A/N: Hi guys! This is the Part 8. Thank you for the supports, suggestions and DM's. I appreciate all of it. Heartstopper. Purely fictional. All characters are 18 Year and above.
Enjoy reading the Part 8.
# Charlie’s Morning – 6:15 AM, February 12, 2026
The alarm vibrated under my pillow at 6:00 sharp. I silenced it before it could wake Nick, slipped out of bed like a ghost, and padded to the bathroom. The flat was still dark except for the thin gray light leaking around the curtains. Nick was sprawled on his stomach, face half-buried in the pillow, one arm flung across the space I’d just vacated. His breathing was deep, slow—the sleep of someone who’d come hard and late. I stared at him for a long second, chest aching in a way that felt physical, like someone had reached in and squeezed.
\*Hi,\* he’d whispered when he climbed in at god-knows-what-time. Soft. Familiar. Like nothing had changed.
Everything had changed.
I closed the bathroom door quietly, leaned against it, and let the memory crash back in full color.
Daniel straddling him.
Nick’s hands on Daniel’s ass.
The wet sounds.
The name—\*Daniel\*—groaned like a confession.
The confession itself: \*My eyes were on you all night. Even with Charlie there.\*
My throat closed. I turned on the shower—hot, almost scalding—and stepped under the spray before the tears could fall properly. Water pounded my shoulders, steam filling the small space. I braced both hands on the tiles and tried to breathe.
But my cock—traitorous, hateful thing—was already half-hard again. The images wouldn’t leave: Daniel’s tongue on Nick’s chest, the slow grind of his hips, the way Nick bucked up like he couldn’t help it. My hand moved almost on its own—wrapping around myself, stroking slow at first, slick with shower gel. I pictured it again: Daniel teasing his hole against Nick’s cock, Nick’s broken \*“You—fuck, Daniel. You.”\* My fist sped up. Heat coiled fast.
Then the hurt rushed in behind it—sharp, vicious. Nick’s voice saying \*I love Charlie\* right before he gave in anyway. The way he’d said my name like an apology, then fucked Daniel like I didn’t exist. The tears came then—hot, mixing with the water. My strokes faltered. I pressed my forehead to the cold tile and cried—quiet, ugly sobs swallowed by the spray. My orgasm died somewhere in the middle; I came anyway, weak and unsatisfying, spilling over my knuckles while my shoulders shook.
I stayed under the water until it ran cold.
\---
By 6:45 I was dressed—jeans, soft sweater, coat—hair still damp. I moved through the flat like I was trespassing. The sofa was empty. Blanket folded neatly. Water glass drained. Daniel was gone. No note. No trace. I didn’t care. I fucking didn’t.
Nick stirred when I leaned over to kiss his temple—habit, muscle memory, stupidity.
“Mmm… you leaving already?” His voice was gravelly, sleep-thick. He rolled, arm reaching blindly.
“Work emergency. Priya needs me for the rewrite.” I kept my voice even. “Go back to sleep.”
He cracked one eye open, smiling that soft, stupid smile. “Text me when you get there? And when you’re done? I’ll fetch you later—whatever time. We can grab dinner. Or just come home and order in. Valentine’s is next week—two days, just us. I already booked the cottage in the Cotswolds. No phones. No interruptions.”
My chest caved. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
He pulled me down for a proper kiss—slow, sleepy, tasting like toothpaste and last night’s guilt I could almost smell on him. I let him. Kissed back. Hated myself for it.
“Love you,” he mumbled against my mouth.
“Love you too.”
I left before the lie could choke me.
\---
The Office – 7:30 AM to 3:00 PM
The publishing house was quiet on a Saturday—only a handful of people in, mostly buried in laptops. Priya met me at the door with coffee and frantic gratitude. We spread the manuscript across the conference table—red-marked pages, track changes, the author’s furious margin notes. I dove in because work was safe. Work didn’t look at Daniel’s mouth on Nick’s cock and feel its own dick twitch.
But the thoughts came anyway.
Every time I paused to sip coffee, the reel started again: Daniel’s smirk. Nick’s hands gripping harder. The broken \*“You.”\* The breeding. The moans filtering through the bedroom door while I pretended to sleep.
Around noon I excused myself to the bathroom—locked stall, phone out. I didn’t know what I was searching for until my thumbs typed it.
\*cuckold\*
Then \*cuckolding kink\*
Then \*why does watching my boyfriend with someone else turn me on\*
The articles loaded one after another.
Humiliation fetish.
Eroticized jealousy.
