Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I. thumb

It's only been a week since Nick and Charlie moved in together - after only three months of dating, and, yes, they've already heard all the U-Haul Lesbian jokes, thank you very much - and the apartment still shows it.

There's cardboard boxes stacked like unstable towers in corners, half-unpacked. The rug is still rolled up. A print Nick framed leans against the hallway wall instead of hanging. The dining table is cluttered with a screwdriver, a hex key, and a box of mismatched screws. Clean clothes are draped over the back of a chair in the living room. They still haven't figured out where the electrical box is. There's a single bright blue IKEA bag neither of them has touched since moving day; it could have almost anything inside at this point: Christmas decorations, extension cords, a dozen half-empty bottles of cleaning product.

Charlie nudges the front door open with his shoulder, balancing a canvas grocery bag in one arm. It's nearly 7 - on Tuesdays he has band practice with Queer Intentions. His body aches in that familiar, post-rehearsal way: his back a little tight, his fingertips buzzing faintly, ears still ringing with synths and drums.

He'd stopped by the grocery store on his way home, picking up everything he needs to make Nick a noodle soup, praying the recipe he selected at random off the Internet will yield something halfway decent-tasting and nourishing.

Nick

'Long day. One of the toddlers bit me and then cried. Like dude. You bit ME. Feeling a bit headachy. Just want to lie down and disappear. Love you xxxx'

Charlie

'Love you more. Rest up until I get home, baby. I'll take care of you. Will be back at 7 xxxx'

The light in the living room is low and gold, coming from the corner lamp and the dim flicker of the muted TV screen. The rest of the apartment is hushed and still, warmed by shadows. There's the faint rustle of a blanket.

Charlie stands at the entrance to the living room, struck still by what he sees.

Nick is curled up on the the new couch they'd bought, half-buried in one of Charlie's oversized cardigans. There's a yellow and blue blanket draped over his lower half. His hair is slightly damp, like he showered earlier and never fully dried off. His head rests against a pillow, his body curved toward the back of the couch.

He's asleep.

Well, almost.

He looks...so young, Charlie thinks. Not in the literal sense, but in that raw, unguarded way that people only look when they think no one is watching.

And tucked between his lips, almost hidden by the edge of his hand, is his thumb.

Charlie blinks.

Nick's thumb is in his mouth.

Not in any stylised or conscious way - just soft, sleepy, instinctive. His face is peaceful. Lips gently closed around the pad of his thumb, eyes half-lidded and fluttering in that heavy, on-the-edge-of-sleep way.

Nick is sucking his thumb, just barely; a slow, barely perceptible, occasional suck - rhythmic and evidently self-soothing. Nick doesn't seem aware he's doing it; he's halfway asleep, watching TV subconsciously.

Charlie's first impulse, so honest and so silly, is to smile. Not mockingly, or cruelly; never. Just...fuck. Nick is so soft when he thinks no one can see him.

The thought hits Charlie like like a memory from the future - one he'll come back to a thousand times. The incomparably beautiful thought that this special man loves him. That after only a few weeks of being boyfriends, Nick had trusted him and loved him enough to say yes to sharing a home. That he was here now, part-way to sleep in Charlie's cardigan, letting himself be small and vulnerable on a couch they'd picked out together. That Charlie got to come home to him, make him soup, kiss him goodnight.

And it was so much.

Too much, sometimes. Standing there, grocery bag forgotten on the floor, Charlie feels like someone has pulled his ribcage open and poured all that soft, searing love into the space between himself and Nick.

God, Charlie loves Nick. He loves him.

There's something so beautifu - tired, trusting - about seeing Nick like this. They've only been living together a week and that week has been filled with useful busy-ness and working and chaos. This is the first time Charlie has seen Nick act as though this is really his home. Like Nick has turned every bit of his adult armour off and become pliant, just for Charlie. 

Not performing care, for once...but...just letting himself live inside some small comfort within his own self.

Charlie steps closer, careful not to startle his boyfriend.

"Hey, baby," Charlie says gently. "Long day?"

Nick startles slightly, his thumb slipping from his mouth as he sits up too fast. A blush ripples over his face.

"Oh, shit, Char...I...I d-didn't hear you come in..." Nick stammers nervously. It makes Charlie's heart ache; at the thought that Nick is embarrassed.

"I'm sorry I startled you," Charlie says, sitting beside him couch. He rubs Nick's back and gives him a kiss on the cheek. 

Nick ducks his face away from Charlie. "M'sorry. I was almost crashed out. I didn't mean to..." His eyes dart, flickering with shame. "Were you just standing there?"

Charlie nods, trying to make sure every ounce of love he has for this man is pouring out of his eyes and all over Nick's face. "You looked so peaceful."

Nick's shoulders tense and he draws in a big inhale, which he doesn't release.

Charlie reaches up, touches his knee gently through the blanket.

"Hey," Charlie says softly. "You don't have to be embarrassed."

Nick's gaze flicks away, down to his lap.

"I didn't mean to do that in front of you," Nick says, quiet. "It's just...I don't know. Sometimes, when I'm really tired, or when I feel..." Nick trails off. "I know it's, like. So childish. Or whatever."

Charlie pulls Nick in gently by the back of the neck. Nick resists for all of half a second before slumping into Charlie's arms, forehead pressed against Charlie's shoulder. He nuzzles his cheek on Charlie's arm and clutches his wrist.

"I don't think it's childish," Charlie murmurs. "You were just relaxing. You're at home, baby. I want you to relax. I'm not judging you. It's okay. You don't have to hide it from me. I love you...every single thing about you."

Nick lets out the breath he'd been holding.

"I do it sometimes. It started when I was, like...maybe four?"

Charlie makes a soft sound, holding Nick a little tighter, urging him to keep going.

"It started after Dad left," Nick says. "David really started acting out, giving Mum a lot of grief, but I just went all quiet, and started doing...that...instead. And it helped. I guess it...still does help, sometimes. When I've had a bad day. I don't do it often, I promise. And I try not to do it around people...you know. Actually, you're the first person who's seen me. Apart from Mum, when I was a kid."

Charlie's chest aches. Not in a painful way - but in that full, pressing way that means I love you, I love you, I'll never stop loving you.

"Thank you for trusting me enough to tell me that," Charlie says quietly. "It means so much to me, Nick."

Nick swallows. "S-so you're not...like, weirded out?"

"No," Charlie says firmly, brushing Nick's fringe from his forehead. "Not in the slightest. I love every part of you. Even the parts you keep tucked away. Especially those parts, in fact."

Nick finally breathes easy. He glances up at Charlie with his soft hazel eyes and beams. "I love you too."

They sit there like that for a while - tangled in each other, the living room quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the evening traffic outside.

Charlie almost offers to get dinner started for them, but, it soon becomes clear Nick is too tired to eat, and Charlie wants to give Nick everything he needs in this moment.

So he cradles him, and they watch whatever rubbishy thing is on the TV in contented silence.

After awhile, Nick starts to nod off. His hand slips up slowly, curling against his chest again.

Charlie kisses the hair on his boyfriend's beautiful head.

"Do what you need to, baby," Charlie whispers lovingly.

And this time, Nick doesn't pull his thumb away.

--------->

Charlie stays curled around Nick long after his boyfriend's breathing evens out again.

One hand rests at the small of Nick's back, the other stroking slow, rhythmic lines along the top of his thigh beneath the blanket. Nick's thumb had returned to his mouth eventually, hesitant at first, then sure, like he's at last okay with giving himself permission.

Charlie doesn't say anything. He just holds him.

It's the kind of moment he wants to bottle. Not because it's perfect in some performative, golden-hour kind of way, but because it's so real and so honest. Nick's walls down to the floor, and Charlie right here beside him, watching over the softness Nick is evidently only used to showing when he's completely alone.

Charlie thinks about how much of Nick's life has been shaped by needing to know himself before the world ever gave him permission to. About how young he was when he realised that what he saw reflected back at him in the mirror didn't match what lived inside his heart. How long he must have carried the ache of that truth alone. About what it costs, even now - to be trans and vulnerable - and still be tender, too.

Nick is brave, yes. But not just because he transitioned and lives so proudly as his true self. Nick is brave because he still lets himself be this soft, without letting it affect his masculinity. 

Watching Nick look so at peace with his thumb in his mouth, Charlie thinks about how many times he's almost asked.

