Charlie 13
Nick is swirling his whiskey lazily in the glass, staring down into the amber liquid as though it holds all the answers he’s been searching for. He wouldn’t say he’s wasted—no, not yet—but the warm buzz in his head is certainly leaning that way. Three? Four shots in? He’s lost track, and honestly, he doesn’t care to count.
He knows it’s not healthy. Knows the dull burn in his chest isn’t going to drown out the ache of his thoughts, no matter how many drinks he tosses back. Normally, he can push the memories down, stuff them into a locked box and shove them somewhere deep, somewhere unreachable. But today is different.
Today, the box has cracked open.
Maybe it’s because he’s been avoiding Charlie. Maybe it’s the guilt he feels for pulling away from something—someone—who has brought a little light back into his life. Or maybe it’s because the anniversary of Otis’s death is creeping closer, like a shadow he can’t escape. Another year without Otis. Another year where Nick has failed.
He tightens his grip on the glass, his knuckles whitening, and shakes his head as if that will make the thoughts go away. The bar is crowded, the music loud, the chatter a dull roar around him, but all he can hear is his own self-recrimination. He stares into his drink like it’s an anchor, grounding him against the tide of emotions threatening to pull him under.
And then he feels it—a hand on his shoulder.
His entire body stiffens, his breath catching in his throat. He’s not sure why it unsettles him, but he suddenly feels exposed, like the stranger behind him can see right through the carefully constructed walls he’s built around himself.
Nick turns, a defensive, cautious edge rising in his chest as he looks up to see who it is.
And there, standing in front of him, is Charlie Spring.
Nick usually considers himself a decent man, one who prides himself on being respectful, kind, and able to keep inappropriate thoughts at bay. But right now? Right now, he’s a goner. A total, irrevocable goner. Because Charlie Spring is standing in front of him, looking so unfairly, ridiculously good that Nick can barely breathe.
It’s the crop top that does it first—the way it sparkles in the dim light and rides up just enough to reveal a sliver of Charlie’s slim stomach. Nick’s eyes can’t help but linger there for a second too long, and he has to stop himself from biting his lip. It’s maddening. It’s unfair. How can someone look that good and not even realize the effect they’re having?
Then there are the jeans. God, the jeans. They hug Charlie so tightly it’s criminal. Every time he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, Nick’s gaze threatens to drop lower. His brain is screaming at him to look away, to focus on something else, but it’s impossible. Charlie looks like he stepped out of Nick’s wildest dreams, and Nick has no idea how he’s supposed to handle this.
And the eyeliner—Lord, the eyeliner. It’s smudged just enough to give Charlie an edge, to make his soft features pop in a way that feels both playful and dangerous. Nick can’t stop thinking about how it would look after a long, heated make-out session, smudged even more, tears of pleasure mixing with streaks of black. The thought sends a shiver down his spine, and he’s immediately cursing himself for even letting his mind go there.
But the worst—the absolute worst—is the way Charlie smiles nervously at him, like he has no idea how drop-dead gorgeous he is. It’s that mix of confidence and vulnerability that has Nick completely undone. He wants to grab Charlie by the hips, pull him close, and kiss him senseless right there in the middle of the bar. He wants to press his lips to Charlie’s jaw, his neck, his stomach—anywhere he can reach.
He’s a decent man, usually. But right now? Right now, all Nick can think about is how badly he needs to kiss Charlie. How badly he needs to feel Charlie pressed against him, warm and alive and perfect.
He’s completely and utterly screwed.
Then Charlie asks him in the sweet little voice and that kind heart to dance.
Dance? Dance? Nick thinks he might just combust on the spot. Charlie's asking him to dance, and all Nick can do is nod dumbly, his voice caught somewhere between his throat and his heart. His feet feel heavy as he follows Charlie to the dance floor, but his mind is already spiraling.
Because here’s the thing: Nick is holding it together. Or, at least, he’s trying to. But the moment Charlie starts moving, swaying his hips to the beat, Nick knows he’s a goner all over again.
The music pulses through the air, loud and hypnotic, and Charlie moves like he was born to dance, every shift of his body smooth and effortless. Nick’s eyes trail down, almost against his will, taking in the way the crop top rises and falls with each sway of Charlie’s hips, the way his jeans cling to his legs, the curve of his ass—oh God, the curve of his ass.
And then it happens. Charlie, perhaps a little emboldened by the atmosphere, backs up, and suddenly his hips meet Nick’s front. Right there.
Nick freezes. His brain short-circuits. His jeans feel impossibly tight, and he knows—he knows—Charlie must feel the heat between them.
How is Nick supposed to handle this? How is he supposed to keep his hands from gripping Charlie’s hips, pulling him closer? How is he supposed to keep from pressing his lips to the exposed skin of Charlie’s neck, letting the music drown out any self-control he has left?