Power exchange through compersion-gone-wrong.
Some people get off on being “less than.” On knowing their partner wants someone hotter, sluttier, more confident.
I stared at the screen until the words blurred.
Was that me?
Did I come last night because Daniel was better? Because Nick chose him in that moment?
Or because the betrayal hurt so much it looped back into something sexual—like pressing on a bruise to feel it deeper?
I hated how much sense it made.
Hated that part of me—small, dark, secret—wanted to see it again. Wanted to watch Nick lose control. Wanted to hear him say \*Daniel\* while I stroked myself in the shadows.
I deleted the search history. Washed my face. Went back to the table.
Priya glanced up. “You okay? You look… pale.”
“Fine. Just tired.”
We worked through lunch. I fixed plot holes, smoothed dialogue, rewrote the climax so it didn’t feel like the author had rage-quit mid-sentence. By 3 PM we had something salvageable. Printer deadline met.
Priya hugged me. “You saved us. Take Monday off if you want. You’ve earned it.”
I smiled—thin, automatic. “Thanks.”
\---
\*\*The Tube Ride Home – 3:45 PM\*\*
Nick texted every hour like clockwork.
\*You good?\*
\*Miss you.\*
\*How’s the rewrite?\*
\*Can’t wait to see you. Bringing your favorite takeaway.\*
\*Love you. Fetching you at 4 if you’re done?\*
I answered short. Polite.
\*Almost finished.\*
\*Okay.\*
\*Thanks.\*
Then Instagram refreshed on autopilot.
Daniel’s story popped up first.
Selfie in a bathroom mirror—post-gala, shirt open, hair sex-mussed. A dark purple kiss mark bloomed high on his neck, just under the jaw. Caption:
\*Gala success. Best afterparty ever. Thanks for the memories, big guy 😉\*
Tagged location: somewhere vague. No name. But I knew.
My thumb hovered over the block button.
Didn’t press it.
Instead I stared at the hickey until my eyes burned.
Nick had left that.
Nick had fucked him. Bred him.
And now Daniel was flaunting it like a trophy.
I closed the app. Leaned my head against the train window. The city blurred past.
Valentine’s was in two days.
Two days alone with Nick in a cottage.
Two days of him being extra sweet, extra attentive, extra guilty.
I didn’t know if I could do it.
Didn’t know if I wanted to pretend.
Didn’t know if the twisted part of me—the part that got hard watching my boyfriend cheat—would ruin everything.
Or save it.
The train slowed. My stop.
I stood, coat collar up against the February wind, and stepped onto the platform.
Nick would be waiting.
And I still didn’t know what I was going to say.
\--×-×--
# Nick's POV – Guilt, Thrill, and the Morning After
I woke up slow, the kind of groggy haze that hits after a night of too much everything—booze, adrenaline, and... fuck. My head throbbed faintly, but it wasn't a hangover. It was regret, sharp and insistent, slicing through the fog. The bed was empty beside me; Charlie's side cool, sheets rumpled from where he'd slipped out early for work. I reached for my phone on the nightstand—8:17 AM. A text from him: \*At the office. Rewrite's going okay. Miss you.\* Heart emoji.
I stared at it, thumb hovering. \*Miss you too.\* Send. But inside, my gut twisted. What the hell had I done?
Flashes hit me like punches: Daniel in the cab, his mouth hot and insistent around my cock, swallowing like he owned me. Then the flat—him on his knees again, begging, teasing, until I snapped and fucked him raw on the sofa. Breeding him deep, growling his name while he clenched around me, whispering how much better he was. \*My eyes were on you all night. Even with Charlie there.\* I'd said that. Out loud. To him.
Guilt crashed in—cold, suffocating. Charlie. My Charlie. The guy who'd pulled me through my bi confusion, who loved me with that quiet intensity, who planned trips and bought fleshlights as jokes that turned hot. I'd betrayed him. In our home. On our sofa. For what? A thrill? Daniel's pretty face and filthy mouth?
But under the guilt—god, fuck me—satisfaction hummed. A dark, buzzing warmth low in my gut. Last night had been... electric. Daniel's body under mine—lean, responsive, taking everything I gave like he was made for it. His tongue everywhere: chest, nipples, abs, that teasing lick along my happy trail before he swallowed me whole. The way he'd teased his hole against my cock—tight, hot, clenching just enough to make me lose my mind. I'd never come that hard. Never felt that raw, animal pull. Satisfied? Yeah. And excited—jesus, what was wrong with me? A part of me, small and buried, wondered if it'd happen again. The tease of it. The forbidden rush.
