"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 intothe 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'tdescribeme—"
"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.