Not about the thumb-sucking - that's new, or, at least, it's newly revealed, as of tonight - but about everything else.

The way Nick always needs something in his mouth: random straws and pen caps, bits of fabric.

And of course, the way he sucks Charlie off like it centres him...like it gives him solace.

That last one, Charlie hasn't exactly been in a rush to question. But it had always been more than just hot; it had always felt like Nick was soothing himself as much as he was giving Charlie pleasure. Like Nick is easing something tight inside himself with every soft, wet glide of his mouth, every greedy moan he lets out around Charlie's cock.

An oral fixation. That's the word for it - Charlie doesn't doubt it. But he suspects Nick doesn't use that language for himself, and, honestly, maybe he doesn't need to. Nick has already had to dig deep and name so many truths about himself, just to live comfortably in his skin, to move through a world that's so often been cruel or confusing to him, without crumpling beneath its weight.

Charlie isn't about to be in the business of adding more labels unnecessarily to the list of what Nick needs to carry. Why would he? Especially not something so private, so innocent.

It's, quite simply, the way Nick connects to the world, Charlie has come to realise. Through touch, through sensation...through his mouth. Like he's always craving closeness, and this is just one more way to pull it in.

The last thing Charlie wants is to suggest that this, too, is something about Nick that needs to be named in order to be accepted. He doesn't want to pathologise Nick. He wants to honour him.

And selfishly? He'd be a fool to complain, or make Nick self-conscious about it. Because Charlie gets his dick sucked constantly. Nick's oral fixation benefits Charlie both directly and frequently. So, he's not exactly lining up to interrupt that particular blessing.

Something that Charlie learned (almost immediately) about Nick, is that Nick doesn't just like sucking cock. He lives for it. Sometimes he's so slow and reverant about it, wet and divine, like Charlie's cock is the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He'll glide his tongue along the underside of Charlie's cock in long, lush strokes, lips sealing around the head with a wet, tender suck that makes Charlie's knees buckle. He'll hum around it, low and sweet, like it soothes him from the inside out.

Other times he's messy, so filthy and sloppy, drooling copiously down the shaft, moaning sexily around it, suckling on the crown so he can swallow  every pulse of pre as quickly as Charlie spurts it into his mouth. Nick will flick his tongue madly over the tip before he gobbles Charlie down to the base like it's the only thing that'll quiet the noise in his head. He'll fuck himself on it, moaning with every thrust Charlie gives him, spit dripping from his chin, eyes glazed and blissed-out. He'll press his fingers between his own thighs, rubbing fast and frantic at his clit while Charlie grips his hair and fucks inside him - watching him come undone just from the stretch and weight of Charlie in his throat.

There are nights when Charlie can barely stay standing, because Nick begs for it like he needs it to breathe.

Nick's gotten off like that. Many times. Without ever needing anything else. With nothing inside his pussy. No vibration. Just Charlie's body in his mouth and the weight of it on his tongue, a quick press of his fingertips, and the permission to be used and to be useful. He'll go pliant afterward, blissed out, whimpering against Charlie's skin. He curls against Charlie's chest like he's been tucked back into himself. Like the ache's been kissed quiet.

Nick makes a tiny sound in his sleep, a soft, sleepy suck, and Charlie's heart stutters in his chest all over again.

Fuck, he loves him.

He loves that Nick is such a soft boy. Not weak. Never. Just open, and so deeply feeling, and utterly himself in a world that hasn't always been kind to people like him. Charlie loves how brave that is. Charlie loves how Nick has never once tried to hide how much he feels. He's never pretended to be anything other than exactly who he is: open and brave and full of want. 

He presses a kiss to Nick's temple and whispers it into his hair.

"You're perfect," Charlie says, quiet, even though Nick doesn't hear it.

Charlie stays right there, cuddling his boyfriend.

He's not going anywhere.

Chapter Text

II. drawstring

Charlie and Nick spend most of the next weekend unpacking and making their house into their home. They assemble furniture side by side on the living room floor, laughing when they realise they've put the wrong screws in three steps back. Charlie arranges the mugs by colour in the kitchen, while Nick alphabetises the spice rack.

God, they are so gay. Charlie loves them so much.

In the middle of it all, they take breaks to sit cross-legged on the rug with takeaway cartons balanced between them, eating straight from the boxes. They hang fairy lights around the windows, barefoot and puffed out, their sleeves rolled up, forearms dusted with specks of drywall and glitter that exploded in some box somewhere; either supplies from Pride or for Nick's nursery class. They argue briefly but fondly about where the toaster should live.

And they have sex.

Sloppy, giddy, ravenous sex - like they've been waiting their whole lives to live like this, and now they can't stop celebrating it with their bodies. The kind you only have when you're tangled in the new, rich joy of building a life together - when the mattress is still on the floor, but nobody cares, because you're both sticky with sweat and giggling, half-naked among boxes labelled KITCHEN and BOOKS and MISC. TOYS ;).

They start on the couch, christening it for the third or so time that week, Nick bent over the armrest with Charlie's cum dripping down his thighs, whining that he still needs more. 

They fuck on the newly rolled out rug with dust still on their clothes, daylight spilling across their skin, with Nick's thighs spread wide and his rugby jersey bunched up around his armpits. Charlie laughs into Nick's mouth when he realises they've knocked over a half-assembled lamp. Nick moans when Charlie rocks deep and slow, grounding them both, one hand pressing into Nick's clit, the other splayed possessively across Nick's belly, so he can feel the bulge of himself through Nick's skin.

There's no rush. No need to hide, or to be quiet behind closed doors because of any of the flatmates who, blessedly, don't exist anymore. There's just the two of them here.

Just the creak of old floorboards beneath their knees and the sounds of them.

"Harder, baby...fuck, I love living with you..." Nick whispers, brethless, as Charlie fucks him right there in the warm, sunlit mess of their new beginning.

They unwrap the dining table - a heavy secondhand thing, not attractive, but big enough to host the friends they're going to have over for dinner real soon. Nick sits on the table as a joke to test how solid it is. But Charlie gives him a look, and in a flashs, Nick is leaning back on his elbows, breath hitching as Charlie nudges his thighs open wider and wriggles Nick's sweatpants down just enough to get his mouth on Nick's cunt. He hooks his hands behind Nick's thighs and pulls him closer to the edge of the table, and he tucks in, slow, deep, tongue parting Nick's pretty pussy folds and flattening against his hole to drink from him, his nose pressed in so tight it makes Nick gasp and writhe. Charlie's thumbs spread his boyfriend open so he can get deeper. Nick's so wet it drips down Charlie's chin, makes a mess on the floor, makes Charlie a mess - moaning, rutting against nothing, delirious with how perfect Nick tastes, how fucking responsive he is, how desperately he grips his hair and begs for more as he comes. 

"Hmmm," Charlie murmurs, grinning against Nick's skin, as he jacks off on Nick's tummy, his voice hoarse. "Oh, yeah. We're definitely keeping this table."

They fuck in the shower, Nick kneeling between Charlie's legs, as Charlie's hand cups the back of Nick's neck to hold him steady as he fucks his face. Nick's moans are louder than the streaming water, like there's nothing else he'd rather be full of than cock. And Charlie, panting, overwhelmed, just watches him with awe: this beautiful, flushed, dick-drunk man who chose him, who lives with him now, who sucks him off so regularly that Charlie is legitimately concerned he's going to run out of cum to gift his boyfriend's mouth.

Now, Nick's riding him lazily, arms around Charlie's neck, sweat beading along his collarbone as they kiss between moans and laughter. Charlie's hands grip Nick's cute ass, guiding him up and down his cock, and Charlie is breathing into Nick's ear:

"Feels so good, baby boy...fuck, I love your pussy, I love our house, I love you..." and Nick doesn't even try to hold back the dizzying whines he makes in response.

By Sunday afternoon, the couch is finally in the right place, and there's Polaroids of the two of them taped to the fridge .

Every room, every shelf, every shared drawer feels a little bit like falling in love all over again.

--------> 

It's Sunday evening now - eight days after they moved in - and both Nick and Charlie have to get ready for the week ahead. 

After dinner, the apartment is quiet, save for the occasional soft breath, the light scrape of Charlie turning a page, and the gentle click of Nick's pen as he writes in his spiral-bound planner.

