"Mm—mmhm—"
"Look at me."
Newt opens his eyes.
Malik is looking up at him from between his thighs. His silver hair has fallen forward over one shoulder, the ends of it brushing the soft skin of Newt's inner thigh, and his mouth is slightly parted, and his eyes are dark, and he has never looked more like an incubus and he has never looked more like a man, and the sight of him like that—down there, between Newt's legs, the beautiful impossible shape of his head framed by the paletrembling V of Newt's own thighs—does something to Newt's breathing.
"Malik, please, I—"
"I'm going to, love. I'm going to."
He lowers his head.
He does not start where Newt expects. He turns his face, first, and presses his cheek against the soft inside of Newt's right thigh, and breathes in.
Deep. Slow. A long audible inhale, Malik's chest expanding where it's pressed against the couch, the rush of him pulling air through his nose like a man filling his lungs with something rare. And Newt, whose face was already scarlet, makes a small broken sound, because he can hear it—he can hear Malik smelling him, hear the shudder of satisfaction in his breath when he exhales, and the intimacy of it is so acute it feels almost unbearable.
"Fuck," Malik murmurs, against his thigh. "Thescentof you, Newt. You don't even know."
"Malik—"
"You smell like—" Malik turns his head, presses his open mouth to the crease of Newt's thigh, mouths at the soft skin there. "—like something I've been hungry for and didn't know existed."
Malik noses, slowly, up the inside of his thigh.
He works inward. He takes his time getting there. He presses open-mouthed kisses up the long soft stretch of Newt's inner thigh, wet and deliberate, sucking lightly at the thin skin until Newt can feel bruises forming—small pink ones he'll find tomorrow and flush at in the mirror—and he drags his teeth, once, at the top, just hard enough to make Newt's hips jump off the couch. Malik's arm, still draped across Newt's belly, holds him firm. Not pinning. Just reminding. Stay.
He does the other thigh. The same way. The same slow patient worship, the same wet heat of his mouth on skin that has neverbeen touched like this, and by the time Malik gets near the center of him Newt is shaking so hard his teeth are chattering. He has both hands fisted in his own hair. He doesn't know when that happened.
Malik noses, gently, at the soft red-gold curls at the juncture of his thighs.
He breathes Newt in again, there, so close, and Newt feels the heat of that breath directly against the wet aching heart of him and makes a noise he cannot identify. A small ruined vowel. A sob that isn't quite a sob.
"Please, Malik—"
"Please what?"
"Please, please, please, just touch me."
"Oh, Newt," Malik's voice has dropped. Gone dark. "You never have to beg me."
And then Malik puts his mouth on him.
He does not dive. He does not rush. He presses his mouth, first, directly and closed, a warm dry press of his lips to the whole of Newt in a chaste-looking kiss that is, in context, filthier than anything Newt has imagined. He holds it there for a long moment. Newt's hips twitch up into it involuntarily and Malik hums, low and pleased, the vibration of it traveling through Newt's whole body, and then—
Then Malik opens his mouth.
He parts his lips and he parts Newt with them, slow, the hot wet press of his open mouth sliding down the length of Newt's slick folds in one long unhurried drag, and his tongue presses flat and broad and wet against all of him at once.
Newt sobs.
Just openly, helplessly, sobs, one hand slapped over his own mouth and the other fisting hard in Malik's hair, and his hips try to buck and Malik's arm holds him, patient, and Malik hums again—that same low satisfied hum, the hum of a man whohas just tasted something he has been starving for—and does it again.
A second stroke. Slow. Thorough. The flat of his tongue from the tight slick entrance of him all the way up to the hard aching peak of his cock, and when he gets there he lingers, just for a moment, just long enough for Newt to feel the deliberate press of it against him before he drags it away again and returns to the beginning.
Malik settles in, the way a man settles into a meal he intends to take his time over, and he works. He uses everything. The flat of his tongue, broad and wet, pressing against the whole of Newt in slow searching strokes. The tip of it, precise, tracing the shape of him, finding the seam of him, the softness, the place where the slick gathers and pools. The soft closed press of his lips, kissing him there, openly, sucking gently at the folds of him, pulling small helpless noises from Newt's throat that Newt does not recognize as his own. The slow wet suction of his mouth closing around the hard peak of his cock and holding it there, just holding, the tip of his tongue flicking against it in tight unhurried circles that have Newt seeing white behind his eyes.
He goes low. He presses the flat of his tongue against the tight wet entrance of him and Newt's whole body jolts and Malik hums and pushes, just the tip of his tongue, just the first slick thrust of it inside, and Newt makes a noise so broken and so high he doesn't know he made it. Malik does it again. He fucks Newt on his tongue, slow, shallow, just the tip, drawing it in and out while Newt's slick coats his mouth and chin, and then he drags up again, up, up, the slow wet line of his tongue painting a stripe from entrance to peak, and his lips close around the swollen sensitive bud of him and he sucks.
