Chapter 19 #3
He works with the slow devotional patience of a man who has apparently decided that the only thing that matters in the universe is getting Newt as slick and open and undone as Newt can possibly be before Malik is inside him.
His tongue is everywhere. Broad flat strokes that have Newt sobbing into the mattress.
Tight circles with the tip of it around the rim of him.
The shallow wet press of it inside, just the tip, fucking him gently on his tongue while Newt's fingernails dig furrows into the ticking and his hips push back without his permission.
One of Malik's hands slides around. Between his thighs.
Drags, slow, through the slick mess that Newt has made of himself—he is soaked, he is embarrassingly soaked, he has barely come down from the last orgasm and he is already this wet again—and Malik hums, low and satisfied, and drags those wet fingers up and back.
"Look at you," Malik breathes. "Drenched for me, love."
Malik's index finger, slick with Newt's own wetness, circles the tight ring of muscle. Newt shudders. Newt, humiliatingly, pushes back.
"Greedy," Malik murmurs. Pleased.
"Malik—"
"I know, love. Let me take my time."
He presses the tip of his finger in. Just the tip.
The stretch of it makes Newt's whole body clench down and then release, clench and release, and Malik hums and waits, and slides in deeper, and Newt is making small broken noises into the mattress that he does not recognize as his own.
Malik works him open slowly—one finger, fully seated, and then a slow withdrawal and the slow press back in, over and over, until Newt has adjusted; then two, slick with more of Newt's own wetness, the stretch sharper but not painful, Malik gentling him through it with kisses along the small of his back—and when Malik finally presses three inside him Newt is shaking so hard his knees keep slipping on the ticking.
"Please," Newt gasps, "Malik, please, please—"
“Tell me what you want, love.”
"Inside me, please, I need it, I need—"
Malik groans against the small of his back.
Newt feels him rise. He hears the rustle of clothing being undone—Malik is still dressed, Malik is still dressed and he is at some point going to burn in humiliation over the fact that he has been the only naked person in this room for twenty minutes but it is not a problem for right now—and then there is the quiet rasp of fabric being set aside, and then Malik's hands are back on his hips, warm and steady, and Newt can feel the hot bare length of Malik's body settling up against his.
He can feel Malik's cock, hot and heavy and hard, press against the inside of his thigh.
Newt's breath stops.
"Still with me?" Malik murmurs. His voice is rough against Newt's ear. He has draped himself forward, chest to Newt's back, one hand braced on the mattress beside Newt's head, the other still on his hip.
"Yes."
"I'm going to slick myself up, love. I'm going to use you. Is that alright?"
"Gods, yes."
"Good boy."
Malik's hand leaves his hip. Newt feels him shift, settling back onto his knees behind him, and then—oh—then Malik drags the heavy length of his cock, slow and deliberate, through the soaked slick mess between Newt's thighs.
Newt makes a noise.
Malik does it again. A long slow drag, from the wet ready entrance of him up through the folds, coating himself in it, the heat of him sliding through the slick that Newt has made for him.
Newt can feel every inch of him. The weight.
The hardness. The catch of the head of his cock dragging through the wet.
"Oh my god," Newt whispers. "Malik—"
Malik grinds against him again, slower this time, rolling his hips in a slow wet drag that has Newt's whole body tensing and releasing, and the head of Malik's cock bumps, on the way up, against the tight peak of Newt's cock, and Newt's hips jerk, and Malik groans low in his throat.
"You feel—fuck, Newt. You feel unreal."
He does it one more time. Long and slow and thorough, dragging wet through the heart of him, until Malik is slick from root to tip with Newt's own wetness, and then—
—then Malik's hand, still slick, slides up. Between them. And he lines himself up against the tight stretched entrance that he has spent the last ten minutes opening for exactly this, and he presses, just presses, a gentle insistent weight against the ring of muscle.
Newt goes still.
"Breathe, love."
"I am, I am—"
"Slow breath. In."
Newt breathes in.
"Out."
Newt breathes out.
Malik pushes in.
Slow. Unbearably slow. He goes by fractions.
The head of him breaches Newt with a stretch that takes Newt's breath away—not pain, exactly, but a fullness he has never felt, a pressure that is unfamiliar and unbearable and good—and Malik stops there.
Just the head. Breathing hard against Newt's shoulder blade. Holding them still.
Newt breathes. Newt breathes and shakes and Malik holds them both still, not moving, just pressing the head of his cock inside him, giving Newt's body time to understand what is happening to it.
Malik's hand has come up to card through Newt's hair.
His mouth is pressed to the nape of Newt's neck, a constant soft pressure of kisses, and he is murmuring nonsense into Newt's skin—you're alright, you're doing so well, that's it love, good boy, I've got you, gods look at you, taking me so well—and Newt is crying a little, and he does not know why, except that he does know why, except that it is because he has never felt this held, he has never been this wanted, he has never been this safe.
"More," Newt whispers.
"Yeah?"
"Please."
Malik presses in.
