Newt's hips lift clean off the couch.
Malik's arm pins him back down.
Malik pulls back. Just an inch. His mouth is shining wet. His hair is damp at the temple where Newt has been gripping it. His eyes, when they flick up to meet Newt's, are dark and blown and hungry, and his lips are parted and Newt can see his tongue—slick and red—and Newt is going to die. He is going to die here on this couch, and honestly, there are worse ways.
"You taste," Malik says, slow and rough, "incredible."
"Malik—"
"I could do this for hours."
He dives back in.
And now he is not patient.
Now he is hungry. The restraint has gone out of him, Newt can feel it—the careful searching gentleness of before has tipped over into something harder, something greedier, and Malik's mouth is everywhere. He licks into him, the tip of his tongue slicking wet and fast at his entrance, the flat of it rolling up in broad merciless strokes, the suction of his lips closing around Newt's cock in a tight steady rhythm that has Newt's thighs starting to shake uncontrollably against Malik's shoulders.
Malik's free hand comes up. Slides along Newt's hip. Drags warm fingers through the soaked mess between his thighs, and Newt is so wet—gods, he is so wet, he can hear it, the slick obscene sounds of Malik's mouth working against him, the little wet noises of tongue on soaked skin—and Malik spreads him with two fingers, parts him open, exposes the hard peak of his cock more fully, and latches his mouth onto it and sucks, slow and steady and relentless, and Newt's vision goes white at the edges.
"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my—"
Malik hums against him. It is almost a laugh.
He doesn't stop. He doesn't ease up. He suckles, slow and rhythmic, his tongue flickering against the peak of him, and one of his fingers—just one—slides lower, circles the slick entranceof him, teases but does not press in. Just the touch of it. Just the promise of it. And Newt is—Newt is keening, a continuous high broken sound coming out of his throat that he cannot control, his hands have migrated from his own hair to Malik's, his fingers threaded in tight, and his hips are rolling up into Malik's mouth in tiny desperate helpless thrusts that Malik is letting him do now, has relaxed his pinning arm just enough to let him chase it, and the torches are blazing blue, and somewhere at the edge of Newt's awareness a picture frame falls off the wall and doesn't break, just drifts down to the floor like a leaf, and—
"Malik, I—I'm going to—"
Malik pulls back just enough to speak, his lips dragging wet across Newt as he goes. His voice is ruined. Wrecked. The voice of a creature who has been starved for centuries and has just been handed a feast. "Come on my tongue, Newt."
And he lowers his mouth again, and he does not tease, and he does not pull back, and his tongue is flat and hot and relentless, his lips sealed around the swollen peak of Newt's cock, and he sucks, and he does not stop, and his finger, finally, presses—just the tip, just the first slick push of it inside, the barest stretch—and Newt's hand, flailing blindly, lands on one of his horns.
He doesn't mean to. He is reaching for something, anything, and his fingers close around the curve of horn at the base and he grips, hard, and Malik groans against him—a deep, rolling, guttural sound Newt has never heard him make, the sound of a creature whose restraint has just snapped.
The torches blow out.
All at once. A rush of air and they are simply gone, and in their place is blue flame, and the blue flame is ice, instantly, crystalline and clear on the surface of the coffee table, and Newt is coming. He is coming, he is coming, he is coming with a wrecked sobbing cry that he is certain the neighbors will hear, pulsing against Malik's tongue, clenching around the shallowpress of Malik's finger, and Malik is drinking it down. That is what it feels like. Malik's mouth is on him, Malik's mouth is working him, Malik is lapping at him with slow deliberate strokes that draw the orgasm out, and out, and out, until Newt is twitching and oversensitive and pushing weakly at Malik's shoulders, and even then Malik doesn't leave. He presses one last soft kiss to him, and another, and another, each one slower than the last, and then he drags his tongue up, one last long slow stroke, and Newt's whole body shudders.
Then—
The ice on the coffee table shatters.
It explodes. A soft percussive pop and then it is snow. Fat slow flakes of snow, drifting down through the living room, settling on the floorboards, on the backs of the couch, on Malik's bare shoulders, on Newt's heaving belly, and Newt starts to laugh. He can't help it. He is crying, a little, and he is laughing, a little, and there is snow falling in his living room in October and Malik is kissing the inside of his thigh with his mouth still wet from him.
"Newt," Malik murmurs. His voice is hoarse. He is looking up, from between Newt's thighs, his chin shining and his hair falling forward, and his lips are swollen and parted. "Look at this."
Newt looks down.
Malik is looking up.
And his eyes.
His eyes are gold.
Not the deep violet Newt has stared into. Not the darkened near-black of want that had looked down at him moments ago. Molten gold, bright as coins, glowing, and Newt's laugh dies in his throat.
"Malik," he says. His hands come up to Malik's shoulders. "Your—your eyes—"
Malik goes still.
