirtless—thank God—and Charlie gets a front-row seat to every tensing muscle, every flex of his arms, every soft, involuntary clench of his thighs when Charlie so much as moves a finger.
And Charlie? Charlie is thriving.
He smiles when his fingertip brushes over Nick’s left nipple and Nick bucks up, hips jerking off the seat like he’s been shocked. He lets out this low, broken sigh that sounds more like surrender than anything else.
Charlie files that away immediately.
Sensitive, huh?
Oh, you poor, sweet thing.
“Noted,” Charlie murmurs, his voice wrecked and smug all at once.
He leans down, kissing the slope of Nick’s neck, open-mouthed and lazy, letting his teeth scrape just a little. He can’t stop smiling. Because Nick—big, strong, sweaty, gorgeous Nick—is caged beneath him. Panting. Whimpering. Completely at Charlie’s mercy.
Charlie grinds down again, slow and mean, and Nick gasps, his hands flying to Charlie’s hips like he’s trying to anchor himself. His thighs clench again. His whole body is strung tight with need.
Charlie’s lips ghost along his jaw, and he whispers it—soft, teasing, low:
“Are you gonna be a good boy and come for me?”
And Jesus Christ.
Nick lets out the most wrecked sound Charlie’s ever heard. A noise pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, desperate and broken and so hot it makes Charlie groan into his neck.
Confident Charlie? Where the hell did that come from?
“Oh my God,” Charlie laughs, breathless and delighted. “You like that?”
Nick doesn’t answer. Not in words. But his whole body arches, his head tipping back, his mouth open in a silent moan. His grip on Charlie’s waist tightens like he’s about to fall apart.
“You like being called a good boy?” Charlie says again, this time directly into his ear. Testing him. Owning him.
And Nick whimpers. Actually whimpers like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, like he’s embarrassed by how much he wants it but wants it anyway.
Charlie’s brain does a backflip.Okay. Alright.
New core memory unlocked. This is my Roman Empire now.
He licks at Nick’s throat, trailing down over his chest again, mouth landing right over that sensitive nipple—and he doesn’t hold back this time. He pinches the other one with one hand, tongue flicking and teeth scraping at the first, and Nick loses it.
“Fuck—Charlie—sensitive—shit—please—”
And Charlie laughs. Giddy and turned on and absolutely drunk on power.
“You are so easy to ruin,” he purrs. “You get like this just from grinding? Just from a few little touches?”
Nick nods frantically, unable to form words, face flushed and damp and gorgeous in the low light. His legs are trembling now, and his cock is rock-hard beneath Charlie, straining against the front of his jeans.
“Want me to keep going?” Charlie whispers, nipping at the edge of Nick’s jaw. “Wanna be a good boy and come for me?”
Nick lets out a shuddering breath. “Charlie, I’m—I’m gonna—fuck—please—”
Charlie grinds harder, faster, mouth everywhere—neck, collarbone, chest, possessive in every kiss—and all the while his brain is screaming things like he’s so hot, I’m so hot, we’re literally going to burn this car down with sex vibes.
Charlie needs to see it.
It’s not even a want anymore—it’s a need, deep and consuming and clawing at his insides.
He needs to know what Nick looks like when he comes.
What his face does, what sounds he makes, how his body moves when it all hits.
It’s borderline scientific, the curiosity, the obsession.
But mostly it’s just this burning ache inside him because God, he’s so close—Nick is so close—and Charlie can feel it in every trembling breath.
Nick is chanting now, low and frantic. “I’m close—fuck, Charlie, I’m close, I—Jesus—you’ve gotta—Charlie—slow down, please—I’m gonna—fuck—Charlie—”
And Charlie doesn’t slow down. He grinds harder, hips rolling with more intent, more pressure, more everything.
He leans in, lips brushing the edge of Nick’s jaw, whispering, “I want you to.”
Nick whimpers.
And that’s it. That’s everything.
