Chapter 19 #2
He is placing the last of his tea tins on the kitchen counter when Malik stands up from the windowsill and crosses to him and slides his arms around Newt's waist from behind.
Newt's breath catches.
Malik's hands are warm through the fabric of Newt's shirt, flat-palmed, splayed across his stomach. His chin settles onto Newt's shoulder. His hair falls forward over Newt's chest and Newt's hands stop moving. He is holding a tin of chamomile. He has forgotten what he was doing.
"Hi," Malik murmurs.
"Hi."
"You've been busy."
"I'm almost done."
"You could be done now." Malik's mouth finds the shell of his ear.
Newt's knees do a small traitorous thing. He tightens his grip on the tin of chamomile.
"Malik," he says.
"Mm."
"I'm trying to unpack."
"You're doing a great job, love."
"You are not helping."
Malik's tongue, warm and deliberate, traces the rim of his ear, and Newt's whole body goes warm in a way that spreads down through his belly and pools somewhere lower, and the tin of chamomile gets set down on the counter with slightly more force than is strictly necessary.
"Malik—"
Malik's hands slide lower. Find the hem of his shirt. Slip underneath, warm palms flat against the skin of Newt's stomach, and Newt makes a small involuntary noise that Malik hums at, low and satisfied, against the side of his throat.
"Leave them, Newt."
"Okay."
"Good boy."
Newt goes crimson. He goes crimson from his hairline down his throat into his chest, and the heat of it roars up through him so fast he is dizzy with it. The noise he makes is small and humiliated and Malik's hum, behind him, deepens into something closer to a growl.
"Oh," Malik says, quietly. "Oh, I didn't know you liked that."
"I don't—"
"You do."
"I—"
"You're the color of a tomato, love."
"Malik."
Malik turns him.
He turns him by the hips, gently, until Newt is pressed against the counter with Malik crowding into the space between his knees, and he lifts Newt—lifts him, as though Newt weighs nothing, as though he is a book Malik is moving from one shelf to another—and sets him on the edge of the kitchen counter.
Newt's shoulder blades hit the cabinet. His hands fly up to Malik's shoulders on instinct.
Malik presses between his thighs and kisses him.
It is a slow kiss. A long one. Malik takes his time with it and Newt's hands have moved up into his hair and his heels have hooked behind Malik's thighs and he has stopped thinking, entirely, about the unpacking.
Malik pulls back.
Newt's eyes, when they flutter open, are unfocused.
"Bedroom," Malik says, and picks him up.
Newt yelps—a small embarrassed sound—and wraps his legs around Malik's waist, and Malik carries him, kissing him the whole way, through the archway and into the bedroom and sets him down on the edge of the bed.
The mattress is bare. They have not yet put sheets on.
Newt registers this, distantly, and does not care.
Malik sinks to his knees in front of him.
Newt's breath stops.
It is—he is never going to get used to this, the sight of Malik kneeling, the sight of this centuries-old demon with his silver hair loose around his shoulders and his purple eyes half-lidded looking up at Newt from between his knees—and Malik's hands are on his thighs, spreading them, and Malik's mouth is pressing soft hot kisses to the inside of his knee, and Newt has to brace his hands on the mattress to keep from falling backward.
"Can I?" Malik asks.
"Can you what?"
"Taste you."
"Oh my god."
"Yes or no, love."
"Yes—yes, obviously yes, why—why would I ever say no to that—"
"Just checking."
Malik works his trousers off. Slow. Reverent. He peels them down Newt's thighs and off his ankles and he sets them aside. He eases Newt's shirt up over his head. He pushes Newt, with a careful hand at the center of his chest, flat onto his back on the bare mattress.
He lowers his mouth.
He does not tease this time. He is not patient.
He puts his mouth directly on Newt, open and hot and hungry, and Newt makes a noise that is embarrassing and loud and he does not care.
The suction of Malik's mouth is relentless.
The flat of his tongue drags up through him in long wet strokes, and his lips close around the hard peak of Newt's cock and suck, and Newt's hands fly to Malik's hair and grip.
"Malik—"
Malik hums against him. A satisfied dark noise.
His hands are on Newt's thighs, pressing them wider, and Newt is soaked—already, embarrassingly, Malik has barely started—and Malik is making appreciative little noises at the back of his throat that suggest he has no complaints whatsoever on this front.
Newt comes in what cannot possibly have been more than three minutes.
