Warning: smut! This was originally published on Ao3 on January 6th, 2017 and is being included here for the sake of my ego.
Newt loves her like this.
Tina is spread before him, shameless and flushed and ripe. She suffers no inhibition under his gaze; she knows that he adores every inch of her. Worships her even, and is willfully ignorant of any perceived flaws or imperfections.
Tina's skirt and blouse are a crumpled pile on the floor. His clothes have long since gone—he is, and always has been, comfortable in his own nudity; seems to revel in it. She doesn't mind. The better to touch and taste and admire, counting freckles and drawing constellations between his scars.
Cool air breezes through her thin camisole, tingling against her skin and tightening her nipples. Newt can feel her skin hump into goosebumps beneath his wandering hand, and he hides a smile by leaning forward to run the flat of his tongue over her breast. She whines, and her hips jerk at the contact.
(He worries, sometimes; her wants are occasionally pernicious, and it has taken a long time for him to be comfortable granting them to her. In this moment, he can see the darkness in her eyes, the need in her trembling hands. It's a need he shares.)
Newt dispatches her camisole with forced efficiency to focus on her breasts. He alternates between them: sucking, biting, leaving his mark. He works at her until she writhes, gasping into the cool air of the room as he trails his mouth downwards. Newt covers her with one broad hand (there is something primordial in the gesture, an inherent masculinity that beckons and claims all at once) and presses. The sound of her nails digging into the cushion is very loud.
"My prickly Porpentina," Newt murmurs and nips along the edge of her thigh. She makes a sound, low and breathy, that spears through him, and he draws back a moment to regain control of himself. When they've both calmed, he flips up her camisole to expose her lower half, and runs his teeth along her hip, inhaling her scent. He quickly returns to the juncture of her thigh, nuzzling into her and using a hand to part the lips of her sex.
(He is intensely focused, as he always is when they are together. Tina sometimes thinks that he prefers this activity over even their coupling. He is profoundly attached to this most intimate part of her and has traced and mapped every inch with teeth and tongue and worshipful touches.)
Reverently, he trails a finger along her swollen edges. "Good," he declares when she inhales sharply. He drags upwards through her moisture to flick beneath her hood, gliding over the silky button hidden there. (Her thighs tense, and the sheer eroticism of her reaction makes him fumble momentarily) He takes a breath to collect himself before swirling a digit around and over, listening as her breathing falls apart.
Slowly, lazily, he drifts back down, toying at her opening before dipping in—just to the knuckle, just enough to tease. Tina jerks against him, and her hand clamps around his wrist.
"Not yet," he demurrers, and sinks his teeth into her thigh. "Not until you're ready for me."
He falls into teasing repetition—in, up, over, around, and back again—to watch her tense and coil, head thrown back as she fills the room with the sounds of her bliss.
(This. This is what he strives for every time she makes herself receptive to him. His Tina, undone and wanton and wanting, dangling on the edge until he decides to release her. Trusting him not to let her fall without him. Trusting him to catch her.)
His mouth tingles so he jerks forward, guiding one of her legs over his shoulder to wrap around his back, and tastes. The noise she makes is musical, and he closes his eyes in bliss. He flicks his tongue over her, short touches meant to ignite, and she fills his senses. Her hand finds his hair, tugs, and he adds a note of his own.
It doesn't take much for her hips to start to roll against his face, short, sharp gasps spilling from her throat. In retaliation, he eases back, trading short flicks for long, slow strokes. She makes a frustrated sound, and he hears the thud of her head hitting the cushion in frustration.
"Newt!"
He raises his head to look at her, as lazy and content as a cat at a saucer of cream. "So sorry—did you want me to keep going?" He knows it's borderline cruel to tease her when she's this close, but he also knows that she relishes the denial almost as much as she needs the release.
"Newt, I swear to Circe—!"
He lowers his head to pull at her one last time, starting at the base of her sex and dragging his tongue through her wetness. He groans when he dips his tongue to sample within, and she jerks as he wraps his lips around her clit and suckles. She shudders and is reduced to pleading against him, blunt nails digging into any skin she can reach.
"I do think you're ready for me," he says when he raises his head, leaving her panting and unsatisfied. She bares her teeth in challenge and reaches to grip his arms, tugging insistently.
Newt moves to cover her. Tina is flushed and unbelievably appealing like this, spread over the couch. He takes a moment to admire (dark eyes and swollen lips and tousled hair and acres of touchable porcelain skin) before pressing her thighs apart, slotting himself between. She makes breathless, needy noises beneath him; he's in a state himself. He aches as he slides into her, sinking to the hilt with a groan, relishing the welcoming friction, the way she grips and stretches.
Tina groans and arches her back, allowing him to sink deeper as her nails cut into his skin. She's fundamentally alive beneath him, a wild thing of nails and teeth as he rolls his hips against her, and it takes all his formidable will to control his response. She has driven him close to the edge already but tumbling over that cliff would leave her unsatisfied, so he ignores his own needs and pours all his ardor into her.
She pulses around him, slick and unbearably hot, and he bares his teeth at her in warning.
"Not yet, Tina," he grits out, grimly ignoring the pull of her. He shudders to a halt, and she sobs once, short and mournful. Newt takes a moment to regroup, placing a reassuring kiss on her sternum before wrapping his arms around her and, with a growl, lifting her off the couch.
He repositions and adjusts until he's supine and she hovers over him. Newt plants his feet on the floor and threads their fingers together, allowing her to use his arms for leverage. Then he catches her eye and nods, giving tacit permission to take what she needs.
Tina moves over him like a goddess, using her strong thighs to ride him hard. He watches through glazed eyes as her mouth falls open, snatching breaths from the air to release them in gasps and moans and half-formed statements of delight. A flush takes her chest when her head falls forward, his name a staccato cadence on her lips. She locks gazes with him and his smile is a blade, poised to grant her release.
"Will you come for me, Tina?" he pants through the jags in his voice, tenuous control rapidly deteriorating. "Can you do that?"
She nods shakily and grinds into him, causing his vision to go hazy. She does it again as her head falls back with a whine, fingers coming up to tweak her own nipples. A third time and she is released—coming hard, twitching and slick and unbearably tight. She milks him until Newt tumbles after her, his own orgasm a fierce and primal thing. He drags her down and pulses into her while she captures his lips.
They ride the aftershocks and take a moment to simply breathe, hands tangling over each other's bodies. When they've calmed and their shaking has subsided, Newt helps her ease off him before tucking her into his side, gently smoothing a hand over her hair.
"I needed that," Tina says softly, and she catches his eye with a smile. "I think you did too."
Newt nods, seeing no need to hide this from her. (He doesn't hide anything from her anymore, and she's cradled his heart long enough for him to trust her with it entirely.) "Yes, I did."
She grins up at him, radiant in the afterglow. "When can we do that again?" she asks, and he can't tell if she's joking.
He hoists a sardonic eyebrow before rolling his eyes to check the clock on the mantle. "Is 20 minutes sufficient recovery time, my dear nymph?" he quips, and she dissolves into giggles before gently swatting the side of his head with a pillow.
"I think 20 minutes is perfect," she purrs and leans in to kiss him.