They've been here, sitting at the dining table, for the better part of an hour, seated either side of one corner. Charlie's legs are tangled with Nick'ss beneath the table, socked feet nudging Nick's calf every so often, just for the joy of making contact.

Charlie's wearing one of Nick's hoodie. The navy one, so oversized on him, smelling like the teensiest lingering trace of Nick's cologne. Charlie adores wearing his boyfriend's clothes; a small, quiet way of keeping close to him.

Nick's focus doesn't stray from his lesson planning. He's in full nursery-teacher mode, flipping between colour-coded pages. Charlie is reviewing a manuscript that's due tomorrow.

But after a while, without even lifting his gaze, Nick reaches out and absentmindedly tugs at the drawstring of the hoodie Charlie is wearing.

One end slips easily between his fingers, and then between his lips.

Nick starts to gently suckle it.

Charlie watches, pen pausing mid-sentence. He bites back a smile. Nick is is now fully mouthing the string, lips slack and wet around it, tongue lazily lapping against the cotton. It's not sexual. Not overtly. It's comforting - clearly subconscious - and achingly tender. Like this is Nick's own tiny way of being tethered to Charlie.

Nick evidently doesn't even realise he's doing it.

Charlie doesn't say anything. Not yet. Just watches his boyfriend suck on the string of his own hoodie, completely oblivious to what he's doing: just quiet, relaxed, and so safe in the little nest they've built together.

Watching Nick chew on his drawstring like this, it's almost impossible not to make the moment sexual. He can't help but replace that tiny string in his mind, with something else. With his dick. With the way Nick takes him in the exact same way: slow, soft, instinctive, like his mouth was made for it.

Charlie shifts in his chair, biting back a smirk.

Charlie's not one to brag - not especially - but he has been complimented on the size of his dick a few times before. He's not going to pretend he doesn't recall murmurs from past partners, surprised hands going still when they first wrap around him. With his lean, twinky build, his narrow hips - with the soft femme way he often dresses - he knows the size of his cock takes guys by surprise.

He's aware of what he's got, in the same way someone might be aware they have good handwriting. Not cocky, just...informed. He's not arrogant about it, but he's not oblivious either. One can't afford to be oblivious when one has to know to use a quarter bottle of lube on someone's asshole just to make sure the neighbours don't think someone's being murdered.

And although Charlie is vers, he can't deny he loves topping. A lot. And he had always prided himself on being good at it; on being a careful and considerate top. The kind who takes his time, listens, reads body language. Charlie always tried to make his partners feel safe and desired and absolutely wrecked by the end.

But not even years of experience, or  muscle memory, or even a very healthy appreciation for getting fucked himself - prepared him for Nick.

Because Nick isn't just a bottom. That boy is a bottom. Committed. Enthusiastic. So fucking gorgeous.

Nick's the kind of bottom who doesn't just take cock - he invites it. Welcomes it with open legs, slick fingers spreading himself for Charlie, soft little whimpers already in his throat. Every time, he still clenches around Charlie like it's his first time. 

He's greedy and pliable and perfect. So eager to be filled, so desperate to be used that Charlie is finding, increasingly, he never wants to switch. He just wants to fuck his sweet, cockslut boyfriend until his voice is hoarse and his pussy is dripping down his thighs, with Nick living like he some personal mission to take dick like it's going out of style.

Maybe it's arrogant as fuck, but it's such a point of pride for Charlie, now. Charlie loves that his dick fits perfectly in his boyfriend's sweet, pretty mouth. Long enough to keep Nick busy, thick enough to make his cheeks burst and make him drool.

It makes Charlie think of the first time he had sex with Nick, ten minutes after they met on the dancefloor of the gay club, in the storage room. The way Nick whimpered when he saw Charlie's cock bounce out of his denim shorts. How glassy his eyes turned as he looked up at him as he sucked, lips stretched, fingers digging hard into Charlie's hips like he didn't ever want to let go, his thumb flicking at Charlie's silver navel piercing. 

How, when they'd eventually gotten back to Charlie's place - Charlie fully intending to spend the entire remainder of the evening servicing Nick, eating Nick out, fucking Nick - how Nick had been a little nervous about Charlie seeing him naked, and insisted on sucking Charlie's dick again before they got started, in order to, and Charlie quotes (because the memory is singed on the back of his fucking eyelids) it would "calm him down." . 

"I have like...a bit of an...um, a bit of a mouth thing," Nick had admitted back then, moments before he took Charlie to the throat for the second time that evening, and, Nick had been right...it had calmed it down. It made him pliable; he let Charlie lick his pussy in the aftermath and they shared that beautiful experience together in a way that's bounded them so tight together ever since.

And ever since then, it's been the same story. Nick goes soft for Charlie's dick when it gets hard; a perfect contrasting pair. He's insatiable and Charlie loves giving him what he needs. Nick's breath catches when Charlie unzips, already licking his lips on instinct. Sometimes Charlie swears he sees his pupils dilate the second he takes it out. 

He gets so reverent, so breathless, like he's about to be blessed. Charlie won't ever get tired of that look - awestruck, greedy, wide-eyed - like Nick's starving and Charlie's the only thing that'll feed him.

There's something stupidly fulfilling about it. Not just that Nick loves sucking cock, but that Charlie's cock is the one he wants more than anything. That it's big enough to fill his mouth, deep enough to make him whimper, heavy enough to leave him dazed and drooling. And Charlie is so proud of it. Not for the size itself. No, that's just anatomy. He's proud because he gets to give Nick exactly what he craves - what he clearly needs. Proud that his sweet, oral-obsessed boyfriend gets to have this.

To suck it, ride it, whimper around it.

The perfect toy for his perfect boy.

Nick moans like he's the one getting fucked every time Charlie hits the back of his throat. Charlie's big enough that just the act of sucking it, slow and deep, pushes Nick right to the edge. Like his whole body is wired to respond to it. He's told Charlie - his cunt gets wet as soon as Charlie's hand starts moving towards his belt.

Charlie's never known anything like it. Nick whining and grinding against the sheets while he sucks cock, soaking through the front of his briefs just from the taste. Or bent over for him, his pussy slick and open, begging like he needs to be filled, needs it so badly he'll cry if he doesn't get it. Charlie suspects he's experimenting with being a bit bratty and Charlie is fucking living for it.

The other day Nick had even said, "I'm just gonna keep sucking till you tell me to stop - unless you w-want to punish me for being such a greedy baby?"

So Charlie pulled it out of Nick's mouth, and gave it to him in the pussy, every inch; thick and aching and deep and Nick's thighs shook the bed. He watched as his boy took it like he was made to be stretched out and stuffed full and trembling underneath him, whispering, "don't go deeper until you make me beg you for it," even though Charlie was already bottomed out.

He fits Nick perfectly, and still it's always a push - always just this side of a little too much. Charlie's so careful, so tender with it, but he knows Nick loves it.

There's something primal in the way Nick reacts - like the size only makes it better: makes the act more consuming, more satisfying to him.

Honestly? If Charlie didn't already know how genuinely and absolutely Nick loves him, he'd almost think his boyfriend was just using him for the cock.

He's not complaining though.

Charlie is feral for watching Nick get all floaty and blissed out when he's sucking it.

Same as he is now, dreamily nursing on a bit of string like it's the most natural thing in the world.

Charlie pretends to continue to read.

Nick just looks so soft like this. So young. So at ease, the stress of the week visibly gone from his shoulders, his mouth slow and needy around the hoodie string like it's just another part of Charlie he can put inside of himself.

He is working so sweetly, as if him sucking on that drawstring hadn't just made Charlie flash back to an entire reel of pornographic highlight moments in the middle of their kitchen.

Charlie smiles faintly to himself, tries to mentally will his erection down, and goes back to his reading.

They stay like that a while longer. Charlie finishing his markup notes. He glances over and sees Nick jotting down ideas for Thursday crafttime. Something about rainbow rice and fine motor skills. Charlie doesn't understand children, except for Olly, who doesn't count, and he loves that Nick does. And still, the whole time, Nick chews lightly on the drawstring the whole time, a soft little sucking sound rising and falling with his breathing.

Nick keeps at it, slurping lightly at the cotton string, drenching it in his spit, and makes a contented little hum at one point.

Eventually, Charlie leans in and nudges Nick's shoulder with his own.

"You know," Charlie says softly, feeling how his eyes are literally twinkling as he talks, "if you wanted something of mine in your mouth, baby, all you had to do was ask."