Charlie doesn’t stop moving, swaying to the rhythm, his ass brushing against Nick’s crotch again, and Nick swears he might actually lose it. Every nerve in his body is screaming at him to do something, to make a move, to let go of the restraint that’s barely holding him together.
But he doesn’t. He stays rooted in place, his hands awkwardly hovering near Charlie’s waist, his pulse hammering in his ears. He’s trying—desperately trying—to stay decent, to stay in control.
But damn, Charlie is making it impossible.
Nick can’t help the awkward shrug that rolls off his shoulders as Charlie laughs, urging him, “Nick, come on! Dance!”
Nick shakes his head, a lopsided grin tugging at his lips, but the weight in his chest makes it hard to move. Dancing’s not really his thing—not when his mind is heavy with memories of Otis, not when he’s spent his whole life being the football guy, the one who’s meant to be strong and steady, not loose and carefree. And certainly not when he’s battling the thought that, no matter what he does, he’ll never deserve someone as kind and warm as Charlie.
“I’m not really a dancer,” Nick says, his voice low and almost sheepish. “Football lad, remember? Dancing isn’t in the cards for me.”
Charlie rolls his eyes, clearly not having it, but before he can argue back, Nick blurts out, “You look really fucking good.”
It’s impulsive, raw, and the second it’s out of his mouth, Nick wonders if the whiskey’s loosened his tongue a bit too much.
But then Charlie freezes mid-sway, his cheeks flushing under the dim lights, and a startled, almost breathless squeak escapes him. “Thank you! You, uh—you do too!”
Nick chuckles softly, letting his shoulders relax just a fraction. “I just came from work,” he admits, gesturing vaguely to his outfit—a crisp button-up and his usual trousers. “Thought I’d finish up some paperwork before the weekend.”
“Yeah?” Charlie says, stepping closer, his eyes scanning Nick’s figure with a deliberate slowness that makes Nick’s pulse quicken. There’s a teasing glint in his gaze as he adds, “Well, you look fucking good! I love these button-ups.”
Nick swallows hard, his fingers itching to reach out and trace the edge of Charlie’s sparkly crop top, to close the tiny space between them. “Thanks,” he says, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips. “It’s, uh... nice to hear that from you.”
Charlie grins back, his confidence building. “It’s the truth,” he says, his voice softer now but no less playful. “But, Nick? Football or not, you’re not getting out of this dance that easily.”
Nick groans, shaking his head again, but there’s no real resistance left in him. How could there be? Not when Charlie looks at him like that, all sparkles and smiles, like he’s the only person in the room worth noticing.
Nick's heart nearly jumps out of his chest when Charlie grabs his hands, the sudden, bold contact jolting him from his internal monologue. “What—” he starts, but then he squeaks. Actually squeaks, like a startled teenager, as Charlie presses Nick’s hands firmly against his waist.
“There,” Charlie says with a grin, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. “Now you’re dancing.”
Nick is frozen for a moment, his hands warm against the soft fabric of Charlie’s sparkly crop top. His brain is short-circuiting, trying to process the fact that Charlie just did that—without hesitation, without doubt, without any second thought. And then Charlie’s hips start swaying to the rhythm of the music again, moving with a fluid confidence that Nick is pretty sure could knock him flat on his ass if he wasn’t already standing.
Okay. Maybe he’s had more than four shots. Maybe this is some kind of whiskey-fueled fever dream, because there’s no way this is happening. There’s no way Charlie Spring, the boy Nick has been quietly pining over for weeks, just grabbed his hands and started dancing like this.
But it is happening. Charlie’s moving against him like it’s nothing, like they’ve done this a hundred times before. The music pulses through the floor, through Nick’s body, and all he can do is follow Charlie’s lead, his hands still resting on his waist as the world around them blurs into irrelevance.
“You usually go to a club to dance? Even most queer bars have a dance floor Nick.” Charlie teases, glancing over his shoulder at Nick with a mischievous grin.
Nick blinks, his mouth opening and closing like a fish. “I—I, uh—”
“Relax,” Charlie says, his voice light and reassuring. “I'm just teasing you.”
Nick exhales shakily, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Charlie’s waist as he tries to steady himself. The alcohol in his system makes everything feel hazy, but one thing is painfully clear: he’s in deep. So, so deep.
And as Charlie’s laughter mixes with the music, Nick can’t help but think that, for once, he doesn’t mind drowning.
Charlie sways in place, turning so his arms loosely wrap around Nick’s neck, the warmth of his body grounding him as the music pulses in the background. But his movements slow as he notices the look on Nick's face—distant, heavy, and not at all matching the upbeat vibe of the bar.
“Hey,” Charlie says softly, his voice cutting through the noise. “What’s wrong?”
Nick blinks, as if Charlie’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He shakes his head slightly, offering a weak shrug. “It’s nothing,” he says, though his tone betrays him.
“Nick,” Charlie presses, his brows furrowing. “Come on. You said you needed to get wasted. Did something happen?”
