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 mygod."
"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 ismaking 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—"