Nick blinks. He looks up at Charlie, then realises what he's been doing and flushes pink. He lets go of the drawstring instantly from his mouth.

"I...oh my god," Nick mutters, clearly mortified. His ears go bright red. "I-I didn't even realise I was doing that. I...fuck, sorry."

Charlie dissolves into a soft chuckle, warm and amused and full of love. He places his hand on top of Nick's where it's resting on the table, and squeezes.

"No need to say sorry," Charlie says. "It was so sweet. I loved it. You can gnaw on my clothes any time you want."

Nick laughs breathlessly, shaking his head. "I swear I wasn't...I just. I was just...comfy, I guess. Sorry. I'm so disgusting..."

"You don't have to explain," Charlie says, leaning forward to press a kiss to Nick's cheek, right near the edge of his mouth. "And you are not disgusting. Please don't ever be so mean about my boyfriend like that. No. You're delicious. And you're allowed to need comfort. I love watching you relax like that. Makes our home seem...I don't know. So much home," Charlie giggles. "I don't know. That's stupid. But you know what I mean."

Nick sighs, soft and fond, and leans his head on Charlie's shoulder. "God, I'm gonna have to unlearn years of being emotionally repressed, aren't I?" 

"Don't worry. I'll help. Gently. With treats."

Charlie kisses the top of Nick's head, then tilts his chin down so their mouths meet - gentle, slow, not about sex but not not about it either. Just that heat that always seems to flicker between them, even in the quietest domestic moments.

Once they stop kissing, Charlie draws back, and allows himself the pleasure of studying Nick's handsome face intently: his  thick sweep of red hair, the kind Charlie will never stop running his fingers through. His long lashes and ruddy cheeks, still pink from embarrassment. That soft, pouty mouth, resting in a line that's half-resigned and half-lovestupid. The way his nose scrunches slightly when he's trying not to smile. His brow, always faintly furrowed, like he feels too much for one body to hold.

Charlie's heart swells with so much affection he could float off the chair.

"For the record - you can suck on anything you want, baby. Strings, thumbs, spoons. My dick, obviously. Whatever comforts you. I love seeing you like that. I love that you're so comfortable with me. I'm comfortable with you too, you know. That's what I love about us."

Nick lifts his head, eyes soft. He looks relived and Charlie loves being able to be that anchor for him, to give him that gift of space and acceptance.

"It's just..." Nick hums. "I've never felt like this. Like I can really be myself around anybody."

"You're safe here," Charlie replies easily, because it's so easy to be kind and loving to this man. "Safe to be soft. And, for what it's worth, safe to be an absolute freak when you want to be."

Nick laughs.

Charlie laughs but it's gentler; he's still ruminating. "I like you when you're like this, you know. Quiet. Chewy."

"Oh my god," Nick giggles. "You did not just compare me to a mouthfeel?"

"Don't make it weird," Charlie boofs him gently on the arm. "You are chewy."

They return to their work, fingers brushing between highlighters and manuscript pages, and Nick's lips find the drawstring again soon after - this time deliberately, and with Charlie watching him, fond and full of love.

After a little while, Charlie reaches over, and gently pulls the wet string from Nick's mouth, replacing it with a kiss. Nick melts under it, lips parting easily, so tender and wet, as Charlie licks his tongue.

God, how Charlie loves this. Loves them. Loves that all of this is just a little bitty bit about the fact that Charlie's dick is the exact right size to keep Nick's mouth full and his pussy satisfied and his busy, clever brain quiet.

But mostly?

It's just that Nick is his. And that he is Nick's.

Chapter Text

III. ice-cream cone

The next week, Saturday, it's an unseasonably warm fall day. 

They're strolling hand-in-hand through the park, ambling more than walking; aimless in that way couples are when there's nowhere to be. 

Charlie is wearing a T-shirt with a little crop to it, showing off his belly button piercing at glinting, shifting intervals, and a baseball cap. Nick always looks like he wants to take a bite out of him when he dresses in clothes like this and he wishes his self-conscious fourteen year old self could just see him now. He feels so confident; so comfortable in his own skin, embracing himself, taking the air with such a handsome man on his arm. Nick is sex on legs in a vest and tatty rugby shorts.

Charlie makes a mental note to remember this moment forever; this light, floaty feeling of being so perfectly happy and at east.

They'd been walking a while when Charlie made a small, content sound and tugged his boyfriend by the hand toward the park's little kiosk.

"Ice cream!" Charlie had declared, with all the enthusiasm of a small child. Once again, at the thought of now so comfortably and publicly being excited over food, he sends a silent wish to times gone by, trying to somehow share love and strength to his fourteen year old self.

Hold on just a little longer, pal. Some day, life will be sweeter than you ever thought possible.

Now they're sitting on one of the park benches enjoying their treats - Nick chose soft serve pistachio in a cone, and Charlie chose a lime popsicle.

Charlie eats his popsicle sensibly. Like someone who was raised by people who believe in napkins and public decency. Licks the drip before it escapes. Bites the top to keep it neat. Rotates the stick at intervals to make sure catches the liquid on all sides. You know. Like a normal person.

Nick is...

Well, Charlie isn't entirely sure what in the fuckity fucking fuck Nick is doing, but, you best believe Charlie is loving watching every fucking sucking second of it.

Nick's tongue is...certainly...involved. There's some humming. A wrist flick. And...was that a moan, Nicholas? Really?

The pistachio scoop started as a towered swirl but has now been licked down into a rounded head, melting as fast as Charlie is presently.

Nick is...how to describe it delicately? Basically, he's performing fellatio on his ice cream as though he owes it rent and his bank balance is in negative.

Charlie watches him behind sunglasses, fuck, his boyfriend is so pretty and obscene and he doesn't even fucking realise it. Nick has three fingers curled around the base of the cone. Mouth parted, tongue slow and thorough, wrapping around the tip, then the side, licking up a bead of pastel green that's trickled toward his knuckles. His eyes are unfocused, dreamy with sugar. His lips are glistening.

He's mesmerising.

Charlie tries not to stare. Fails entirely and absolutely.

And Nick doesn't even realise what he's doing. He's that caught up in the act of orally pleasuring his ice cream cone - so delightfully focused. He licks a slow circle around the rim of the cone, like he's edging it for fun, then takes it between his lips, mouth pursing to suck a stray drip from the ice cream's head, pink tongue darting to chase a runnel of melt as it slips along the side. His brows are drawn in soft concentration, cheeks hollowed, jaw flexing as he takes another languid lick. 

Charlie makes a strangled noise and tears his eyes away.

"Damn," Charlie whistles low under his breath, dragging out the 'a' sound, without realising.

Nick glances over, smiling serenely. "Hmm?"

"Oh, nothing," Charlie says, feeling his dimples beaming. "Just...thinking."

Nick nods, clearly not listening, and goes back to. What? Well. How to describe it delicately? Back to giving that cone the time of its fucking life, is what. There's cream dripping down Nick's wrist. One thumb slides up the cone, wiping the leak, sucking it clean.

Oh fucking hell.

Charlie can't take this anymore!

His vision flares white-hot, then sticky pink, then chartreuse with lust and pastel fever, and, without warning, Charlie is spiralling into a fantasy so vivid it might as well be a sanctioned miracle of the Catholic Church. It hits him with the force of divine inspiration, like a particularly graphic passage from the Gospel of Saint Hole.

The Holy Cream.

In the fantasy, they're married. Of course theey are. Married in an Italian town with lemon trees and suspicious locals. Honeymooning somewhere warm, where everything is covered in a thin film of sea salt. The kind of place where people nap naked and sated after lunch.

The first day, they stroll hand-in-hand through a small coastal town where none of the menu boards are in English. Nick orders something pineapple-y, tart and golden, and Charlie spoons it into his mouth while they sit beneath a striped umbrella. Nick licks at the plastic spoon with cartoon-kitten enthusiasm, eyes closed, making happy little noises that make Charlie feel feral.

"Char," Nick says, his voice drowsy with sunshine, "why are you looking at me like that?"

"This might actually cure my eating disorder," Charlie smiles at him.

Nick laughs. Charlie can taste his giggles, all one thousand of them, when he kisses him.

Nick licks the spoon again with that sweet pink tongue.

Charlie says a silent grazie mille to no one in particular.

