"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 Newtis 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."