It is embarrassing. It is deeply embarrassing.
Malik's mouth is relentless, and Malik's tongue finds the exact rhythm that unmakes him, and Newt's hands fist in silver hair and he comes with a sharp surprised cry, thighs shaking around Malik's shoulders, and Malik works him through it with steady unhurried strokes of his tongue, humming low and pleased, drinking it down.
Newt collapses back against the mattress.
He is boneless. He is useless. His chest is heaving and his hair is stuck to his temples and he is vaguely aware that the afternoon sun has moved another two inches across the ceiling and he cannot move if his life depends on it.
Malik kisses the inside of his thigh. Slow. Open-mouthed. He presses his cheek against the soft skin there and looks up the long trembling line of Newt's body with his mouth shining wet and his eyes half-lidded.
Then his hand moves.
It is a small movement. Almost casual. Malik's palm slides, warm and slow, from the inside of Newt's thigh up over his hip and around, and before Newt quite understands what is happening, Malik's hand is sliding along the crease of Newt's ass, slow and deliberate, the pads of his fingers tracing down and back up in a way that is unmistakably, openly, a question.
Newt's breath catches.
"Malik?" he says.
"Mm."
"What are you—"
"Can I ask you something, love?"
"Y—yes."
Malik's hand does not stop moving. His thumb, slow, drags down along the crease of him, and Newt's still-twitching body does an embarrassing little shiver, and Malik's mouth pulls into a small private smile against Newt's thigh.
"Can I fuck you like this?" Malik says.
Newt stops breathing.
Malik goes on. Unhurried. As though they are discussing tea.
"On your hands and knees, love. Using your own slick. I want to be inside you. Here." His thumb presses, very gently, against the tight ring of muscle he has never touched, and Newt makes a noise he does not recognize. "Can I have that?"
Newt's brain simply goes white.
He has just come. He should be, by any sensible measure, spent—his limbs are liquid, his eyes keep trying to close, his body is still humming with the aftershocks of Malik's mouth—and yet.
And yet. There is heat pooling in his belly again, sharp and fast and humiliating, and he can feel himself getting slick again between his thighs, and Malik is watching his face with the dark patient attention of a man who knows exactly what his words are doing and is, on some level, enjoying it.
Newt closes his eyes. His hand has come up to his own mouth. He is trying very hard to think, and he is having limited success, and Malik's thumb is still moving, is dragging down and back up, and Newt's whole body is tilting, embarrassingly, toward the pressure of it.
"Yes," Newt breathes.
Malik exhales. It is a low rough sound. It is the sound of a man who had not been entirely certain of the answer.
"Good boy," Malik says, and Newt makes a small drowning noise, and Malik's hands are on him, turning him, and Newt is too wrung-out to help in any coordinated way so Malik just does it—gathers him up, turns him over, and Newt's face presses into the bare ticking of the mattress and his hips are being coaxed, gently, up.
"Knees under you, love," Malik murmurs. His voice is low against Newt's ear. "There you go. That's it. Good, Newt."
Newt's breath shudders.
He is on his knees with his chest pressed against the mattress and his face turned to the side and his hair spread out across his shoulders, and he is aware, suddenly and acutely, of how he is positioned.
Exposed is the word. His thighs are spread.
His face is burning. His hands are fisted in the ticking beneath him.
Malik's hands settle on his hips.
"Oh," Malik murmurs. The word drops out of him like he cannot help it. "Oh, Newt. Look at you."
Newt whimpers into the mattress.
"Don't—don't describe me—"
"I'm appreciating you."
"It's the same thing."
Malik laughs, low and soft, and his hands smooth up the backs of Newt's thighs, across his ass, thumbs parting him gently.
Newt's breath catches. He can feel the air of the room against him.
He has never, in his life, been looked at like this.
He wants to die. He wants to die immediately.
He also, catastrophically, does not want Malik to stop.
Malik lowers his mouth. The flat of Malik's tongue presses against the tight ring of muscle, hot and wet and deliberate, and Newt's whole body lights up.
He inhales so hard and so fast that he gets dizzy with it.
His hips jerk forward on instinct, trying to escape the sensation—which is so intense, so unfamiliar, so wrong in the way that is also not wrong—that his brain simply cannot process it.
Malik's hands on his hips tighten. Hold him still.
"Stay with me, love."
"Malik, that's—"
"I know. Breathe."
Malik does it again.
And again.