The next night, in the alley behind their hotel building, Nick takes a bite of hazelnut gelato, then opens his mouth wide - tongue out, shining, the same way he sometimes shows Charlie his cum before he swallows it down, and says, "want a taste, baby?"

Charlie licks it from Nick's tongue, just like he does with his cum sometimes. Kisses him deep, sticky and sweet, the taste of Nick's sugared spit sending heat down his spine like a trail of firelight. The make out for ages, hot and undignified, until Nick is moaning against his lips, clutching fistfuls of Charlie's shirt while Charlie pulls his cock free of his board shorts.

He fucks Nick right then and there, slow and brutal, the alley echoing with soft moans and slick slaps. Nick's hands are sticky, his thighs trembling.

"Yeah, baby, give it to me. Give me that pussy," Charlie whispers in between thrusts, into Nick's neck, tugging a fistful of his hair as he fucks Nick from behind, "take it...take all this cock in there. Fuck, you fucking sweet thing. You feel like heaven."

The next night, back in their suite, Nick buys a pint of vanilla gelato and makes Charlie stand against the wall. He kneels in front of him, swirling the spoon through the tub of already melting gelato.

"Is this what I'm made for?" Nick murmurs, looking directly up at Charlie's stiff cock, swaying in front of his face, his eyes wide and hungry, like he's been starving all day and finally gets to eat.

"Yeah baby," Charlie replies gruffly. "You were made to get filled and fed, over and over."

Nick shudders, and then starts spooning it out, so melty; he drizzles it over Charlie's cock like he's glazing a fucking pastry.

Charlie gasps at the cold, and keeps gasping as Nick sinks down, gagging a little on Charlie's length, and Charlie thinks, why eat dinner when this is your dessert? Charlie's legs shake as the gelato drips off his dick, and Nick sucks it right off his balls.

Charlie reaches down, fingers combing through Nick's hair, gripping hard.

"That's it - my angel. My good boy...Fuck, look at your pretty brown eyes...so wet and beggy, baby..."

Charlie tugs Nick closer to him by the hair, pushing Nick's nose into his belly. Nick's hand snake up and he starts flicking Charlie's navel piercing; Charlie can feel how Nick's hips are thrusting forward into nothing.

"You feel that?" Charlie whispers. "Feel how hard you make me? How bad I need this?"

Nick makes a broken sound, swallowing around him. Then he retracts slightly, only long enough to suck just the tip clean. He fuses his lips tight around the swollen head like it's a straw, and he hollows his cheeks to get all the liquid out.

"Look at you, milking it slow," Charlie grunts, shoving more cock into Nick's tight mouth. "Love teasing me, don't you? F-fuck, darling, you're gonna m-make me come..."

Nick slides a hand around the base of Charlie's cock, slick and slow, and pumps his husband's shaft - a filthy, practiced rhythm that keeps Charlie on the edge and then shoves him right over. He knows exactly how to crack him open and watch him spill. The pressure builds, sharp and searing, until Charlie can't do anything but buck into it, desperate and shaking.

"You're so fucking hungry for it, look at you...fuck, yes, m'coming, baby, yes...j-just like that..."

Nick latches back on to the tip as soon as Charlie pleasure sighs. Charlie throws his head back, holding Nick steady by the back of the neck to keep him there, and starts draining himself. His slit bursts open with a wet, helpless twitch and Nick is suckling like cock is his only source of oxygen. 

"Mmmf," Nick whimpers, breathless, breaking away mid swallow. "Agh, you're...ah, baby, feeding me so good...fuck..."

He brings his hand to Charlie's balls to squeeze them of every drop.

"Oh, fuck! Swallow it, sweetheart - holy fuck - you're so fucking good at this, I can't..."

Gulp.

Gulp.

Gulp.

Charlie just keeps coming, like he can't stop, he's a fucking fire hose, pouring himself into Nick's mouth, and Nick wants more; he pumps the shaft with his hands to help the cream keep flowing. Not until he's about to run out of breath does Nick finally take a break from sucking and swallow. He retracts his lips, letting his tongue press against the tip beneath Charlie's slit, using it as a bridge for the cum to slide on into his mouth.

Charlie moans and grunts; Nick is putting on a show, showing Charlie how well Charlie fills his mouth with it.

"Good boy," Charlie gasps, staring dull-lidded and fucked out at his cum on Nick's tongue. "Fuck, baby - look at that mess."

Charlie's cock gives another pulse, still leaking warm and lazy from his swollen slit. Nick doesn't stop. Doesn't even blink. He suckles softly at the head, slow and patient.

Charlie can feel it: the obscene glide of Nick's tongue lapping up the dribble from the slit, the way his lips seal just under the flared, sensitive crown and draw, greedy, coaxing more out of him even when he's trembling and spent.

"Fuck, Nick...baby boy, I can't..." Charlie pants, his voice torn ragged wrecked. "Fuck, I'm still leaking for you, Jesus..."

Nick just hums, low and satisfied, eyes fluttering open to meet Charlie's. His pupils are blown wide; he looks ravenous.

"You're still giving," Nick  murmurs, almost awed, lapping his soft tongue all around the head. "Why would I stop?"

Charlie's whole body shudders. "You love it. You fucking love this."

Nick nods, humming his agreement, and takes Charlie's softening cock all the way back in, giving it a good cleaning suck, then pulls back just enough to let his tongue trail under the shaft, licking up the ghosting leftovers of cum from Charlie's balls. He looks up again, breath hot.

"Could live on you."

A little while later, once Charlie is hard again (it doesn't take long), he lubes himself up well and sinks into Nick's ass, slow and reverent.

"So fucking tight, baby boy. Can't believe I get to do this forever."

Nick clutches at him, breathless and flushed, every inch of him covered in cum, and loved, and gasping, "yes, fuck, forever."

The sheets are ruined. Charlie is ruined. He fucks Nick slow and deep until Nick's legs start to shake again, until he makes Nick scream again, until Charlie blows a fat load inside Nick's pretty plush ass and it feels like sunlight exploding in his bones.

The whole room smells like sugar and cum and caramel.

It's their honeymoon, and Charlie has never been so turned on in his life. Or so hungry. He's starving. But for once, not in the bad way. No, this time he's hungry for the taste of Nick's sweat, the sweet-salt tang of his asshole.

He's never wanted anything more. Not food, not control.

Charlie thinks, absently, maybe this is the key to recovery. 

On the final day of their honeymoon, they go to confession on their way to the airport. Charlie tells the priest everything. The priest weeps. He tries to exorcise them. Their skin starts to singe when the priest sprinkles holy water on them. Charlie asks if it's possible to be possessed by gelato.

They are banned from Italy.

Forever.

Vatican Law.

"Popsicles," Nick says, in real time, interuppting his fantasy, his voice twinkling with amusement, "are a time-sensitive food, you know, Char. It's sort of the whole point"

Charlie blinks the final dredges of his fever dream away.

"Eh?"

Nick tips his chin down, and Charlie sees it; his popsicle is melting all over his hand, an innocent casualty of Charlie's sugar-drenched erotic hallucination.

"Here," Nick says. "Let me help."

Nick reaches across, leans down, and licks Charlie's popsicle, which is resting in his lap. Nick licks from Charlie's wrist, to the base of the popsicle, long and slow. He hums a little at the taste, like he means it. Then, with entirely too much nonchalance, he wraps his mouth around the melting tip and sucks.

It's totally scandalous and so, so fucking homosexual. Charlie glances around nervously. Thankfully there's nobody around: just a few old ladies concentrating on a game of chess, and one dog who, for it's own sake, Charlie hopes is vision-impaired.

The thing is, he is going to take Nick to Italy. One day. Somewhere with a private terrace and a king bed. He'll write a Google review of the hotel. It will be flagged for inappropriate content.

Charlie smiles happily, finally tending to his wilting popsicle as his dick, by contrast, inflates rapidly as he continues to watch Nick use his ice cream cone as his partner for his audition tape for a film entitled: "Throat Olympics XXX: Gold Medal Gaggers."

Charlie lets Nick work in peace for another few minutes before he gives in with a low, helpless laugh.

"Do you do this on purpose?" Charlie asks with a dry laugh.

Nick blinks, lips sticky with cream. "Do what?"

Charlie turns to face him, tilting his sunglasses down so Nick sees his raised eyebrows. 

"You always eat dick-shaped food so sexily."

Nick's brows draw together in an incredulous half-laugh. 