Nick hesitates, his hands still resting awkwardly at Charlie’s sides. He doesn’t know how to answer, how to explain the knot in his chest that’s been growing tighter all week. “It’s… it’s complicated,” he finally says, his words slurring slightly from the alcohol.
Charlie tilts his head, studying Nick’s face. “Yeah?” he prompts gently, not pushing too hard but not letting it go, either.
“Yeah,” Nick says, his voice cracking slightly as he looks down at Charlie. He shrugs again, but this time it’s heavier. “I just… needed to forget, you know?”
Charlie’s movements stop completely, and his arms tighten slightly around Nick’s neck. “Forget what?” he asks softly, his voice careful but laced with concern.
Nick sighs, his gaze dropping to the floor. “It’s just…” He hesitates, as if searching for the right words, then taps the side of his head. “Sometimes, things get too loud in here. And I don’t know how to turn it off.”
Charlie’s heart aches at the admission. Without a second thought, he pulls Nick into a hug, his arms wrapping tightly around him. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, his voice barely audible over the music. “I didn’t know.”
Nick stiffens for a moment, surprised by the gesture, but then he relaxes, his chin brushing the top of Charlie’s head as he lets out a shaky breath. “It’s not your fault,” he says, his voice quieter now. “It’s just… life, I guess.”
They stay like that for a moment, the world around them fading into the background. The music, the chatter, the clinking of glasses—it all becomes distant noise.
“Hey,” Charlie says, pulling back just enough to look up at Nick. “You don’t have to forget everything. Sometimes… sometimes it helps to talk about it. When you’re ready, I mean.”
Nick looks at him, his eyes glassy but warm. “Maybe,” he says, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Thanks, Charlie.”
Charlie grins back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Anytime.”
As the music swells again, Charlie begins to sway lightly, pulling Nick back into the rhythm. Nick doesn’t resist, letting himself get lost in the moment, the warmth of Charlie’s presence a welcome comfort.
Charlie’s eyes light up suddenly, and he gasps, grabbing Nick’s arm. “Jello shots! Oh my god, Nick, come on! Let’s do jello shots!”
Nick blinks, slightly startled. “Charlie, I don’t think—”
“Pleeease!” Charlie whines, practically bouncing in place. He clasps his hands together in mock desperation, the sparkles on his crop top catching the light. “Come on, Nick! This is my first night out in forever, and I really, really want to get drunk!”
Nick’s lips twitch, fighting a smile as he looks down at Charlie, who’s looking up at him with big, pleading eyes. “You’re already tipsy, Charlie,” Nick points out, his voice teasing but affectionate.
“Exactly! I need to keep it going!” Charlie insists, tugging at Nick’s arm. “Don’t be a party pooper! You’re the one who said you wanted to forget tonight, so let’s do it in style—with jello shots.”
Nick lets out a sigh, shaking his head, but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Fine, fine,” he relents, holding up his hands.
When they reach the bar, Charlie leans over the counter, calling to the bartender with a childlike glee, “Two trays of jello shots, please!”
Nick shakes his head, resting his hand on the small of Charlie’s back to steady him as Charlie nearly loses his balance. “You’re unbelievable,” Nick mutters, though his voice carries a hint of fondness.
Charlie turns to look at him, his grin wide and unbothered. “And yet, here you are, enabling me.”
Nick chuckles, shrugging. “Guess I’m doomed, then.”
When the bartender slides the trays of colorful jello shots across the counter, Charlie grabs one immediately, holding it up to Nick. “To getting drunk!”
Nick raises an eyebrow but picks up his own shot, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “To getting drunk,” he echoes, his voice dripping with amusement.
Satisfied, Charlie beams at him before they both toss back their jello shots in unison. Charlie’s face scrunches up slightly as he swallows, and he laughs, already reaching for another. “See? Isn’t this fun?”
Nick smirks, watching as Charlie’s joy radiates through the room. “Yeah,” he admits, his tone softer this time. “This is fun.”
Charlie, with his newfound excitement, quickly flags the bartender down, ordering another round of jello shots. “Another, please! And make them the strong ones!” he says, grinning ear to ear.
Nick leans against the counter, watching Charlie’s energy buzz around him like a live wire. The bartender barely has time to set the next tray down before Charlie’s already holding one up again. “Come on, Nick, don’t slow down on me!”
Nick groans softly, shaking his head but unable to suppress the growing blush spreading across his cheeks. It’s not just the alcohol warming him—it’s the way Charlie throws back his head when he laughs, the way his lips wrap around the rim of the small plastic cup as he swallows the jello shot, the faint shimmer of the glitter on his cheeks catching the light.
God, he’s attractive. Too attractive.
“Charlie,” Nick starts, his voice hoarse as he tries to ground himself, “you’re really, uh, enjoying these, huh?”
Charlie grins, licking his lips and setting the empty cup down with a flourish. “It’s not every day I get a night out, Nick. You’ve got to live a little!”