Another inch. Another. He takes his time—an inch and then a pause, an inch and then a pause—and Newt can feel every fraction of him, every new bit of stretch, every new point of contact, and by the time Malik is fully seated, hips flush against the backs of Newt's thighs, Newt is incoherent.
He is trembling. He is clenching rhythmically around the thick hot length of Malik inside him.
He has gone, at some point, somewhere that is not language.
His mouth is open against the mattress and small wrecked vowels are coming out of it and his hands have fisted so hard in the ticking that Malik, gently, has to peel them free one at a time and lace his own fingers through them, bracing Newt's hands against the mattress beside his shoulders.
"Alright?" Malik breathes, against his ear.
"Mmhm—"
"Words, love."
"Yes—yes, I'm—I'm—"
He rocks his hips.
Just a small roll. Not a thrust. Just the slightest shift of his weight, and Newt makes a noise that does not resemble any noise he has ever made before—a deep broken overwhelmed sound, torn directly from his chest—and Malik does it again.
Another slow roll. A third. He is barely moving.
He is giving Newt's body time to understand the motion, the angle, the entirely new geometry of being filled like this, and Newt is shaking apart beneath him.
"Malik, Malik, Malik—"
"You feel so good, Newt."
"It's—oh my god—"
Malik withdraws. Just an inch or two. And slides back in.
Slow. The slow measured pressure of him dragging out and then pushing back, and Newt's whole body lights up along his spine, and the second thrust is already less careful than the first, and by the third Malik is groaning low in his throat, his hand tight on Newt's hip, and Newt is pushing back against him, hips rolling into the rhythm, small desperate little rocks that Malik lets him have.
Malik sets a rhythm.
It is slow at first. Careful. The slow heavy slide of him in and out, the hot drag of his cock through the tight stretched heat of Newt, the steady unhurried press of his hips.
Newt is whimpering continuously into the mattress, his face turned to the side, his hair sticking to his cheek.
Malik's hand on his hip flexes. The other hand, still laced with Newt's against the mattress, squeezes.
Then Malik thrusts a little harder.
Newt cries out. The sound breaks loose of his chest before he can stop it, and Malik does it again, harder, and again, and Newt is pushing back into it, and Malik's other hand is sliding under him now, under his belly, finding the hard slick peak of his cock and circling it in tight wet strokes in time with the thrusts, and Newt is—Newt is—
"Come for me, love. Give me another one."
Newt comes.
It crashes through him. He is clenching down hard around Malik inside him, rhythmic and helpless, and his whole body is shaking apart around it, and Malik is groaning against his ear, and Malik's thrusts have gone stuttering and deep, and the bond between them has flared so bright Newt can see it behind his eyes, can feel every thread of Malik flooding back into him in a warm golden rush.
Malik pulls out before he finishes, again, old habit, and comes across the small of Newt's back and the curve of his ass, and Newt is so wrung-out by then that he barely registers the wet heat of it, only the low broken groan Malik makes against his shoulder, only the shaking of Malik's arms as they brace on either side of him, only the kisses Malik is pressing, frantic and soft, to the nape of his neck.
They collapse together.
Malik rolls them, carefully, onto their sides.
Tucks Newt's back against his chest. Pulls out a corner of something—Newt is too fuzzy to tell what—and cleans them both with slow unhurried care.
Newt is aware, distantly, that his body feels hollowed-out in a way that he will not fully process for hours.
He is aware that his eyes are heavy. He is aware that Malik has conjured a blanket out of the bag and is drawing it up over them, and that Malik's hand is stroking up and down his arm in a slow soothing rhythm.
"Malik," Newt murmurs.
"Mm."
"I never liked it when you went out."
A long pause.
"Out?" Malik asks.
"Mmhm."
"To feed, you mean."
"Mmhm."
Malik is quiet for a moment. His hand, on Newt's arm, keeps moving. Steady. Slow.
"To be fair, love," Malik says, "you didn't know I was doing it for a long time."
Newt flushes into the mattress. "I know. But when I knew—I didn't like it."
Malik presses a kiss to the crown of his head. His arm tightens across Newt's chest.
He is quiet for a long moment.
"I didn't want to use you," he says, finally.
His voice is low. "I didn't—I didn't know I could keep you.
I didn't know that was a thing I could have.
And I thought if I—if I started with you, I'd—" He stops.
Swallows. "I'd have to leave. Eventually.
The way I always have. And I didn't want to do that to you. "
"Oh."
"I was wrong about a lot of things."
"Mm."
Newt slides his hand up. Finds Malik's. Laces their fingers together on his own stomach, where Malik's arm is wrapped around him. He brings their joined hands up and presses a kiss to Malik's knuckles.
"You can keep me," he says.
Malik makes a small sound into his hair. A laugh, almost. Something that is not quite a laugh.
"Yeah?"
"Mmhm."
"Forever?"
Newt considers this. He considers it for about half a second.
"Yes," he says, very matter of fact.
Malik tightens his arm. He presses his face into Newt's hair and smiles.