"Whaaaaat?" Nick drawls. "I do not."

Charlie gestures. "Nick, sweetheart...you keep that up, and someone's gonna tip you soon." 

Nick makes a shocked little sound and glances at the cone in his hand. "They will not!" he squeaks defensively. "I'm just - eating it!"

Charlie snorts. "I adore you. You know that. But you always do this."

Nick's ears flush a delicate pink. "That's not my fault. You're the pervert who thinks everything I eat is suggestive."

"Because it is, somehow!" Charlie yelps, laughing. "You have the most beautiful mouth."

Nick buries his face in Charlie's arm. "Stopppp it," he whines playfully, obviously delighted by the compliment.

Charlie laughs, warmth blooming all through him. "No, don't be like that. It's so hot. It's really fucking hot. And you don't even know you're doing it. That's the hottest part. You just...look like you need it."

Nick peeks up, clearly flustered but biting his lip. "I guess I do like having stuff in my mouth."

Charlie raises a brow, extremely amused. He tries not to burst into patronising laughter. "Um, yeah. So I've noticed."

Nick snorts, smiling. For a second, Charlie thinks he's about to keep protesting, but eventually he just shrugs. "All the best foods are dick-shaped anyway. Everybody knows that."

"There he is," Charlie says, beaming. "That's my boy."

Nick chuckles, then pauses; calculations flying behind his eyes. "Wait...are...are all the foods I love...phallic?"

Charlie pretends to count on his fingers. "Hot dogs. Churros? The cucumber in last night's salad you insisted on cutting into long strips..."

"...I like crunchy vegetables...!"

"...you deepthroated it to see if it was still fresh..."

Nick gasps in mock horror, pressing his hand to his chest. "I did not!"

Charlie gives him a deeply unimpressed, pretend withering look over his sunglasses. "You did. You closed your eyes."

Nick glances at him sidelong, pouting. "You're so annoying."

Charlie bumps their shoulders together. "You're sexy when you’re flustered. You're sexy when you're eating. You're sexy when you're asleep. You're just sexy all the fucking time. You can't help it."

Nick grins, so soft and pleased. Oh, him and his cute little praise kink. Charlie wants to ruin him with coo, drop such honey sweet words into his ear while he's gagging on cock, whisper it against his clit while he's dripping on Charlie's face. Wants to watch him beg for more of it, all needy and wrecked, just from being told how fucking perfect he is. Charlie loves making Nick come with nothing but his words, and the weighty pressure of his fat erection on Nick's tongue.

They finish their treats. Nick licks the last of his off his knuckle. Charlie groans dramatically and flings himself backward onto the warm bench, like he's been shot. Nick just laughs.

They find a private tree, away from any lingering eyes. 

Charlie lays on top of Nick, and they kiss all the sugar away.

Nick

Charlie's mouth tastes like dawn's rays thickened to syrup, like lime-vanilla softened by breath and skin; just a little salt, a little melt. There's a ghost of cream on his tongue, cold and clinging, like something stolen from a dream of every summer I've ever loved.

I moan into it, so dizzy with want, with heat.

Charlie gives me more; breathes cotton candy into me, right from his lungs. Kisses me like his mouth is a fruit split open and dripping, ripe to the rind.  I could live in this moment, fuck, I could really stay here forever; I could keep soft sighing into his lips while he uses his tongue to fuck my mouth. I moan into it like it's cock. I want him dripping down my throat. I want to fuck myself on the sound of his voice telling me I'm his good boy. My cunt is already damp and silky, and all he's done is kiss me. I can feel my pussy lips swelling; roses steeping in sunlight.

My clit is plumping, my hips rocking upwards into his thigh. Fuck, how long will it take to jog home from here?

I think about getting this man home, back into our bed, so I can use my tongue to swipe the fat pearl of pre I know will be gathered at his tip, let it pulse with life on my tongue, then start sucking on the head for more. I'll suck until he's groaning, until he's grabbing my hair, snapping his hips into my face, and feeding it to me in thick, sloppy glides. I want to gag and sob on it until I've milked him clean and lightened his balls and still can't stop sucking. I'll tongue his slit, breaking apart the tiny folds of skin with the a pointed tip. I'll shiver with pleasure as he comes inside me; he'll pour it into me, so slow and sticky, like honey thinned by fire. He'll feed me in thick ribbons, luscious and warm , and I'll feel it; I'll feel each ribbon land, the way he's settling inside me, into my stomach, all mine, all for me, filling me with a glowing warmth that nobody except Charlie has ever made me feel - until I'm packed to the brim with him.

This is what I was made for. To bite, suck, swallow. Specifically the cum of my boyfriend. It curls inside my belly like coils of rope, like a secret only Charlie gets to write inside me. Warm, and so fucking heavy and satisfying. Fuck. Nobody has ever made me feel this full.

My wet pussy will be soaking the pillow I'm straddling while I suck him off, and I'll be gushing all over it as I come untouched, just from the taste of it; my boyfriend's sweet load, and what's more, I'll only come because he gave me this gift - because he let me worship him.

But, for now, here, back here in the park, behind our tree, I lick the inside of his lower lip like it's the last drop on the spoon.

Charlie hums. He's happy.

Like he has a secret tucked behind his teeth.

Chapter Text

IV. dildo

A week later, Charlie is in Manchester for a a full day publishing seminar for work. He hemmed and hawed over the idea of travelling home at the end of the seminar, but it would have taken hours, and the company said they'd put him up in a hotel room for the night if he preferred. As much as he hated to be away from Nick - it would be their first night apart since they met - they both figured, it was only one night, and Charlie may as well make use of the company credit card while it was on offer.

Charlie tosses his keycard onto the desk of his hotel room, when his phone buzzes. 

He's tired; it's 5pm and it's been a long day of panel sessions and keynotes, and he still has some tedious networking drinks to attend to before it's all over.

Nick is FaceTiming him.

Charlie breaks into an instant smile at the sight of Nick's contact picture filling his screen - with his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, eyes gleaming, hoodie strings pulled into a bowtie under his chin. Just one look at Nick and somehow Charlie is wiped of every trace of conference fatigue from his body.

He presses accept.

"Hi," Charlie says, instantly softer, all the difficulties of the day falling off him like clear icicles.

Nick is in their bed, warm and flushed already, cheeks pink. The lights are low, the screen slightly angled up.

"Hi," Nick says, voice syrupy, lower than usual. "How's it going?"

"Alright," Charlie sighs, setting himself down on the bed, knocking his head against the headboard. "Pretty tedious, as expected."

"What's happening now?" Nick asks.

"Erg," Charlie makes random noise of distaste with his mouth. "I have to go downstairs in half an hour and eat arancini and little rounds of stale bread with goats cheese, and talk to men wearing loafers."

"Mmm," Nick hums teasingly, evidently only half listening and of course Charlie doesn't mind. He has that little indent in between his eyebrows he gets when he's needy. Charlie loves when he's fidgety like this; seeing Nick like this feels like a fingertip trailing the inside of his ribs. "Sounds shit...do you miss me, baby?"

Oh, he's such a darling. If only Nick how many times Charlie's scrolled back through their texts today, just to reread "I love you." How, when they're apart, he has to swallow down the ache of not having Nick close enough to touch.

Charlie smiles. "Like you wouldn't believe." 

Nick chews his lip - so artfully; it almost makes Charlie thinks he must have been practicing it. He's leaning more and more into this sweet bratty role, and Charlie lives for it.

Charlie realises something, in this quiet, charged moment: he loves watching Nick watch Charlie watch Nick. In these moments, Nick looks at him like he's trying to crawl into Charlie's pupils, trying to memorise his soul through his eyes.

Suddenly Nick is shifting his knees wider. He's not wearing a shirt. His chest is rising and falling quickly, nipples stiff, and his voice is gentle: breathy but petulant. Absolutely stunning.

"God, you look good," Charlie murmurs, almost to himself, his eyes tracking all over Nick's wide, strong chest, the delicate light silver slashes of his top surgery scars. They look like twin smiles, resting beneath his pecs. Like Nick's body has finally exhaled, and relaxed into itself. A soft echo of what he'd once been burdened with carrying, and what he'd so bravely chosen to let go of. "It's stupid how much I want you right now."

Nick beams, ducking his head. Then his lips tug into a little pout. He shifts slightly, just enough to let the camera catch the curve of his thigh, where he's naked. His pussy is already glistening, his cock a swollen nub.