Nick swallows hard, reaching for his own shot just to have something to focus on other than the way Charlie’s jeans cling to him perfectly or how his crop top shows just enough skin to drive him absolutely mad.
“Yeah,” Nick mutters under his breath, the alcohol already making his head buzz. “Living a little.”
But he’s not sure if it’s the shots or Charlie’s energy that’s making his pulse race. Maybe it’s both. Definitely both.
Charlie sets his empty jello shot cup down, grinning ear to ear. “Okay,” he announces, his voice lilting with tipsy confidence. “I’m properly tipsy now. Come on, Nick!”
Before Nick can protest, Charlie grabs his hands and drags him back to the dance floor. “Charlie—wait,” Nick starts, but his words get lost in the pulsing beat of the music and the warmth of Charlie’s grip.
The lights are dimmer now, the colors swirling and blending like a living painting. The crowd is thicker, bodies moving together in a sea of rhythm. And Charlie? Charlie is in the middle of it, commanding the space around him with a carefree grin and swaying hips that make Nick’s brain short-circuit.
“Just follow my lead!” Charlie shouts over the music, spinning around and pulling Nick’s hands to his waist.
Nick freezes, unsure where to look—at Charlie’s bright, mischievous eyes or at the way his body moves like it was made for this. Before Nick can decide, Charlie’s back presses against his chest, and his hips sway, aligning perfectly with Nick’s.
Nick’s breath hitches, his hands instinctively tightening on Charlie’s waist as his mind screams at him to get a grip. He can feel the heat radiating off Charlie, the smooth rhythm of his movements as he rolls his hips, pressing back just enough to leave Nick teetering on the edge of sanity.
“Charlie,” Nick murmurs, his voice strained as he bites his lip, trying to ground himself in the faint sting of pain instead of the very present rush of blood pooling south.
Charlie turns his head slightly, his laughter vibrating through Nick’s chest. “Relax, Nick,” he teases, moving to the beat like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Just have fun!”
Nick is too overwhelmed to respond, his mind torn between the alcohol clouding his thoughts and the very sober realization that Charlie—beautiful, magnetic, intoxicating Charlie—is dancing against him like they’ve done this a thousand times before.
Nick’s grip loosens slightly, his body betraying him as it starts to move with Charlie’s, and all he can think is that he’s absolutely, completely doomed.
Nick doesn’t know what takes over. Maybe it’s the alcohol, burning warm in his veins, or the pounding beat of the music that drowns out every coherent thought. Or maybe it’s the flashback to his college years—the countless frat parties and bars, being the captain of the football team, grinding against someone to forget about the weight of failure, the ache of loss, the haunting memory of Otis.
But something does take over.
Before he can stop himself, his hand moves, sliding up from Charlie’s waist to press gently against his sternum. It’s firm but not forceful, grounding, as if Nick is anchoring them both in this moment. His palm rests there, feeling the rhythm of Charlie’s chest rising and falling with each breath, and it keeps Charlie impossibly close—so close that Nick can feel the warmth radiating off him, the faint tremble in his movements as they sway and grind to the pulsing beat.
Charlie’s breath catches, and for a moment, his eyes dart to Nick’s face, searching for something—hesitation, discomfort, a hint of regret. But all he finds is Nick’s gaze locked onto him, hazy and intense, the soft blush on his cheeks deepening in the club’s dim lighting.
They move together, fluid and seamless, as if the rest of the bar has faded into nothingness. Nick’s hand stays firmly on Charlie’s chest, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of the crop top. It’s scandalous, it’s bold, and it’s completely out of character for Nick—yet, somehow, it feels right.
Nick lets himself forget everything else. He forgets the rules, the guilt, the fear of getting too close. He lets himself live in the moment, where Charlie’s laughter vibrates against his chest, where their movements are perfectly in sync, and where, for once, Nick doesn’t feel like he’s failing.
When Charlie does a specific sway of his hips, Nick feels it—a little too much. Charlie’s ass presses against his crotch, and Nick immediately tries to shake the thought away, desperately willing himself to focus on something, anything, else. But then Charlie does it again. And again.
Nick’s mind spirals. Every movement, every sway, feels deliberate, like Charlie knows exactly what he’s doing—and maybe he does, judging by the teasing, cheeky grin on his face when he glances back. Nick’s breathing grows heavier, and he feels the heat rising in his face, his chest, and, unfortunately, lower.
He’s painfully aware of the growing tightness in his jeans, and before he can stop himself, a low groan escapes his lips. “Charlieeeee,” he practically whines, his voice a mix of frustration and something much deeper.
Charlie, entirely unbothered and maybe even enjoying himself a little too much, hums in response, swaying his hips again, deliberately slow this time. “What?” he asks, his tone light and teasing, a mischievous glint in his eye.
Nick clenches his jaw, his hands tightening slightly on Charlie’s waist. “You... you know what,” he mutters, his voice rough, though he doesn’t pull away.
