"Newt."
"I can't—Malik, I can't concentrate if you're—"
Malik takes Newt's hands in his own and presses them, palms flat, against his bare chest.
Newt gasps.
The heat of him. The feel of him. Warm and smooth and right there, right under Newt's palms, and Newt can feel his heartbeat directly now, can feel the faint rise and fall of his breathing, and the candles—Newt has no idea what the candles are doing, Newt has lost track of the candles entirely—roar upward into twin pillars of flame that reach almost to the ceiling.
"Oh my god," Newt says.
"Don't worry about them."
"They're on fire—"
"They were always on fire."
"They're—Malik—"
Newt's thumbs have started moving. He does not remember deciding to let them move. But his thumbs are stroking, tentatively, across the flat of Malik's chest and they drag, by accident, over the small hard peaks of Malik's nipples, and Malik makes a sound low in the back of his throat that is not a word. A hum. A satisfied pleased dark little hum, and Newt's whole body goes molten.
He does it again.
On purpose, this time. Both thumbs. Slow. And Malik breathes out, audibly, and one of his hands slides up to cup the back of Newt's neck, and Newt's magic goes somewhere it has never been in twenty years.
The torches—they are torches now, they are absolutely torches, they are half-height medieval sconces hovering in the middle of Newt's living room throwing heat and shadow againstthe walls—flare and then shift, the orange flame turning blue at its base, and Newt should be worried about this. Newt is worried about this in some distant part of his brain, but Malik's hand has slid up into his hair and Malik's thumb is tracing the shell of his ear and he is shifting forward, very slowly, until Newt is practically climbing into his lap.
"Malik—"
"Come here."
"Malik, the—the candles, they're—"
"Let them burn."
Malik's hands come down to Newt's hips. Large. Firm. They slide around to the small of his back, and then down, and then Malik grips him, palms full of the curve of Newt's ass, and lifts.
Newt makes a noise that he is certain no human being has ever made in the history of the spoken word. A small high startled sound, like a kettle, torn directly out of his throat, and he is being pulled up and over and into Malik's lap, knees bracketing Malik's thighs, and his face is flooded with heat all the way down his neck to his collarbones and—
Malik kisses him.
Oh, Newt thinks.
It is different from the last time. The last time had been frantic, had been the house coming apart and Malik's mouth on him like a decision, like a rescue. This is slow. This is Malik's mouth opening against his with intention, with patience, with the warm wet drag of his tongue parting Newt's lips and sliding in, unhurried, like they have all the time in the world, and Newt does not know what to do with his hands.
His hands are up at Malik's shoulders. Then at his neck. Then sliding up, tentative, into the silver fall of his hair, and Malik hums into his mouth and kisses him deeper and Newt forgets, for a long moment, that there is a half moon, that there is acoven, that there is a spell, that there are torches burning in his living room. He forgets his own name. He forgets he has one.
He can feel Malik against him. Against the heat of him through two layers of fabric—Malik ishard, Malik is hard for him, and Newt's brain simply shorts out. He makes a small whimpering noise into Malik's mouth and rocks, once, involuntarily, and the friction of it sends a spike of pleasure through him so sharp it is almost pain.
"Oh," he breathes, into Malik's mouth.
"Yes," Malik says. Dark. "Yes, love, just like that—"
Newt's whole body shivers. He does it again. Rocks down against him. He can feel himself already slick through his trousers, embarrassingly, obviously, he is so turned on he cannot think, and Malik's hands are on his ass pulling him closer and guiding the rhythm of it, and there are torches in the middle of his living room and blue flame is licking at the ceiling and Newt cannot bring himself to care.
Do something, his brain supplies, distantly.Do something for him. Make this good for him too. Last time you didn't—last time you just—
He pulls back. Just a fraction. His lips are buzzing. His hair has come loose from its tie and it's falling around his face and Malik is looking at him with pupils blown so wide his eyes are almost black, the purple of his iris a thin ring around the dark, and Newt's heart simply breaks open in his chest.