Nick tilts the camera enough so Charlie can the base of something unmistakably silicone near his hip.

Nick doesn't say anything. Just lets it be there - the dildo, that is - lingering at the edge of the frame like a secret he's daring Charlie to ask about.

Charlie takes a long, slow inhale. His eyes drag deliberately over the screen. He doesn't move yet. He just watches, lets the stillness stretch, so Nick knows how much he's being looked at, how much he's being adored right now. 

Nick tilts the camera lower still, and the dildo now takes centre stage, resting beside him: pastel pink, quite realistic, with a flared head and some veins. It's a new one Charlie had bought for him last month: Charlie had wanted to treat Nick, so he had chosen a size a little bigger than himself. Nick has it mounted at just the right angle.

It's already clearly shiny with spit; Nick had gotten started without him, apparently.

"I was thinking about you," Nick murmurs, thumbing the tip of the dildo as though he's swiping away a literal bead of pre. "About your cock. About how much I miss it in my mouth."

Charlie starts undoing his belt buckle.

"Jesus, sweetheart," Charlie groans.

"I wanted to show you how good I've been. Been practicing,"  Nick says, blinking up at the camera with something so perfectly shy and slutty that Charlie's hand stills on his zipper, just to take it in. "Can I suck it, Charlie? Can I pretend it's you?"

"Oh baby. Of course you can."

Nick sighs happily, and sets the dildo on his chest first; lets Charlie see the full length of it, the fat head, the veiny shaft. Then he glances up again, under his lashes.

"Like th-this?" Nick says, coy, even as his voice trembles.

"You know exactly how," Charlie grunts, pulling his now stiffened cock free from his briefs. He licks his palm and starts stroking himself. "Now, be a good boy, and suck it. Start slow for me."

Nick lets out the smallest whimper.

Then he brings the toy to his mouth.

His tongue flicks out first, so soft and teasing, tracing a languid circle around the head like he's tasting Charlie's pre from memory. Then, with a greedy inhale, Nick's lips then part slowly around the tip, eyes fluttering shut as he hums a contented exhale. He sucks just the head in, cheeks hollowing a little, like it's already too much.

Charlie's cock leaks out its first little pool of pre. He uses it to smear over his fattening head and keeps jogging his fist.

"Fuck, baby," Charlie grunts, his breath punching out in tiny gasps. "So pretty. So good for me."

Nick moans around the toy, drooling already, his hands bracing either side of it as he starts to bob his head with slow, hungry motions, taking it in deep. It's obscene, the way he sucks, as though he's aching for it, as though it hurts him not to have Charlie's dick inside his mouth for real.

Charlie is fucking entranced by his boyfriend; he wouldn't notice if God himself burst through the hotel window right now, demanding repentance. He'd just adjust the volume and tell God to come back later.

"Just look at you," Charlie whispers, feral for the way the slick stretch of the fat dildo disappears between his boyfriend's pouty lips, with the obedient bob of his head, and the flush painting his cheeks. "Making such a mess for me. Can't go a single night without your mouth full, huh?"

Nick whines around the dildo and pulls off with a wet pop, breathless. 

"It's not the same," Nick pants. "It's not you, though. I miss the taste of you, I miss how you sound when I suck you deep, I miss...fuck...I m-miss how your cock jumps when I do that swirl thing with my tongue..."

Charlie groans again, fisting his cock now, hard and leaking. "You are killing me."

Nick licks the dildo again, this time flatter, messier, leaving trails of spit over it before suckling the head like it's the only thing in the world that matters. He's grinding gently against the sheets, thighs twitchinng.

Nick lets out a high, muffled whine, pulling off with a gasp.

"Wanna impress you. Wanna show you how much I love sucking your cock. Have to p-practice while you're not here. Gotta keep my little throat perfect for your cock..."

Charlie bites his lip, his fist jogging up and down his length.

"You're fucking perfect," Charlie mutters. "My beautiful boy. Look at you. God, I wish I could fuck your throat raw right now. You'd let me, wouldn't you, baby? You'd take it all for me."

Nick lets out a strangled moan and bobs his head deeper on the toy, sucking with a wet, noisy eagerness that makes Charlie's stomach clench. Nick grinds down against the bed subconsciously, dragging the dildo across his tongue, licking the underside theatrically and blinking at Charlie as he does.

"I want you to be proud of me," Nick breathes. "Tell me I'm good. Tell me I'm doing it right for you..."

"You look so fucking good, baby," Charlie replies immediately, wanting to give Nick everything he needs. "So fucking sweet with your mouth stretched around that cock. My cock. You weren't made to do anything else. Only sucking cock. Right, baby?"

Nick shudders and nods. The dildo slips deeper into his mouth, and he whines around it, eyes glazed with need. He rocks his hips down harder, rutting now.

"Such a good boy," Charlie continues, voice ragged. "Sucking it like you need it to breathe. You make me so proud, baby. You're so fucking pretty when you're desperate."

Nick whimpers around the toy. He's panting when he pulls off again, spit trailing from his lips to the dildo. His voice is trembling.

"Was this what I was made for?" Nick whispers, fusing his lips tight around the head of the dildo, giving it three good, firm suckles.

"Yes baby," Charlie replies, gripping himself to stop from coming too early; he wants Nick to be first. "You were made to be a hole, baby. You're never more gorgeous than when you're putting your pretty mouth to good use like this. You're the best thing that's ever happened to my cock."

Nick's moan leaks out slow and syrup-thick, muffled by the stretch of silicone pressing firm against his tongue.

"Deepthroat it for me now, honey, go on," Charlie urges, sweat now beading on his brow. 

The frame of the camera is tight - just Nick's flushed face, his bare shoulders, and the thick shaft of the dildo glistening where it presses past his lips. Charlie can't look away.

Nick has angled the phone perfectly for Charlie to see - the way Nick's cheeks swell as he pushes the head of it deeper, deep down his mouth, how the toy visibly nudges the back of his throat. Nick's eyes flutter shut for a moment, lashes trembling, then fly back open,  glossy, wet, locked on the screen as if trying to hold Charlie there with him.

"Fuck, you're glowing, baby," Charlie coos. "You take it so fucking well. Like your throat needs to be used."

The next thrust sinks deeper. Charlie sees how the muscles in Nick's bicep flex as he makes sure to really shove it back down there. Charlie watches in awe, pre spilling from his tip, watching the moment Nick takes it to the base: the stretch of his lips, the bulge in his throat, the involuntary twitch of his fingers clutching the toy.

There's a wet, audible gulp, then a choked noise, so sharp and helpless. It's Nick; he's gagging around the length before swallowing it down again. The sound shoots through Charlie like electricity.

"Sweet boy. You take it so deep," Charlie murmurs, jacking himself off so hard he thinks he might not be able to stand when it's over. "Even when it hurts, you still want more."

Nick shudders; his spit is everywhere now: thick and stringy at the corners of his mouth, dripping in shining threads down his chin. It makes his lips slick and raw-looking, like a peach split open. Every time he pulls back, it coats the dildo in a glistening sheen, strands catching the light as they stretch and snap.

Charlie watches, panting, as Nick licks along the underside with a flat tongue, then plunges down again, even hungrier and harder than the last time. His pretty throat clicks. A messy, stuttering rhythm follows, with every desperate suck punctuated by another sticky, obscene sound, as though the dildo really is leaking out pre for him to suckle. Charlie's hips jerk, his own hand tightening around his cock.

Nick's jaw quivers as he tries to keep going, even while his eyes are swimming, tears now threatening to spill. It's so fucking intimate and raw that Charlie feels like he's right there, kneeling in front of him, watching Nick's pretty mouth choke itself open just to make Charlie come.

"Fucking hell," Charlie mutters, eyes glued to the screen. He's barely breathing. "You're really gonna take it all for me, aren't you? It's a fucking big dildo, baby."

Nick's only answer is a gag and a smile, lips stretched wide around the shaft, spit sliding slowly down the column of his throat.

"You like watching me choke, don't you?" Nick pants. "Like watching me drool all over it for you?"

Charlie doesn't answer; he just just groans low, his hand dragging over his cock in a tight, desperate stroke.

Nick hums around the pink silicone, a garbled little sound of smug affirmation that vibrates straight through the phone. He pulls back with a slurp, lips puffy, spit smeared across his chin like gloss.