Charlie laughs, his head tilting back slightly to look at Nick. “Do I, though?” he asks innocently, though the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips says otherwise.
Nick lets out another groan, this time louder, trying to focus on anything else—the music, the lights, the people around them—but it’s impossible with Charlie pressed so firmly against him. “You’re going to kill me,” Nick mutters under his breath, though a part of him doesn’t mind at all.
“Relax, Mr. Nelson,” Charlie says with a playful wink. “We’re just dancing.”
Nick swallows hard, his grip on Charlie’s waist loosening slightly, but he doesn’t move his hands away. “Yeah,” he says, more to convince himself than anything. “Just dancing.”
But the way Charlie moves, the way he looks at Nick, makes it clear that this is anything but just dancing.
Ten minutes later, Nick’s focus is completely shot. Three songs deep, countless shots coursing through his system, and all he can think about is how Charlie feels against him. The sway of Charlie’s hips, the warmth of his body, the way his crop top rides up just enough to tease bare skin—it’s all too much. Nick is painfully hard, and he knows he’s well past the point of pretending otherwise.
His brain might be fuzzy from the alcohol, but his body is moving on instinct now. He leans down, his breath hot against Charlie’s ear, and starts with a soft kiss right on the lobe. Charlie stills for a moment, and Nick smirks, his confidence growing as he tugs gently at the earlobe with his teeth before whispering, “Charlie.”
The name falls from his lips like a plea, low and raspy, and before he can stop himself, he’s pressing Charlie closer, one hand firmly planted on Charlie’s waist. He brushes his lips against Charlie’s cheek, a featherlight kiss, before trailing lower to his neck. The second his lips meet Charlie’s skin, he feels the man shudder in his arms, a soft gasp escaping him.
Nick grins against Charlie’s neck, emboldened. He leaves another kiss, this time pressing a bit harder, and then another, moving lower. When he hits a spot just beneath Charlie’s jawline, Charlie gasps audibly, his head tilting back ever so slightly to give Nick better access. The sway of Charlie’s hips slows, his movements becoming more languid, almost distracted, as if he’s melting into the sensation of Nick’s lips on his neck.
Nick doesn’t stop. He presses kiss after kiss along Charlie’s neck, each one deliberate, each one staking a silent claim. His hands tighten on Charlie’s waist, pulling him impossibly closer as if they weren’t already pressed together. He feels Charlie’s body relax against his, surrendering to the moment, and it sends a rush of heat through Nick that has nothing to do with the alcohol.
He doesn’t think about the crowded bar, the people around them, or the consequences. All he can focus on is Charlie—the way he feels, the way he smells, the way he reacts to every single kiss. Nick smiles against Charlie’s neck, satisfied and utterly captivated, and whispers, “You’re incredible.”
Nick feels the moment Charlie lets out a soft, barely audible whine deep in his throat, and it sends a bolt of heat straight through him. He smirks against Charlie’s skin, the sound like music to his ears. Without thinking, without hesitation, he leans back in, placing another deliberate kiss on Charlie’s neck, this time letting his lips linger just a little longer.
He sucks gently at first, testing the waters, but when Charlie tilts his head further to the side, giving him even more access, Nick takes it as an invitation. He deepens the kiss, sucking harder now, determined to leave a mark—not just on Charlie’s skin, but as a silent declaration.
Charlie’s hips are still swaying, albeit slower, almost teasing, and Nick groans quietly. One hand grips Charlie’s waist tightly, holding him steady, while the other slides up to brush against the bare skin exposed by the rising hem of the crop top. His fingers flex instinctively, craving more contact, craving more of Charlie.
He knows he’s painfully hard, knows he’s teetering on the edge of losing all self-control, but he doesn’t care. Not right now. Not when Charlie is like this in his arms, pliant, warm, and swaying to the rhythm of the music like they’re the only two people in the world.
Nick pulls back just enough to catch his breath, his lips tingling from the force of his kisses. He glances at Charlie, catching the way his cheeks are flushed and his eyelids are heavy with something that might be desire. It’s intoxicating, seeing him like this, and Nick can’t help but dive back in, pressing another kiss to the spot he just marked, his tongue flicking lightly over the sensitive skin to soothe it.
Charlie shivers against him, and Nick smiles against his neck, possessive and completely undone. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he murmurs, his voice rough and low. He tightens his hold on Charlie, his hands grounding them both, and all he can think is how much he wants to keep ravishing Charlie, how much he wants to make him feel this way forever.
Nick is absolutely not prepared for this. His brain is already foggy from the alcohol, from the heat of dancing, from the steady, unbearable grind of Charlie’s body against his just moments ago. But this—this is something else entirely.
He squeaks—actually squeaks—when Charlie suddenly turns, his hands pressing firmly against Nick’s chest. Nick’s shirt buttons protest under the pressure, and before he can even process what’s happening, one of them is undone. He barely has time to stammer out a “Charlie, wha—” before he’s being pushed back.