Charlie shifts his weight just slightly, one hand sliding between them, fingers trembling as he cups Nick through his jeans. He’s so hard, so hot through the denim, and when Charlie gives just one firm stroke of his palm, everything breaks.
Nick’s head drops back against the seat, jaw slack, mouth open wide as his eyes squeeze shut, crinkles forming in the corners, his forehead drawing tight. He gasps—one, two, three quick, shallow breaths—before he goes utterly still for one suspended second. Then he exhales in a long, desperate moan, and Charlie feels it—feels it—Nick twitching, his whole body tensing underneath him, undone.
He’s coming. Right there. Just from Charlie.
No hand. No undressing. Just heat and pressure and Charlie.
And Charlie watches all of it.
Holy fuck.
He made Nick Nelson come. Untouched. Just from kissing and grinding and touching and wanting.
Give me a god-damned Oscar now! Please! This performance is worth gold!
He’s frozen for a second, staring in awe, eyes wide and lips parted as Nick shudders through it, the aftermath making him tremble.
And God, he’s beautiful.
Chest heaving, cheeks flushed, lashes damp at the corners. His hands loosen on Charlie’s hips, but one drifts up to the back of his neck, fingers curling gently there like he needs to anchor himself.
Charlie leans forward, kissing the corner of Nick’s mouth, still stunned, still dazed, a giddy, reverent smile tugging at his lips.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice cracking with how much he’s feeling. “You’re—Jesus, Nick.”
Charlie’s still palming him gently, feeling every twitch, every ripple of sensitivity under his hand like Nick’s nerves are still crackling.
He can’t stop touching.
Can’t stop looking.
This is my man. Not yours. Mine.
Mine.
Mine.
Thus with a coming untouched victim, I die.
Because Nick looks wrecked. Boneless and panting, lips red and parted, cheeks flushed all the way down to his chest. And his face—God, his face.
Charlie’s obsessed with it.
The way his forehead crinkles like he’s fighting it. The way his jaw clenches and then just breaks open with the force of it, the way his eyes squeeze shut like if he looks at Charlie he’ll unravel completely. And those little gasps right before the moan, like his body’s trying to warn him, like it knows what’s coming.
It’s the hottest fucking thing Charlie’s ever seen.
And the thing is—he wants to see it again.
Wants to ruin him again.
Wants Nick to beg, to fall apart, to say his name like it’s a prayer or a curse or both.
So he doesn’t stop. He doesn’t give him time. He shifts forward again, pressing their hips together with slow, deliberate pressure, and Nick jerks, groaning like he’s in pain.
“Charlie—fuck—too much,” he gasps, voice high and trembling, like he’s trying to hold himself back. “I just—God, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Charlie whispers, dragging his lips across Nick’s throat. “You’re gonna do it for me again.”
Sorry baby, but I'm a determined asshole. Sorry sweetheart, I'm doing this for you. Sorry baby, but my minds made up.
Nick shudders, already hardening under him again—miraculously, stupidly, deliciously sensitive and overstimulated—and Charlie swears he’s never been so turned on in his life.
“Be a good boy for me,” he murmurs, grinding down with more intent now, his voice going low and dangerous and filthy. “Let go for me, baby.”
Nick lets out a whimper, the kind Charlie would bottle and play on loop for the rest of his life.
“You like that?” Charlie teases, voice soft and wicked. “You like when I call you good boy? You like when I tell you what to do?”
Nick just moans, head tipping back against the seat again, chest arching into Charlie’s touch like he needs it.
Jesus Christ, he’s so hot when he lets go.
So needy, so undone, trembling like his whole body is nothing but a bundle of nerves waiting to snap.
Nick looks so pretty like this
No stress. Just cute, utter bliss.
My baby.
Mine.
Charlie watches every second, hyperfocused on the tension in his face, the quiver in his lips, the frantic clutch of his hands on Charlie’s thighs.