I rolled out of bed, dick half-hard from the memories. Showered quick—cold water to kill the arousal, but it didn't work. My hand lingered, stroking once, twice, before I forced myself to stop. \*Not now. Not thinking about him.\* I toweled off, dressed in joggers and a hoodie, and headed to the kitchen for coffee.
The sofa stopped me dead.
It looked innocent—blanket folded, cushions plumped. But I saw it: Daniel bent over the arm, ass up, me pounding in from behind. His moans—\*“Breed me, Nick. Fill me like Charlie can’t.”\* My cock twitching inside him as I came, pulsing deep. Hottest night of my life? Maybe. Definitely. No one had ever pushed me like that—teased, begged, taken control while pretending to surrender.
I sat on it—stupid, maybe—and pulled out my phone. Daniel’s IG was still unblocked. A new story: that selfie with the hickey—\*my\* hickey—captioned about the “best afterparty.” My mark on his neck. Fuck.
Messages. I had to end it.
\*Me: Last night was a mistake. We can’t do that again. Ever. I love Charlie. This stops now.\*
Send. Heart pounding. Regret? Relief? Both.
His reply came fast—three dots, then:
\*Daniel: Morning, big guy. 😏 Mistake? That’s not what your moans said last night. “Fuck, Daniel—you’re so tight. Better than—” Ring any bells?\*
Heat flushed my neck. I could hear his voice—teasing, low.
\*Me: Stop. I mean it. Block me if you have to.\*
\*Daniel: Why haven’t you blocked me back? You unblocked me in the cab. Remember? My hand on your thigh, begging… and you did it. Because you want this. Want me.\*
I stared at the screen. Thumb hovered over block. Didn’t press.
\*Me: It was the alcohol. The moment. It’s over.\*
\*Daniel: Sure. But if it’s over, why text me first? Why not delete my number? You’re excited, Nelson. Admit it. Last night was the hottest fuck of your life. I felt you come inside me—deep, breeding like you owned me. You can’t forget that.\*
My cock twitched. Traitor.
\*Daniel: Pic attached.\*
I opened it—stupidly. Mirror selfie: Daniel in bed, sheets low on his hips, that hickey vivid purple, a faint red mark on his abs from my nails. Caption in the image: \*Souvenirs from you. Come collect more?\*
\*Me: Delete that. And stop.\*
But I saved it. Fuck me.
\*Daniel: Your call. But I’ll be around. Events world is small. See you soon, stud. 😉\*
I locked the phone. Threw it on the coffee table. Guilt surged back—hotter now, laced with that sick excitement. I loved Charlie. Wanted the Valentine’s trip to fix this—make it right. But Daniel... he’d wormed in. The tease. The thrill.
I shook it off. Coffee. Then planning.
\---
Prepping Valentine’s – Distraction and Denial
The cottage was booked weeks ago: a cozy stone place in the Cotswolds, wood-burning stove, big bed with views of rolling hills. No signal. Just us. I double-checked the reservation email—two nights, starting tomorrow. Packed a bag: Charlie’s favorite snacks (Haribo, that weird lemon tea), lube (the good stuff), and the gift.
The gift: a custom drum pad set—portable, with his initials engraved, plus noise-canceling headphones for when he got lost in rhythms. He’d mentioned wanting one offhand; I’d hunted it down. Wrapped it in silver paper, heart sticker on top. Cheesy? Yeah. But Charlie loved cheesy.
I added a card: \*To my forever hi. Can’t wait for two days of just us. Love, Nick.\*
Guilt twisted again. \*Forever? After last night?\* But excitement flickered too—the trip could reset us. Hikes, lazy mornings, sex without shadows. I’d make it perfect. Apologize without words. Be the Nick he deserved.
By 3:30, I was ready to fetch him. Joggers swapped for jeans, hoodie for a button-down. I grabbed my keys, glanced at the sofa one last time.
Memory hit: Daniel riding me, head thrown back, cock bouncing as he slammed down. \*“Breed me.”\* My cum leaking out after. Hottest night. I adjusted my jeans—half-hard again—and headed out.
Phone buzzed in the car. Charlie.
“Hey, love.” His voice—soft, tired. “You on your way?”
“Yeah. Be there in 20. Everything okay?”
Pause. “Actually… Priya needs me to deliver the revised script to the author. Karl Bran. He’s old-school—wants it hand-delivered, no email. His place is in Hampstead. Won’t take long, but… can you meet me there instead? Or I can Uber after?”
