He works with the slow devotional patience of a man who has apparently decided that the only thing that matters in the universe is getting Newt as slick and open and undone as Newt can possibly be before Malik is inside him. His tongue is everywhere. Broad flat strokes that have Newt sobbing into the mattress. Tight circles with the tip of it around the rim of him. The shallow wet press of it inside, just the tip, fucking him gently on his tongue while Newt's fingernails dig furrows into the ticking and his hips push back without his permission.
One of Malik's hands slides around. Between his thighs. Drags, slow, through the slick mess that Newt has made of himself—he is soaked, he is embarrassingly soaked, he has barely come down from the last orgasm and he is already this wet again—and Malik hums, low and satisfied, and drags those wet fingers up and back.
"Look at you," Malik breathes. "Drenched for me, love."
Malik's index finger, slick with Newt's own wetness, circles the tight ring of muscle. Newt shudders. Newt, humiliatingly, pushes back.
"Greedy," Malik murmurs. Pleased.
"Malik—"
"I know, love. Let me take my time."
He presses the tip of his finger in. Just the tip. The stretch of it makes Newt's whole body clench down and then release, clench and release, and Malik hums and waits, and slides in deeper, and Newt is making small broken noises into the mattress that he does not recognize as his own. Malik works him open slowly—one finger, fully seated, and then a slow withdrawal and the slow press back in, over and over, until Newt has adjusted; then two, slick with more of Newt's own wetness, the stretch sharper butnot painful, Malik gentling him through it with kisses along the small of his back—and when Malik finally presses three inside him Newt is shaking so hard his knees keep slipping on the ticking.
"Please," Newt gasps, "Malik, please, please—"
“Tell me what you want, love.”
"Inside me, please, I need it, I need—"
Malik groans against the small of his back.
Newt feels him rise. He hears the rustle of clothing being undone—Malik is still dressed, Malik is still dressed and he is at some point going to burn in humiliation over the fact that he has been the only naked person in this room for twenty minutes but it is not a problem for right now—and then there is the quiet rasp of fabric being set aside, and then Malik's hands are back on his hips, warm and steady, and Newt can feel the hot bare length of Malik's body settling up against his.
He can feel Malik's cock, hot and heavy and hard, press against the inside of his thigh.
Newt's breath stops.
"Still with me?" Malik murmurs. His voice is rough against Newt's ear. He has draped himself forward, chest to Newt's back, one hand braced on the mattress beside Newt's head, the other still on his hip.
"Yes."
"I'm going to slick myself up, love. I'm going to use you. Is that alright?"
"Gods, yes."
"Good boy."
Malik's hand leaves his hip. Newt feels him shift, settling back onto his knees behind him, and then—oh—then Malik drags the heavy length of his cock, slow and deliberate, through the soaked slick mess between Newt's thighs.
Newt makes a noise.
Malik does it again. A long slow drag, from the wet ready entrance of him up through the folds, coating himself in it, the heat of him sliding through the slick that Newt has made for him. Newt can feel every inch of him. The weight. The hardness. The catch of the head of his cock dragging through the wet.
"Oh my god," Newt whispers. "Malik—"
Malik grinds against him again, slower this time, rolling his hips in a slow wet drag that has Newt's whole body tensing and releasing, and the head of Malik's cock bumps, on the way up, against the tight peak of Newt's cock, and Newt's hips jerk, and Malik groans low in his throat.
"You feel—fuck, Newt. You feel unreal."
He does it one more time. Long and slow and thorough, dragging wet through the heart of him, until Malik is slick from root to tip with Newt's own wetness, and then—
—then Malik's hand, still slick, slides up. Between them. And he lines himself up against the tight stretched entrance that he has spent the last ten minutes opening for exactly this, and he presses, just presses, a gentle insistent weight against the ring of muscle.
Newt goes still.
"Breathe, love."