"Would you fuck my throat if I was there with you, Char?" Nick's voice is sticky-sweet and wrecked. "You should have brought me in your luggage. I'd wait in the hotel room and service you when you got back. You could hold my head down on it and fuck it up into me until I couldn't breathe."

Nick doesn't wait for permission, he just sinks back down onto the dildo with new force, angle shifting, determination burning bright in his eyes. It hits deeper this time. Charlie hears it, that moment the tip jams into the back of Nick's throat, when he forces it past his threshold with a low, choking groan.

Nick gags. He gags so fucking hard. It's wet and brutal and real, his whole body twitching, tears spilling now in earnest from the corners of his eyes. But he doesn't stop. He's moaning around it, trying to stay down on it, trying to fight the instinct to pull off it and breathe. The toy bulges at his throat obscenely, and his nose is flattened against the base.

Charlie's heart stutters. He's never seen anything so filthy or so beautiful and both and more and Nick is everything, everywhere.

"Fuck, Nick," Charlie whimpers, jerking himself stupid. "Jesus, baby, you choke so pretty for me. You make gagging look fucking angelic. God, you're good."

Nick pulls off with a shuddering gasp, coughing into his hand, strands of spit hanging from his lips to the toy. But he's smiling again, that bratty, fucked-out smile like he's won a prize. His voice is hoarse and ruined and almost gleeful.

"Does this make you want to come, baby?" Nick croons, thumbing his own spit over the head of the dildo. "Is this how you want me? Stupid and stuffed? You like watching how much your boy can take?"

Charlie nearly chokes on a laugh. "Baby, I could watch you do this forever. Fuck, keep going. You're so beautiful like this."

Nick's mouth finds the dildo again immediately, suckling it like he doesn't know how to do a single other thing.

"You love that, don't you?" Charlie coos. "Love when I talk about what a perfect mouth you have. How fuckable it is. How much I wanna come down your throat every fucking day."

Nick bobs a little faster, the sounds going wetter. He fucking whimpers, drool sliding down his chin as he pushes the dildo in deeper. His hips won't stay still anymore. He's rocking into the bed in these pathetic little pulses, as though the friction of the pillow tucked in between his legs and the weight of Charlie's gaze alone might be enough to get him off. Charlie can see the way Nick's thighs are trembling now, how close he is to breaking.

"You close, sweetheart?" Charlie asks hoarsely. "You gonna come just from sucking me?"

Nick pulls off the dildo with a gasp, blinking through tears, lips red and soaked.

"Please," Nick whines, already reaching toward the bedside drawer. "Please, Charlie, c-can I use my vibe?"

"Yes, fuck yes," Charlie replies. "Show me. Angle the phone so I can see."

"I need it," Nick whimpers, adjusting the camera so Charlie gets a fuller body shot of his boyfriend. His pussy is puffy and gorgeous and fucking soaked to fuck. "W-wanna come while I'm sucking it, please, I need to come with it down my throat."

Charlie groans low. His cock jerks in his hand. "Of course you can, baby. Get your little toy. Press it on your clit for me. Keep your mouth on the dildo, just like that. Show me how you come when your mouth's full."

Nick scrambles for the drawer with shaking hands, pulling his cute little polished silver bullet vibrator out and fumbling to turn it on. The hum of it crackles through the Charlie's phone speaker like static.

Then Nick's back down, gagging himself on the dildo again, deeper, wetter, eyeslids fluttering, mouth stretching obscenely around the thick length as his other hand slides the vibrator between his legs and into place, nestling the tip of it right over the soft swell of his desperate clit. His hips jolt the moment it touches him, the pleasure electric and immediate. He moans around the dildo, a stuttering, broken little cry that Charlie feels in his spine.

Nick's eyes roll. His moans get higher, more desperate, more chaotic. His whole body shakes now, bracing himself with one arm while the other presses the vibe in tighter to his clit, chasing the edge like it's hurting him not to come. And all the while, his mouth never leaves the toy. Gagging. Drooling. Taking it like it's Charlie himself fucking into his throat.

"You're fucking gorgeous for me like this, Nick," Charlie gasps. "Look at you, that slutty little mouth, fuck, you're soaking that cock while you're getting yourself off for me. God, you're so perfect."

Nick sobs out something inarticulate, his hips stuttering.

Charlie coaxes him through it. "Come for me, baby. Come on, Nick. Want you to come with your mouth full..."

Then Nick breaks. His whole body coils, not in a spasm but in a drawn-out quake, as if climax cracks him open from the inside. His hand stills, his mouth stretched wide, spit bubbling at the corners and sliding down his chin like nectar. The sound he makes is shattered, gurgling and obscene around the toy, and yet somehow still reverent, as though the act of being full is its own kind of worship. His cunt flutters uselessly, clenching around nothing, and he sobs through it, helpless with pleasure.

"Fuck, Nick," Charlie's voice cracks. "Jesus. You're so hungry for it, look at you - fuck - I-I'm coming, baby, yes - just like that..."

It hits Charlie without warning, just this low, seismic pull that tears through him like gravity. His whole body jerks forward, cock pulsing in his fist, spilling hot and thick across his belly. He doesn't see stars; that's not heavenly enough. He sees Nick: sees his boy, his Nick, wrecked and radiant, mouth stuffed full, whimpering through his orgasm.

In that moment, Charlie believes it. Believes his cock is  in Nick's throat. That Nick is there, between his legs, slick and hungry and so fucking good for him...swallowing every drop.

Charlie lets out a breathless laugh as the tremors pass, blinking back into his body.

Nick's collapsed now, panting into the pillow, cheek pressed against the bed, the dildo still clutched in one spit-slick hand like he doesn't want to let it - Charlie - go.

Charlie wipes his hand off absently, still watching the screen because he doesn't dare blink; he should be done, he's so sated and wrung out, but he doesn't want to miss a moment of this.

Because Nick's mouth is still hard at work, and he's trembling, as he softly kisses the toy: the tip of it, tonguing the slit, tracing the veins up the side with a fleck of his tongue, peppering the shaft with tiny pecks. He's kissing it like it's Charlie's mouth. The plush of his lips wrap around the tip with a soft slurp, then pop off with a sigh. His spit glistens on the shaft, and he doesn't wipe it, he fucking smears it, licking a slow spiral up to the head and back down again. 

"Baby," Charlie's voice is a scratched out piece of awe. "So insatiable. You're already looking at me like you want more."

Nick nods, still kissing it.

"I'll never get enough of you," Nick murmurs. "Not your voice. Not your cock...not the mess you make inside me."

Charlie swallows. His heart is thudding again.

After a minute, Nick lifts his head off the dildo just enough to smile...glow, actually - and murmurs hoarsely. "I do want more."

"You want your mouth full again already?"

Nick hums, nuzzling the shaft like it's his lover. Like it's really Charlie. He licks the tip again. Fucks himself on it just once more, slow and sloppy, with a half-whimper.

"I can still feel you," Nick says. "Still feel you on my tongue. In my throat.”

Charlie closes his eyes for a second, swallowing hard. His own orgasm is still humming low in his spine, but watching Nick, he feels like he's falling again...like there's somehow already another wave building, ready to crash over the both of them, engulfing them in the clearest, bluest waters of love.

"I miss you even when I'm this full," Nick peeps.

Charlie lets out a shaky breath.

"Baby..."

"I mean it," Nick's eyes brim. "Nothing fills me like you do. Nothing feels like you."

Charlie doesn't say anything. He can't; not when his heart is this full.

"Will you promise me something?" Nick asks.

"Anything," Charlie says, meaning it.

"Don't ever let me stop loving you like this."

Charlie bites his lip. His hand curls into a fist against the sheets. He feels like he could cry. Or come. Or both.

"I won't," Charlie says simply, tenderly. "I couldn't."

Nick's fingers tighten a little on the dildo. He doesn't speak, just nods once, solemn and aching, like he knows. Like it's the most sacred thing Charlie could have said to him in this moment.

"As soon as I walk in the door tomorrow, I'm putting the real thing in your mouth."

Nick's smile is the most beautiful thing Charlie has ever seen. He suckles the head of the dildo for a moment. "I'll keep it warm for you."

"You're so pretty like this," Charlie breathes. "Fuck. I could watch your mouth for hours."

Nick licks a stripe up the length of the dildo and whispers, "then keep feeding me."