My brow furrowed. “Karl Bran? The YA writer? Sure. Send the address. I’ll swing by the office first if you need.”
“No, I’m heading out now. Meet me at his? Should be done by 5.”
“Got it. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
Click. I rerouted the GPS. Hampstead—fancy. But something in Charlie’s voice... off? Tired from work, probably. I’d fix it with takeaway and cuddles tonight.
The drive blurred—traffic, rain spots on the windshield. Daniel’s texts lingered in my mind. Guilt. Satisfaction. Excitement.
I ignored the buzz in my veins.
\---
\*\*Charlie at Karl Bran’s House – The Unexpected Encounter\*\*
Charlie stepped off the bus in Hampstead, script folder clutched under his arm, coat collar up against the drizzle. The address was a charming Victorian townhouse—ivy climbing the brick, black iron gate creaking open to a small garden. He rang the bell, nerves jangling. Karl Bran—reclusive YA author, known for dark fantasy series that sold millions but whose personal life was a blank slate. Priya said he was “old-school eccentric,” insisting on paper deliveries. Charlie pictured a grizzled old man in tweed, grumbling about technology.
The door swung open. A harried maid—mid-30s, apron smudged—stood there, a toddler wailing in her arms. The kid—maybe two?—was red-faced, fists clenched, screams piercing.
“Sorry—Mr. Bran?” Charlie shouted over the noise.
The maid winced. “He’s in his office. Come in—please. Angelo’s been like this for an hour. Teething, I think. I can’t get him to stop.”
Charlie stepped inside—warm hallway, bookshelves lining the walls, smell of old paper and coffee. The maid bounced the kid desperately. “Shh, Angelo—please.”
Charlie’s heart tugged. Crying kids always got to him—reminded him of his own bad days, the ones where everything overwhelmed. He set the folder down, held out his arms tentatively. “Can I try? I’m good with kids. My little brother Oliver used to—”
The maid handed Angelo over gratefully. The toddler thrashed at first—tiny fists batting Charlie’s chest—but Charlie started humming. Soft, low—a simple melody he used on himself during panic attacks: slow breaths, gentle sway. He rocked Angelo side to side, one hand rubbing small circles on his back. “Hey, buddy. It’s okay. Deep breaths. In... out...”
Angelo’s screams hitched—turned to hiccups. Then sniffles. Charlie kept humming, adding a quiet story: “Once there was a brave little dragon who cried when his teeth hurt, but then he found a magic song...”
The kid went limp—head on Charlie’s shoulder, tiny hand fisting his sweater. Asleep? No—calm, thumb in mouth, eyes drooping.
The maid exhaled. “You’re a miracle. How’d you do that?”
Charlie smiled faintly. “Just... practice. On myself, mostly.”
Footsteps from the hall. “Maria? What’s the—oh.”
Charlie looked up.
Karl Bran wasn’t old. Wasn’t grizzled. He was... hot. Mid-30s, maybe—tall, broad-shouldered in a rumpled button-down and jeans, dark hair tousled like he’d run hands through it, stubble shadowing a sharp jaw. Green eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses, piercing and surprised. A tattoo peeked from his sleeve—some intricate rune design.
“Mr. Bran?” Charlie managed, cheeks heating under that gaze.
Karl’s lips curved—small, appreciative smile. “Karl. And you’re...?”
“Charlie Spring. From the press. Delivering the revisions.”
Karl’s eyes flicked to the kid—Angelo—in Charlie’s arms. “You got him to stop? He’s been a terror all morning. Teething hell.”
Charlie shifted Angelo carefully. “Yeah. Just a hum and a sway. Works wonders.”
Karl stepped closer—close enough Charlie caught his scent: ink, coffee, faint cologne. He took Angelo gently, the kid stirring but settling against his dad’s chest. “You’re a natural. Angelo’s my son—adopted him last year. Single dad life’s... chaotic.”
Charlie nodded, pulse oddly quick. “He’s cute. Even grumpy.”
Karl laughed—low, warm. “When he’s not screaming. Come in—office is this way. Let’s chat about the script. You hungry? Maria’s got tea and biscuits.”
Charlie followed—folder in hand, heart still racing from the night before, now tangled with this unexpected spark. Karl Bran—hot, single dad, rune tattoo. What the hell was happening?
As they walked, Karl glanced back. “Thanks again. For Angelo. And the delivery. You’re a lifesaver.”
Charlie smiled—real this time. “Anytime.”
