His fingers slip lower.
He doesn't crowd. He doesn't push. He slides two fingers down, down through the soft slick folds of him, and finds Newt absolutelydrenched—he is so wet Malik's fingers glide throughit without resistance, and the scent of it rises between them in a warm green cloud, and Malik has to shut his eyes for a half-second because the scent alone is enough to make his own cock throb against the seam of his trousers. He circles his fingertips at Newt's entrance. Light. A question. Newt's hips chase the contact and Malik presses the pads of his fingers inside—just inside, just past the tight ring of muscle—and Newt cries out.
Malik withdraws immediately, and Newt's hands fist in his hair, hard.
"No, I'm sorry," Newt gasps, "no, I didn't mean—don't—please, please don't stop—"
"I'm not stopping." Malik kisses him. Soft. Sucks Newt's lower lip between his teeth and lets it go. "I'm not stopping, love, I'm—"
The word is out before he has authorized it. He files it. He will deal with it later.
He slides his fingers back into the wet heat of him. Two, this time, pressed together, and he goes slow. He goes slow because Newt has never been touched like this, has never been touched at all, and the clench of him around Malik's fingers is so tight Malik can feel every small adjustment of his body, every little flutter of muscle. He pushes in to the second knuckle. Pauses. Lets Newt adjust. Lets the stretch settle. And Newt makes a broken shattered sound into his shoulder that is going to haunt Malik for the rest of his very long life.
"So good, Newt," Malik breathes. "You're doing so well—"
He curls his fingers. Just a crook, just an exploratory drag along the front wall of him, and Newt's hips snap forward off the wall with a strangled noise and the light fixture in the hallway blows out with a pop of glass and a shower of sparks that Malik does not bother to acknowledge.
He strokes that spot. Slow, firm, unhurried, the pads of two fingers rubbing in a steady rhythm while Newt shakes apartagainst him, and he gathers the wetness on his fingers—so much of it now, slick running down the inside of Newt's thigh, soaking the ruined fabric of his open trousers—and drags it back up. Up through the folds of him. Up to the hard aching peak of Newt's cock, and he spreads it there, slow and deliberate, using Newt's own slick to lubricate him, painting it over the swollen sensitive head of him in a slow wet circle that has Newt keening into his mouth.
"Malik—"
He sets a rhythm. Two fingers inside, curled, pressing; thumb above, circling the head of Newt's cock in tight slow strokes; the heel of his palm grinding against him with every push. Newt is making a continuous helpless sound now, a broken little string of vowels punctuated by gasps, and his hips are rocking forward into the heel of Malik's hand and back onto his fingers and he has no idea he is doing it, Malik can tell. His body has simply taken over. His body has waited for this and it is not waiting any longer.
Malik strokes him. He varies it—firm pressure of the flat of his thumb, then the lighter drag of his fingertip, then the wet tight circle of two fingers pinched around the base of him—and Newt's breath shatters with every change. The slick between them is obscene. Malik's wrist is wet to the cuff. The whole air of the room smells like Newt, like honey and crushed green things and the electric afterscent of magic pouring out of a body that has held it too long, and Malik is, himself, shaking. He is shaking. He has not shaken against a partner in his lifetime and he is shaking now.
"Malik, I—I'm going to—I can't—"
He curls his fingers. Drags along that spot inside. Circles his thumb tight and wet over the head of Newt's cock.
"Please—"
"Newt." He kisses him. Hard. Filthy. His fingers working in steady perfect rhythm. "Come. Come for me. I've got you, come for me, my good boy—"
Newt comes with a sob that is half relief and half something else, something Malik cannot put a name to, and his whole body clenches down on Malik's fingers in a long rhythmic pulse and then releases, a long shuddering unwinding, and the magic that has been building in him for twenty years pours out. Pours, cleanly, in one long unbroken flood, into the ward, which takes it and locks it and seals itself around the house like a shell. An eggshell. Perfect. Flawless. The crack in the ceiling knits itself closed. The shattered window—Malik hears it, distantly—re-forms, glass finding glass, seam by seam, until it is whole.
Malik works him through it. He keeps his fingers moving, slow now, gentle, coaxing out every last pulse, every aftershock, until Newt is whimpering against his shoulder and twitching with oversensitivity and his hands have gone limp in Malik's hair.
Malik withdraws his hand, slowly. His fingers are slick to the second knuckle, glistening with it, and he has to exercise the full weight of years of discipline not to bring them to his mouth. He settles for wiping them, discreetly, on the inside of his own shirt, and refastens the button of Newt's trousers because it seems like the thing to do. Brings both arms around him and holds him, just holds him, while the magic settles into silence around them.
Newt sags against him.
Malik catches him. Eases him against the wall, other arm wrapped firmly around his back, and feels him shaking, feels the aftershocks of it rolling through the small body pressed against his own. Newt's face is tucked into the hollow of Malik's throat. His breath is hot and uneven against Malik's collarbone. Malik, who has never stood against a wall with a partner afterward, finds himself entirely unable to move.
"You're alright," Malik says. He does not recognize his own voice. "You're alright. You did it. Look at what you did."
Newt makes a small wet sound against his throat.
Malik presses his forehead against the top of Newt's head. He breathes in—that sweet botanical warmth, now shot through with the salt of sweat and the particular electric afterscent of spent magic—and he closes his eyes and he thinks, very distinctly, the single clearest thought he has had:
What the fuck have you done?
The ward hums around them, perfect and unbroken. Newt's hand finds his and curls into it, small and trusting, and does not let go.
Malik does not let go either.
He tells himself it is because Newt is still shaking. He tells himself it is because the magic needs another moment to settle. He tells himself a number of things, standing there with his forehead pressed to the crown of Newt's head, and he does not believe any of them, and he does not let go.
Chapter 10
