"Look at me." His thumb traces a slow circle. His hips press deep. "Stay right here."
"Malik, I'm going to come again–"
"Yes." Malik lowers his mouth to Newt's. Kisses him, slow, in time with the roll of his hips. "Yes, come for me, Newt."
Newt comes around him.
Malik feels it first—the rhythmic clench of Newt's body, the tight pulsing grip of it around his cock—and then he hears it, a long wrecked sob against his throat, and Newt's whole body arches up under him, and the bond between them flares open, and the magic that has been building in this room since they walked into it pours through Malik in a clean hot flood. He can feel it. He can feel every thread of Newt—the fear, the relief, the astonishment, thelove, the bright uncomplicated love that Newt has been carrying around for weeks and is now simply offering him like a held-out hand—and Malik's control breaks.
He thrusts into him, once, twice, a third time, and the pleasure rolls up his spine and explodes behind his eyes and he has the presence of mind—barely—to pull out before he comes. He finishes across Newt's stomach and the insides of Newt's thighs and the jut of his cock and the soft skin above his curls, painting him in it, and Newt makes a small dazed sound and Malik cannot, cannot, cannot catch his breath.
He collapses onto his elbows above Newt. Careful of the ribs. Forehead against Newt's forehead. Both of them breathing.
“Fuck," Malik manages.
"Mm."
"Are you alright?"
"Mm."
Malik huffs a laugh. It is a startled thing. He does not remember the last time he laughed.
"I'll take that as a yes."
"Don't leave."
"I'm not going anywhere."
He isn't. He isn't going anywhere. The words land in his chest the moment he says them and he sits with them, and they do not frighten him the way they should.
He stays there for a long time. Long enough for their breathing to slow. Long enough for the mess on Newt's stomach to start to cool. Eventually he rouses himself, just enough to kiss Newt's forehead and murmurstay there, and he slides off the bed and walks naked to the bathroom and wets a cloth and comes back.
He cleans Newt carefully. Every mess of himself he painted across him. The slick on the insides of his thighs. The drying streak across his hip. He does it slowly, reverently, and Newt is watching him with his eyes half-closed and his mouth soft, and when Malik is done Newt reaches for him, and Malik drops the cloth and goes.
He climbs back into the bed. He pulls the blanket up over them. He reaches for Newt and—after a small negotiation of limbs, because Newt is on the wrong side and Malik's arm is under the wrong shoulder and Newt's hair is in his mouth—he curls himself around Newt's smaller body, chest to Newt's back, one arm tucked possessively across his chest, chin resting on top of Newt's head.
He has not done this. He has not ever done this.
He closes his eyes.
After a minute Newt is still tense. After another minute, Newt is still tense.
Malik opens his eyes. His chin is on the crown of Newt's head and he cannot see Newt's face and Newt's hand is resting very carefully on the forearm Malik has wrapped around his chest, too carefully, like Newt is afraid of touching it wrong.
Oh, Malik thinks.
Oh, no.
He has—he has spent the last several weeks teaching Newt, with every exit and every return, with every stranger he brought home perfume from, with every morning silence at the breakfast table, that Newt isnot enough for him. He has spent weeks teaching Newt that, and now they have done this, this thing Malik has never done with anyone, and Newt is lying in his arms waiting to be dismissed.
Malik swallows. It is not a small thing, swallowing his pride. It is not a thing he has practice with. He presses a kiss into Newt's hair.
"What's wrong?" he asks.
Newt's breath hitches. "Nothing."
"Newt."