Charlie’s hips roll down harder. More friction. More pressure. He’s saying anything that comes to mind now, half out loud, half in his head, like his thoughts are leaking.
- You look so pretty like this.
- So fucked out.
- I could ride you for hours.
- God, I want you to come again.
- I want to watch it.
- Want to see you lose it.
- Want to see that O face again, baby, come on—
Nick’s already close. Charlie can feel it. The way he tenses, the frantic, desperate noises falling from his lips. He’s clinging to control with his fingertips.
Charlie grins. Time to take it away.
“Let go, baby,” he whispers into his ear, voice like silk and sin. “I want you to come again. Right now. Just like this. Don’t fight it. Be my good boy.”
Jesus Christ.
Hes having a power trip.
Thus with a good boy under me, I die.
Thus with a trembling man listening to me, I die.
Thus as a gay man, I die.
Nick chokes on a sob of a moan, his entire body convulsing underneath Charlie as it hits.
And Charlie watches, starved, as Nick comes again—his back arching, thighs locking around Charlie’s hips, mouth dropping open in a perfect, broken O. His brows draw tight like it hurts how good it is, like it’s too much and not enough and everything all at once. A moan tears out of his throat, raw and loud and honest.
Charlie sees stars.
Watches it happen like he’s witnessing the divine.
Nick trembles, oversensitive and shaking, still clinging to Charlie like he’ll float away otherwise. His chest is flushed, his jaw slack, every part of him undone. He looks destroyed. Beautiful.
And Charlie?
Charlie’s mind is a mess of screaming.
That was so hot. That was so fucking hot.
He came again. Untouched. For me.
From grinding. From my words.
Holy shit, I have powers.
Sex wizard. I’m a god. Someone call the Vatican.
But all he says, when he finally finds his voice again, is:
“You are so fucking hot when you come.”
Nick is trembling. Fully, visibly trembling, his arms barely keeping him upright as he drags Charlie into a loose, shaky hug. His forehead presses to Charlie’s shoulder like he’s trying to remember how to exist. Like if he just holds on tight enough, the world will stop spinning.
Oh my baby. Oh my sweet baby, you did so good.
My good boy.
My Nick.
My rugby lad turning soft (literally)
Oh, my Nick.
You're okay. I've got you now.
Charlie rests his head on Nick’s chest, listening to his heartbeat—it’s still racing. Wild. Uncontrolled. And it sends a wave of heat through him, makes his blood thrum and his hips twitch, because God, he did that.
He made Nick come again, untouched, with nothing but words and friction and need. And Charlie isn’t even tired yet.
No. He’s wired.
He shifts his hips just slightly, just enough to grind down again—slow, purposeful—and Nick jolts.
“Charlie—Jesus—fuck—” he gasps, his hands clenching at Charlie’s back.
Charlie grins. No mercy.
“Still sensitive, huh?” he murmurs, trailing lazy kisses along Nick’s jaw. “I can feel it. Every little twitch. Your whole body’s still buzzing for me.”
Nick whines. His eyes squeeze shut. His head drops back against the seat again, completely exposed.
And Charlie—Charlie thrives.
“Oh, baby,” he breathes, voice sickeningly sweet, “I haven’t even touched you properly. You came in your jeans. Twice.”
Nick groans, broken and overstimulated, and Charlie moans, because God, it’s the hottest fucking thing. His cock aches, but the sound of Nick falling apart beneath him is almost enough to keep him going forever.
“You’re such a good boy for me,” Charlie whispers, deliberately soft and filthy. “Letting me grind on you. Letting me tease you. Letting me wreck you without even opening your jeans.”
Nick whimpers. That sound again. The one that makes Charlie want to ruin him all over.
“You like that, don’t you?” Charlie purrs. “You like when I call you that. My good boy. My pretty thing. Just sitting there and taking it like a champ.”
