Smut Please (boyxboy) #wattys2016

We Were Born Sick, But I Love It (Newtmas)

Newt thought that he would never feel a rush as intense as the feeling that runs through his body when he's on stage and the crowd goes crazy screaming his name, the sweat making his clothes damp, his t-shirt glued to his skin and his guitar getting heavier as the minutes pass, his throat getting sore with every song.

But a hot breath against his neck and sharp nails sinking in the soft skin of his thighs is just as good and a hell a lot more intense than playing at sold out arenas every night.

He's panting, he doesn't know if it's because of the excitement of the concert that's still on his veins, or the alcohol and other shit he's taken that's running through his system, or just that it's too hot inside of the van, but he's panting, fighting to fill his lungs with cold air that he can't find. It's overwhelming, uncomfortable, but the burn in his chest becomes sweet when it's Thomas's breath what he starts breathing.

Their faces are so close, Newt's mouth hovering over Thomas's but never touching, never kissing, only breathing every single whimper and sigh that leaves those shiny red lips, he would love to know what they taste like, but he doesn't dare to lean all the way in, he's too coward to erase the little space that's left between them.

His hands have started shaking, something that never happens to him when he's on stage, he feels sure and confident up there, knowing that all the people screaming at him have paid to see him there; but right now, with Thomas squirming under him, he feels almost nervous.

Newt licks his lips, the sweat there that has dripped from his forehead tastes the same as when he's sweating onstage, but the cause of it isn't excitment; well, maybe it is, but mixed up with anxiety and lust and he makes Thomas turn around and presses his chest against Thomas's back before his mind can form too complicated thoughts that develop even more complicated feelings.

They're on the backseat of the van, Thomas kneeling with his hands resting over the window to support his own weight. Newt looks at them, at Thomas's hands, they are veiny and callous for playing the guitar, they clear the mist of the window without wanting every time Thomas moves. They are beautiful hands, they're strong and they always know where they have to touch to make Newt scream.

"The fuck are you doing Newt?" Thomas says, breathy, looking over his shoulder frowning "Can you fucking move?"

Newt closes his eyes tightly, he leans in and bites down on Thomas's shoulder when the idea of kissing Thomas's frown away pops up in his mind.

He runs his hands over the soft skin of Thomas's arms until they reach those beautiful hands, and he moves his hips, gets inside Thomas so the pleasure hits his body hard and clouds the fact that his fingers are intertwined with Thomas's.

Newt thought that he would never hear something as beautiful as the crowd going crazy and screaming his name, but then Thomas is saying his name with his raspy voice when he's close to his climax, and Newt finds out he was wrong.

----

"You should stop going drunk on stage" Thomas says three days later, when they get into their dressing room after another show in another arena in another country that he doesn't even remember the name of.

Newt stretches his body and walks toward Thomas, taking the can of beer he has in his hand. He ignores his comment, because if he's being honest he doesn't even remember how it feels being sober, the past year is a blur of alcohol and pills and smell of sex in his mind.

He drinks the whole can, empties it without stopping to catch his breath, throws it away and pushes Thomas against the couch that's on the corner of the room, turning his complaints about his beer into laughter, and later the laughter into moans.