And back.
And back.
Until his back hits something cold and hard. Nick hisses softly at the cold metal pressing against his overheated skin and turns his head to see what he’s collided with. A photo booth? Okay, this is… not what he expected, but then again, nothing about tonight has been what he expected.
When he glances back at Charlie, there’s a glint in his eye, something playful, something dangerous in the best possible way. Charlie pulls the curtain open with a dramatic flourish and gestures to the bench inside. “Get in,” he says, his voice firm but teasing.
Nick blinks. “What?”
Charlie doesn’t waver, doesn’t explain. He just smirks and repeats, slower this time, “Get. In.”
Nick swallows hard, his throat dry despite the amount of whiskey he’s consumed. He obliges, of course, shuffling into the booth with a mixture of confusion and excitement bubbling in his chest. The bench is cramped, and he awkwardly adjusts himself, shifting to find a comfortable spot—and to make sure his painfully tight pants don’t make his current situation even more obvious.
He looks up, expecting Charlie to slide in beside him, maybe to pull out his wallet and feed the machine for a fun, tipsy photo memory. But no. That’s not what happens. Not even close.
Instead, Charlie pulls the curtain shut, sealing them both inside the dimly lit booth. And then—oh, God—Charlie climbs onto Nick’s lap, his knees bracketing Nick’s hips, his hands gripping Nick’s shoulders as he straddles him.
“Charlie,” Nick breathes, his voice cracking slightly as his hands instinctively move to Charlie’s waist, steadying him.
Charlie doesn’t answer immediately. He just leans in, his face inches from Nick’s, his breath warm and laced with the sweetness of whatever he’s been drinking. “Hi,” Charlie whispers, a mischievous grin tugging at his lips.
Nick’s heart is racing, his hands tightening on Charlie’s waist as he looks up at him, utterly dumbfounded and completely captivated. “Hi?” he manages to squeak back, his voice embarrassingly high-pitched.
Charlie chuckles softly, his hips shifting ever so slightly, and Nick nearly groans at the sensation. He’s utterly undone, his mind blank except for one singular thought: What on earth is Charlie Spring doing to him?
Nick gasps, the sound sharp and unrestrained, as Charlie grinds down on him deliberately. It’s not a subtle move—it’s experimental, curious, as if Charlie’s testing the waters, seeing what kind of reaction he can coax out of Nick. And it works. Oh, does it work.
Nick’s hands tighten instinctively on Charlie’s waist, his fingers digging into the fabric of the sparkly crop top as he tries—really tries—to keep it together. He bites his lip hard enough to almost draw blood, hoping the pain will help him keep the noises at bay. But then Charlie does it again. And again. Each roll of his hips is slow, calculated, and utterly devastating.
"Charlie," Nick breathes, his voice cracking under the weight of everything he’s feeling. He can’t think, can’t focus on anything other than the overwhelming heat of Charlie’s body pressed against him, the intoxicating sway of his hips. It’s as if the entire world has shrunk down to the tiny, dimly lit photo booth, and nothing exists outside of this moment.
Charlie leans closer, his lips brushing against Nick’s ear as he whispers, "You okay?" His tone is teasing, but there’s a genuine softness beneath it, a hint of concern that makes Nick’s chest ache in the best way.
Nick opens his mouth to respond, to say something—anything—but all that comes out is a shaky exhale as Charlie grinds down on him again, a little harder this time. Any progress Nick had made in trying to hide his arousal is gone, obliterated by Charlie’s relentless teasing.
“God, Charlie,” Nick groans, his head falling back against the booth’s wall with a soft thud. His hands move on their own accord, sliding up from Charlie’s waist to his ribs, and for a brief, fleeting moment, he considers pulling Charlie closer, letting himself fully indulge in this intoxicating game.
But then he freezes, his breath hitching as a wave of clarity cuts through the haze of desire. What are you doing? his brain screams. This is Charlie. This is Remy’s dad.
“Charlie,” Nick says again, his voice rough and breathless. “We can’t… I mean… we shouldn’t…”
Charlie tilts his head, his eyes glinting with amusement as he leans in, his lips hovering just above Nick’s. “Shouldn’t what, Nick?” he murmurs, his voice low and teasing. “Have fun? Let go for once?”
Nick swallows hard, his resolve crumbling bit by bit with every second that passes. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.
Charlie grins, his hips shifting once more. “Good,” he whispers.
Nick's entire body tenses at the sensation of Charlie grinding down against him, their crotches aligning perfectly, igniting a fire so intense he feels like he might combust. His hands grip Charlie's waist tightly, trying to ground himself, but the heat spreading through his body makes it impossible to think straight.
"You know how crazy you've made me?" Charlie's voice is low, almost a growl, as he grinds down again, slow and deliberate.
Nick's breath catches in his throat, and his nails dig slightly into Charlie's hips. Every inch of his body screams at him to pull Charlie closer, to take more, to lose himself in this moment.