He’s grinding again now, slow but firm, and he can feel it—Nick’s body jerking beneath him, already building again. It’s stupid. It’s insane. But Charlie doesn’t care.
He wants to see what Nick’s face looks like when he’s completely, utterly wrecked. Not once. Not twice. But again. A third time. Pushed past the edge and dragged back by nothing but Charlie’s voice and hips and the burning heat between them.
“Every little sound you make,” Charlie whispers against Nick’s ear, “goes straight to my cock. Every gasp. Every moan. Every time you say my name like I’m the only thing holding you together.”
Charlie. Don't confess your love now. Nope nope nope.
Nick shudders.
“You are such a mess,” Charlie murmurs, almost fond. “And you’re still letting me do this.”
Nick gasps, head tilting forward, teeth sinking into his lip. “I—Charlie, please, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” Charlie says, all wicked smile and rolling hips. “Because you’re my good boy. And good boys come when they’re told.”
Fucking hell. Confidence and passion.
His fingers drag across Nick’s chest again, pinching lightly at his nipples just to feel the tremble that follows. Every breath Nick takes sounds like a sob now—every movement sending lightning through his nerves.
Charlie doesn’t stop.
Because he wants this. Wants to watch him shatter. Wants to leave his mark on every inch of Nick’s memory. Wants him ruined.
And he is.
Nick’s voice cracks, whispering “Charlie—Charlie—oh my God—too much—too much—fuck—” but his hips are rocking up, chasing the friction, begging for more even as he falls apart.
Charlie leans in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear, whispering it one last time:
“Come for me, baby. One more time. Be my pretty boy.”
And Nick breaks.
His body bows, his hands flying to Charlie’s arms like he needs something to hold on to, and he comes again.
Charlie watches it all.
He wants to bottle it, to burn the image into his brain forever.
Nick collapses under him, boneless and drenched in sweat, chest heaving like he’s run a marathon.
And Charlie?
Charlie grins, glowing, drunk on the power and the pleasure of it all.
He brushes Nick’s damp hair back from his forehead and kisses him softly, reverent now.
“You are so good for me,” he whispers. “So fucking good.”
Let me hold you now. Protect you from the world. Protect you from the future.
He lets them both rest, curled against each other in the backseat of a car that smells like sweat and sin and everything Charlie never thought he’d be lucky enough to have.
---
Nick’s body won’t stop shaking.
Not the good kind anymore. Not the orgasm kind. This is something else—deeper. Uncontrollable. Like something cracked open in his chest and now it’s all just pouring out.
Keep it together.
Fuck, who is he kidding... He can't keep it together because Charlie is on top of him and he's weightless and his mind is a wreck and he wants to cry.
His arms wrap tight around Charlie without thinking, dragging him down, pulling him close like he’ll fall apart if he lets go.
And then the tears start.
God, the tears. Fuck.
Stop!
Stop!
No!
Not the tears!
Fucking crying after coming. Jesus Christ he needs to talk to someone.
It’s humiliating.
He tries to hold them back—he really does—but his breath keeps hitching and his chest won’t expand properly and he’s crying. After sex. After Charlie just made him come three times like some kind of sex wizard, and now here he is—bare-chested and broken, sobbing into Charlie’s neck like a little kid.
Fucking keep it together!
But it's the best sex (is this sex?) he's had.
Fuck! He has sex with a boy. On the first date.
Oh God!
Don't cry. Stop it.
Fuck!
He wants to say something.
But it’s like the wires in his brain are frayed. Everything’s static. Every thought is crashing into the next one and short-circuiting before he can find words.
“Nick? What’s wrong—did I—did I hurt you? Oh my God, are you—”
Nick panics, shaking his head too hard. “No—fuck—no—you didn’t—I’m fine—I’m okay—I’m just—shit—sorry—”
Charlie pulls back, just enough to see his face, and fuck, it’s the worst. Nick can’t stand the worry in his eyes, the way he’s already trying to fix something that isn’t broken.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
I don't know why I'm so emotional. I'm usually not emotionally.
Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.
“I don’t usually cry,” Nick gasps, trying to laugh it off, trying to make it less, but his voice is still wobbling, and the tears are still there. “Not during sex. Or after. I swear. This isn’t—I don’t—fuck.”
Charlie just cups his face, gentle and quiet. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”
And that makes it worse. That makes Nick’s throat close up, his whole body pulling tighter, like he’s trying to hold everything in at once. But it hurts.
His chest is aching. His hands are still shaking. And the words—God, the words—are trying to spill out all at once.
“I’ve never—this was—you—I don’t know how to say it—fuck, I can’t—”
Charlie brushes a thumb under his eye. “You’re not making sense.”
Nick knows.
He knows he’s not making sense!
He’s a mess!
He feels cracked open, like all the things he’s shoved down for years are boiling up, rising to the surface in the aftermath of this. Of Charlie.
But he needs to say something.
“I’ve never done this before,” he blurts. “With a guy. Not like this. Not with anyone, actually. Not where it meant something.”
Charlie goes still.
I'm sorry.
I'm sorry I'm just the fuck boy.
I'm sorry.
Nick barrels on, voice raw and trembling. “And I don’t even know if you consider this sex, but it felt like it to me, it was for me, and I just—fuck, Charlie—”
He squeezes his eyes shut. Tries to breathe.
Breathe.
Stop crying.
In. Out.
Hold.
“You make me feel so good,” he says finally, quieter now, shaky. “Not just like… physically. Not just from what we did. But like—like I’m allowed to feel good. Like I’m safe. Like I’m not this fucked-up, too-much person who has to apologize for wanting something. And I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve you.”
Charlie doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything right away. Just brushes his hair back, kisses his forehead, holds him like Nick’s the most precious thing in the world and hasn’t just cried all over his shoulder like a complete disaster.
Can you hold me like this forever.
Can he show the world this?
Can he be pro and queer and be accepted?
Does he want this?
Does he want rugby?
Who is he?
Nick blinks up at him, face flushed, still sniffling. “I sound insane right now, don’t I?”
“No,” Charlie says. And he means it. Fuck, he means it. “You sound honest.”
Nick lets out a long breath, shaky and wrecked. His body is tired. His chest aches. He feels like he’s vibrating with emotion.
“I don’t want this to scare you,” he whispers. “I just… I didn’t expect to feel so much.”
Charlie leans in, noses their foreheads together. “Me either.”
And then: “You do deserve this. You deserve to be touched and kissed and wanted. You deserve someone who looks at you and sees you. And I do. Nick, I see all of you. Even this messy, post-orgasm, babbling version. And I still want you.”
Nick laughs, breathless, eyes burning. “Even the crying?”
“Especially the crying.”
Charlie holds him tighter, kissing his cheek, his temple, his jaw.
“I’ve got you,” he whispers again.
But do I have you?
Have I held you the way you've held me?
Have I been enough?
Have I been good?
Fuck, I'm terrible! I made this entire date about me!
Stupid stupid stupid!
Nick barely has time to breathe before the guilt sets in.
The aftershocks haven’t even finished rippling through him, and he’s already blinking away tears, already panicking at the way Charlie’s looking at him so softly. So gently. Like he’s something fragile.
God, I ruined it. I cried. During sex. What is wrong with me?
“Fuck,” Nick mutters, trying to clear his throat, his brain. “Charlie, just—hold on, I need to—let me return the favor, okay? Just—just give me a second, I—”
He’s already reaching for Charlie’s flannel, trying to tug it off, hands clumsy and trembling. His fingers fumble at the hem of Charlie’s cropped top, the one he’s always loved a little too much, the one that’s now clinging in all the right places because of how insanely hot things got.
Breathe.
You've taken clothes off before. You've got this.
