Without A Single String Attached (Rewrite)

Sweetheart, you look a little tired

Finally, he broke. "Tommy," he croaked, curious.

Thomas, unrelenting, hummed questioningly.

"How are you holding up, mate?"

Another, even more theatrical, groan. "Nope, not right now. We are not doing this right now," he mumbled.

"What can I do? Do we need to talk?"

Thomas mockingly replied, "I'm fine, mom."

"Thomas, stop acting like a bloody sissy. What's up with you?" Newt pushed, brushing aside Thomas' hair.

He paused, the words caught in his throat. Thomas sighed, readied himself, and folded his hands beneath his chin to peer up at Newt. "Can I stay the night?"

Newt let out a surprised laugh, chest jumping with the sound. "Do you even need to ask?" His delicate fingers nudged the strands that refused to uncover Thomas' forehead. "Always, Tommy."

Thomas caught his hand and pressed kisses to his fingertips, his free hand skimming Newt's ribs. Newt shifted at the action, leg hooking over Thomas'.

"Tommy," he warned, his brows lowering. "You aren't getting out of this one."

Thomas released him, rolling about on Newt's thin frame. He let out a series of exhales that varied in their dramaticism. "Can we drop this, Newt?"

Newt caught his chin, his hands wrapping around Thomas' face tenderly. He brushed his thumbs along his cheekbones and breathed quietly, dark eyes searching Thomas' weary ones.

"Tommy," he bumped their noses together, "talk to me?"

Thomas twisted against Newt, further entangling their legs. He kissed at the corners of Newt's lips, inched himself downward, and mouthed along Newt's jaw, his teeth adding an edge to the gentleness.

Newt opened his mouth to protest as his fingers found purchase on Thomas' shoulders in an attempt to ease him back. Thomas was having none of this. He nipped below his jaw, worrying the skin between his teeth. Pulling himself upward to settle chest-to-chest with Newt, the latter hummed despite himself and chased Thomas' lips with desperation. He was drunk on the taste of Thomas, on the way his hair fell across his eyes, on the glint of his teeth through his smile, on the way he claimed what he needed without shame, full of wanton. Newt drank the frustration from his lips, collecting that turmoil for himself.

Thomas, impatient as always, pulled their faces together in yearning. His teeth clacked against Newt's as their foreheads collided and their necks craned. Newt longed to talk with him, to pause and screw his head on right again, but the ache in his chest was more prominent than ever. He knew the ins and outs of Thomas' mind: what made him tick, what spots evoked a reaction, how he viewed the world—and those that resided within it. Except, of course, Newt. The man could hardly fathom why Thomas, his Tommy, had chosen him on such occasions as these. The moments where he hovered just above rock bottom, his feet barely brushing over the harsh surface. The moments where he turned up on Newt's doorstep, sodden and sullen, to seek the comfort he knew would greet him. So, Thomas, stubborn in his emotions, silenced Newt. He didn't want Newt to try and rationalize—even though he so desperately needed it— nor did he wish to discuss the issue that was plaguing him.

He licked into Newt's mouth, all haste, and hurried hands, his fingers pushing the blond fringe that had fallen out of place. Thomas twisted and tugged on the loose strands even as they struggled to their feet, a dance of frenzied limbs and forgotten clothing. Newt jolted forward, throwing his legs about Thomas' waist, who caught him expectantly. They jostled their way down the hall between intervals of back-pressed-to-the-wall kisses and shiver-inducing brushes that left them both breathless.