"You've been ignoring me," Charlie continues, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and vulnerability that sends a pang straight through Nick's chest. "And thought it was because of me,"
Nick shakes his head frantically, his words tumbling out in a desperate attempt to explain. "No, no, that's not-" But his voice falters and breaks as Charlie leans in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of Nick's neck. "Fuck" Nick groans, his head falling back against the photo booth wall.
His hands move instinctively, one sliding up to the small of Charlie's back to pull him closer, the other gripping the edge of the bench as if it'll keep him from completely unraveling. "Charlie-no, it wasn't you. I swear."
But then Charlie's fingers thread through his hair, pulling it just enough to send a sharp, electric jolt through Nick's body. His thoughts scatter, and all he can focus on is the warmth of Charlie's lips trailing kisses along his neck. The deliberate press of Charlie's mouth against his skin sends waves of pleasure rippling through him, and Nick's breath hitches again.
"Why then?" Charlie whispers against his neck, his voice softer now but no less intense. He pulls back just enough to meet Nick's eyes, his brows furrowed in confusion and something raw. "Why did you pull away from me? Why have you been ignoring me?"
Nick swallows hard, his chest heaving as he tries to form a coherent response. "|–" He takes a shaky breath, his fingers twitching against Charlie's back. thought I was doing the right thing. For you. For Remy. I didn't want to mess things up, to confuse you, or him."
Charlie stares at him, his lips parted, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he speaks, his voice steady but soft. "You thought you'd mess things up by what? By being yourself? By being... interested in me?"
Nick exhales, his voice breaking as he admits, "I didn't think deserved this. You. Any of it."
Charlie's expression shifts, his eyes softening, and he leans in, his forehead brushing against Nick's. "You idiot" he whispers, his lips curving "You deserve to be happy."
Nick’s mouth opens, a breathy attempt at forming words, but it’s useless—Charlie’s hips grind down on him again, and a strangled sound escapes his throat. The friction is maddening, his body betraying him as he instinctively bucks up to meet the movement, desperate for more of the delicious pressure that sets every nerve on fire.
“Charlie—” he tries, his voice cracking, but the name comes out more like a broken plea than anything coherent. He grips Charlie’s waist tighter, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of his crop top, but it only spurs Charlie on. Nick lets out a small, involuntary cry as Charlie leans down, his lips brushing gently against Nick’s forehead in a kiss that feels almost reverent, as if to say, I’ve got you.
The tenderness of the kiss is short-lived, though, as Charlie’s lips trail lower, finding Nick’s neck once again. His mouth presses into the sensitive skin, sucking lightly before moving to the spot just below Nick’s ear, and Nick swears he’s going to lose it. His body trembles, caught between the intoxicating grind of Charlie’s hips and the sharp, electric jolts of pleasure that come with every kiss.
Nick can barely breathe when he feels Charlie’s fingers deftly undo another button on his shirt, exposing more of his chest to the cool air of the booth. The contrast of the chill against his overheated skin sends a shiver down his spine, and he can’t stop himself from humping up against Charlie, chasing the friction, the pleasure, the everything.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he chokes out, his voice raw and desperate. His head falls back against the booth wall, his hands sliding up to grip Charlie’s shoulders, as if grounding himself is the only way to keep from completely falling apart. “You’re gonna— I can’t—”
But Charlie doesn’t stop, doesn’t let up. His lips curve into a cheeky smile against Nick’s neck as he murmurs, “You can’t what, Nick? Tell me.” His voice is low, teasing, and it sends a bolt of arousal straight through Nick.
Nick’s only response is a guttural groan, his hips jerking up instinctively, and the sound of their shared, ragged breathing fills the small space. He knows he’s on the verge of completely losing control, and Charlie seems to know it too—his every touch, every grind, every kiss feels intentional, like he’s testing how far he can push Nick before he breaks.
And Nick knows he’s seconds away from breaking.
Nick’s breath catches, his entire body going still as Charlie’s fingers tease along the edge of his trousers. The sensation is maddening, his mind spiraling at the gentle tap against his button, so teasing and deliberate. His heart is pounding in his chest, his blood rushing so loudly in his ears he can barely hear himself think.
And then Charlie leans in, his lips brushing against Nick’s ear as he whispers, his voice low and dripping with want, “I want to suck you off.”
Nick shudders, his hands trembling as they tighten their grip on Charlie’s waist. His self-control, fragile and barely holding on, snaps completely at the words. He lets out a strangled noise, a mix between a gasp and a groan, his head falling forward until his forehead presses against Charlie’s shoulder.
“Fuck, Charlie,” he mutters, his voice shaking. “You can’t just— You can’t say things like that.”
Charlie tilts his head, pulling back just enough to meet Nick’s wide, dazed eyes. “Why not?” he teases, his fingers still toying with the button on Nick’s trousers. His smirk is both playful and devilish, his cheeks slightly flushed from the alcohol and the heat between them. “You’re hard as hell, Nick. I think you like the idea.”