Breathe.
It's just a boy.
Breathe.
You'll figure it out.
“I don’t really—I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admits, trying to keep his voice steady. “But I want to—I want to try—”
And then Charlie’s voice cuts through the haze, firm and sharp.
“Nick, stop.”
Nick doesn’t. He can’t. His hands are still moving, still reaching, like if he can just do something, give something back, he’ll feel less like a problem and more like a boyfriend (he wants to be a boyfriend).
He wants to be good.
Breathe.
It's just a top.
Return the favor.
Swallow the pride.
Breathe.
“Nick—stop it! I said stop!”
That lands like a punch. Nick’s hands drop instantly, flannel still half off, heart slamming in his chest. He sits back, eyes wide, the world tilting too fast.
What did I do wrong?
I can learn to be better.
I can do this!
“Sorry—I’m sorry—fuck, did you not want this?” he gasps, hands up like he’s surrendering. “Did I—shit, I didn’t mean to pressure you—please don’t tell me I—fuck, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry—”
“Nick,” Charlie says quickly, voice going soft again, reaching out to take his hands. “No. Baby. I’m okay.”
Okay?
Okay.
So he just doesn't want me?
Why?
Nick just stares at him, breath hitching, mind still racing.
Charlie squeezes his hands. “I want this. I do. Desperately. But—Nick, you’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Nick says automatically, even as his voice wobbles. “It’s just—it’s nerves or post-orgasm bliss or I don’t know. I’m okay. I want to, I do—”
“Nick,” Charlie says again, more gently this time. “Let’s just… slow down, yeah?”
Nick swallows hard.
He wants to say no. God, he wants to say no.
He wants to push through the discomfort, through the chaos, through the way his chest aches with everything he doesn’t know how to say.
Charlie’s still hard. He can feel it. And he hates the thought of leaving him unsatisfied.
But—he’s tired. His body aches. And, yeah, it’s not just the tears. It’s not just the orgasm. He’s realizing, now, how sore he is. How damp and sticky his jeans are. How his ankle’s throbbing again, that dull post-game ache pulsing to life. And there’s this headache building behind his eyes—pressure and indecision and future stuff he’s been avoiding.
And Charlie’s looking at him like he already knows.
“Nick,” Charlie says quietly, brushing a hand over his cheek. “Why don’t we just go to yours, yeah? You should probably get changed.”
Nick blinks. “But… but you—what? You don’t want me?”
Bad.
Ugly.
Wrong.
Too muscular.
Too needy?
Too emotional?
Not enough.
Bad.
Wrong.
Ugly.
Charlie lets out a soft, breathless laugh—like he can’t believe Nick still doesn’t get it.
“Nick. Stop. I want you. Desperately.”
Nick’s chest clenches. His throat tightens.
Charlie leans in, presses their foreheads together, and says it again, slower. Calmer.
“I want you. But I don’t think your first time jacking off another boy, or going down on him, or whatever we’d be doing, should be in the back of your car. Not when you’re like this. Not when you’re overwhelmed and sore and literally cried in my arms two minutes ago.”
Nick winces, but Charlie kisses his temple before he can spiral again.
“Your emotions are all over the place, baby,” he whispers. “That’s not a bad thing. But let’s not pile more onto you tonight, okay? Let’s just… go home.”
Home? Me and you?
Us?
Together?
How?
Yes? No? Yes? No? Maybe?
Nick exhales slowly. Nods. It’s not a no. It’s not rejection. It’s just… care. Love.
Charlie, being patient when Nick doesn’t know how to be patient with himself.
“Okay,” Nick says softly. “Okay.”
Charlie smiles and threads their fingers together.
“C’mon,” he says, pressing a kiss to Nick’s knuckles. “Let’s go home.”
And Nick, still sticky and aching and tear-streaked, feels like maybe that’s exactly what they’ve been building all along.
Not just sex.
Not just heat.
Home.