I needed you.
Malik has to close his eyes.
When he opens them, he leans forward. Slowly. Gives Newt time to pull back, which Newt does not do, and he presses his forehead to Newt's. Careful of the lip. Careful of everything.
"Say it again," Malik says, against his mouth.
Newt breathes in.
"I need you," Newt whispers. "I need you, Malik."
Malik kisses him.
It is not a rough kiss. He thought—for a half-second, he thought—it would be rough, because rage is still sitting in his chest and want is sitting beside it and the two of them together should not produce anything tender, but his mouth opens against Newt's carefully, so carefully, avoiding the split in his lip, kissing the corner of it, kissing the unhurt curve beside it, kissing him with the kind of attention Malik has never in his life given to anything. Newt makes a small broken sound and his hands come up to Malik's shoulders and Malik moves.
He shifts them. Slow, so slow. He guides Newt backward onto the pillows, his hand behind Newt's head, cradling. He climbs upover him, careful of his ribs, bracing his weight on his knees and one elbow, and he does not stop kissing him. He kisses him for a long time. He kisses him until Newt's hands have crept up into his hair, until Newt's breathing has gone uneven for a different reason than pain, until the tension has left Newt's shoulders and been replaced by a softer trembling.
Newt's hands slide down from Malik's hair. They find the collar of his shirt, tentative, pulling at it without quite pulling. Malik lifts himself just enough to strip it off—one smooth motion, tossed somewhere behind him—and when he lowers himself back down Newt makes a small overwhelmed sound at the contact of skin against skin, and his hands spread wide across Malik's bare chest, exploring.
Malik kisses him deeper. He lets one hand trail down Newt's side, careful of the bruised ribs, tracing the line of him, and his fingers find the waistband of Newt's trousers and he pauses there.
"Can I?" he murmurs, against Newt's mouth.
Newt nods. Quick and breathless.
Malik undoes the button. Draws the zip down slowly. He eases the trousers down Newt's hips, lifting himself enough to work them free, and Newt helps—kicking at them, graceless, until they are somewhere at the foot of the bed. Malik hooks his fingers under the waistband of Newt's boxers and tugs them down too, slow, peeling them off his thighs and past his knees, and then Newt is bare under him.
Malik pulls back to look at him.
Newt is flushed from his cheeks to his chest. His hair is spread across the pillow. His hands have gone still against Malik's shoulders and he is looking up at Malik with an expression that is half want and half something terribly vulnerable, and Malik's chest does that cracking thing again, that fracture down the center, because Newt is bruised and bleeding and naked underhim and looking at Malik like Malik is the only safe place left in the world.
Malik lowers himself back down and kisses him. He kisses Newt's mouth, his jaw, the unhurt side of his throat, and his hand trails down between them. Down Newt's chest. Down the flat of his belly, past the small freckle above his navel that Malik has noticed, privately, eight or nine times over breakfast. Down through the soft curls below. He lets his fingers find the wet heat of him, and Newt gasps against his mouth.
"Fuck," Malik murmurs.
He touches him gently. Exploratory. He drags one fingertip along the slick folds of him, learning the shape, and Newt shudders under him. Malik finds the hard peak of his cock and circles it, slow, barely there, and Newt's hips jolt.
He keeps circling, slow and steady, and Newt's slick is coating his fingers, and the smell of him is rising between them—green crushed things and warm honey and the particular musk of want—thick enough to coat the back of Malik's tongue. Malik drags his wet fingers lower. He circles the tight entrance of him, teasing, not pressing in, and Newt whines against his mouth.
"Please," Newt breathes. "Please—"
Malik presses one finger in. Slow. Just to the first knuckle.
Newt's whole body goes taut. His hands grip Malik's shoulders and his mouth falls open and he makes a sound—a small broken vowel—and Malik holds there, holds there, letting him adjust. Then he presses deeper. His finger slides in to the second knuckle, and Newt is tight and slick and impossibly warm around him, and Malik has to close his eyes for a moment because the feel of it, thetrustof it, is doing something to him he does not have a word for.
He starts to move. A slow in-and-out, shallow, patient. Newt's breathing goes ragged. His hips start to rock, small unconsciousmotions, chasing the rhythm. Malik adds a second finger—slow, careful—and Newt cries out against his throat.
"Oh—oh, that's—"
"Too much?"
"No—no, don't stop,pleasedon't stop—"
Malik does not stop. He works his two fingers inside Newt, slow and deep, curling them on the inward press, finding the spot along the front wall that makes Newt's back arch off the bed. He works it in a firm patient circle, and his thumb finds Newt's cock and works that too, and Newt is shaking apart under him, his hands scrabbling at Malik's back, his breath coming in small hitched sobs.
"Malik—Malik, I'm—I'm going to—"
"Yes," Malik says, against his mouth. "Give it to me, love."