Nick closes his eyes tightly, as if that could block out the sensations coursing through his body. It doesn’t work. “You’re going to kill me,” he murmurs, his voice wrecked and trembling, but there’s no denying the desire burning in his gaze when he looks back at Charlie.
Charlie grins, leaning forward until their lips are a breath apart. “Not until you let me take care of you,” he whispers, his voice honeyed and inviting, before pressing a kiss to Nick’s lips—soft, teasing, and far too fleeting.
Nick groans again, his body reacting on instinct, his hips jerking up to meet the warmth of Charlie’s. “Charlie,” he gasps, his hands sliding down to grip Charlie’s thighs. “You’re playing with fire right now.”
Charlie chuckles, low and dangerous, his fingers finally undoing Nick’s button with a practiced ease. “Maybe I like getting burned,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss Nick again, this time deeper, hungrier, and full of promise.
Nick groans deeply, his fingers tightening in Charlie’s curls as he pulls him in, their lips colliding fiercely. There’s no hesitation, no room for gentle exploration—if Nick’s going to kiss Charlie Spring, it’s going to be everything he’s been holding back, passionate and raw and utterly overwhelming. His teeth graze Charlie’s bottom lip, earning a muffled gasp that only fuels him further.
He whines into the kiss, his hands gripping Charlie’s hair, silently begging for Charlie to meet him at the same intensity. And when Charlie does—when he grinds against him, pulling Nick closer, their breaths mingling—Nick’s heart pounds in a way that feels almost painful. He feels Charlie’s hands sliding down his chest, tugging at his shirt, and it’s like his body is on fire.
When Charlie pulls back just enough to whisper, his breath ghosting over Nick’s lips, Nick swears he’s going to combust. “Please don’t make me beg,” Charlie murmurs, his voice low and wrecked. “I want to suck you off. Please, let me.”
Nick’s head falls back against the photo booth wall with a thud, his breath coming in uneven gasps. “Fucking Christ, Char,” he rasps, his voice hoarse and full of disbelief. His hands slip to Charlie’s waist, holding him firmly, as if grounding himself. “You’re... I—are you sure? This is—I'm your son’s teacher, Char. I don’t want to mess this up with you. I can’t mess this up.”
Charlie leans closer, his lips brushing against Nick’s jaw, his breath warm and teasing. “How could this mess anything up?” he whispers, his hands traveling down to toy with the waistband of Nick’s jeans. His voice drops even lower, more dangerous, more desperate. “I want you so fucking bad, Nick. Let me.”
Nick groans, his head tilting back against the wall of the photo booth, eyes squeezing shut as Charlie's hand presses against him through the fabric of his jeans. His breath catches in his throat, and he shakes his head, gripping Charlie's hips to still him. "Not here," Nick murmurs, his voice low and strained.
Charlie pouts, leaning in closer, his lips brushing against Nick's neck as he whines, "Why not here? It's just us, and no one can see." Nick exhales shakily, his resolve hanging by a thread as Charlie palms him again, teasing him in a way that has his entire body responding.
"Charlie," he says, his voice a mix of warning and desperation. "Not here. Not in this tiny photo booth where anyone could hear-or Worse, walk in."
Charlie smirks, clearly enjoying the effect he has on Nick, and leans in to press a kiss to his jaw. "Okay" he whispers, his tone mischievous, his hand trailing down to Nick's waistband. "What about the bathroom?"
Nick lets out a frustrated groan, grabbing Charlie's wrist and shaking his head firmly. "No. Not in some gross bar bathroom either" he says, though his resolve is clearly weakening, his breath hitching when Charlie tugs lightly at the elastic band of his boxers, letting it snap back teasingly.
"Well" Charlie says, his grin widening, his lips brushing against Nick's ear as he murmurs, "I have a free house tonight."
Nick's eyes fly open, and he swallows hard, his fingers digging into Charlie's hips. "You do?" he asks, his voice almost a growl, though the hesitation is still there.
Charlie nods, his curls brushing against Nick's cheek as he presses closer, his hands sliding up to rest against Nick's chest. "I do" he confirms, his voice low and inviting. "So, what do you say?"
Nick's breath catches, and his eyes widen for a moment before he nods quickly, his words tumbling out. "Yeah, that... that works."
Charlie's grin spreads as he leans back, looking far too smug. "Good"' he says, his voice low and inviting. "Let's get walking, then." His fingers ghost under Nick's waistband, sending a jolt through him, but before Nick can say anything, Charlie pulls back and starts to slide off his lap.
Nick blinks, confused for a moment, his hands hovering as if unsure what to do. "Walk?" he asks, his voice hoarse.
Charlie stands, pulling the curtain aside and flashing Nick a playful look over his shoulder. "To sober up," he says with a shrug. "I'm not risking forgetting this."
Nick watches him, his chest tight and his heart pounding, before quickly scrambling to follow.