#unnonexistence

“Don’t care,” Hermann mumbles against his neck. “The world won’t end just yet if we take a day off.”

Newt might not be hungover, but he wonders if Hermann might be. Hermann once came to work with a high-grade fever and such a bad case of pneumonia that he almost broke his neck when he inevitably fainted off his ladder. One of their worst fights. Very pot/kettle of Newt, frankly, given that he functionally did the same thing when he powered through bronchitis to submit a grant proposal not long after that incident. Point is, the dude hasn’t taken a vacation day in almost five years and now he’s suddenly begging Newt to play hooky. 

“It kinda might,” Newt says, disentangling himself from the sheets. Hermann groans in protest when Newt flicks on the lamp next to the clock. He’s delighted to find his glasses folded there. “C’mon,” he says, jamming them on, “we got shit to do. At least I got shit to do. I gotta—”

He tries to wriggle to the floor, but Hermann yanks him right back down with a fistful of his t-shirt. Newt goes lax against him with a squeak. “Mm, I’m sure it can wait for later,” Hermann says. He noses in against the shell of Newt’s ear, his hot breath tickling Newt’s skin. “I’d prefer to stay right here with you.”

Newt’s cheeks go a little warm. “Clingy,” he says. Hermann’s good moods are sudden and rare, so he doesn’t mind indulging this one for now. He’s sure they’ll be right back to business as usual come dinner.

He shivers when Hermann bites down on his earlobe and unceremoniously shoves two chilly hands up the front of his baggy t-shirt. “Jeezus,” Newt yelps, jerking against him. He can feel the outline of Hermann’s half-stiff dick against his ass getting stiffer as Hermann gropes at his flabby sides and plays with the curly hair trailing down beneath Newt's boxers. “How are you already this b-boned up?”

“I’ve been up for a bit,” Hermann admits. “I didn’t want to wake you. You looked too peaceful.”

“Yeah, I bet, you perv. Creeping on me,” Newt says. “Sniffing my hair. Watching me sleep. That’s some Twilight shit.” He frowns. “Outdated reference, not very inspired either. I can do better. Clingy is all I mean. Were you sniffing my hair?”

“You’re in my clothing,” Hermann says, like that explains it.

Newt lifts the sheet and stares down at his t-shirt. Some oversized and almost definite freebie from an academic conference of 2014, stretched out from Hermann's wandering hands now, but it’s too faded for Newt to make out much beyond the year and some cheesy Calc 101 math symbols. It smells like the cheapo laundry detergent Hermann buys religiously in bulk from a convenience store down the way from the ‘dome. Ugh, he can recognize it, don’t tell Hermann. “So I am,” he says. He drops the sheet. “How’d that happen?”

“You spilled a beer all over yourself and then insisted on following me home. You were somewhat inebriated. I was as well, to a significantly lesser extent. For the record I didn’t undress you,” Hermann adds quickly, “you started going through my drawers and did that yourself.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t have minded if you did.”

“You also used my toothbrush,” Hermann says. “Thankfully after I’d finished with it myself for the evening.”

He sounds annoyed even as he teases the waistband of Newt's boxers (which are in fact Newt’s own, thank God, they are not at the sharing underpants stage yet) and lazily rocks his morning wood against the cleft of Newt’s ass. Newt suspects that Hermann is kinda into the wearing-his-clothes thing. He’s been known to get the occasional possessive streak in him, usually when someone else tries to shoot their shot with Newt and makes the grave error of doing it within a mile radius of Hermann. It’s kinda hot so Newt can’t really complain, especially when it manifests in hickeys up his neck or a handie in a supply closet or something, though frankly also a little weird, given whatever will they-won’t they-they totally are thing they have going on isn’t exactly a capital-R relationship. 

“Mm, Newton,” Hermann says with a happy little sigh. He slides one fingertip just under the elastic waistband and pulls it taut from Newt’s body, and Newt squirms at the gentle gust of cool air on his junk. Hermann plants another kiss behind his ear. “Can I touch you?”

“Aren’t you already?” Newt says, his voice strangled.

Hermann’s hand dips into his boxers and creeps through the thicket of his pubic hair to find Newt’s tdick, which he takes between his fingers without hesitation. Newt clenches his thighs tight and whimpers. “Shit. Um—” 

“Shh,” Hermann says. He rolls his hips lazily against Newt’s ass. 

He slides his other hand around to cup Newt’s cheek, angling Newt’s face towards him. Newt parts his mouth eagerly as Hermann kisses him. Hermann's not the best kisser—not that Newt is either—but there's something kinda sexy about how clumsy Hermann is about it. Too much teeth, not enough tongue action. He nibbles on Newt's bottom lip and slides his mouth down to kiss over Newt's stubbly jaw. Newt needs a shave. “Why are you so boned up?” Newt asks, his voice trailing off to a little moan.

Hermann hasn’t started properly jerking him off yet, has just been thumbing over his tdick. His hand stills. “You looked very…sweet,” he says, and when Newt cranes his neck around to raise his eyebrows, Hermann's cheeks have gone red. “A bit…I don’t know, disheveled.”

Newt grins. Now that he’s gotten a good look at Hermann, he can tell the guy isn’t exactly put together himself—he skipped the second button on his pajama shirt, and his hair is more of a mess than usual, the short ends by his forehead curled back with sweat. “Aw, Hermann,” Newt says before he can help it. Hermann is cute sometimes. When he's not being a goddamn pain in Newt's ass, anyway.

He slips his tongue past Hermann’s lips when Hermann kisses him again, and Hermann makes a pleased sound, sucking on it. He toys with the curls of Newt's pubes as they kiss lazily. “Want me to jerk you off?” Newt mumbles. He wiggles his ass around against Hermann’s boner. “Or I could blow you.”

“Mm, no, I’d rather—” Hermann starts moving his fingers on Newt again, Newt’s precum slicking the way. Hermann has great fingers, very long and slender, like a weird, sexy, pale spider, and Newt’s happy to melt to the mattress with a soft moan and let them work him over. His thighs are wet, his boxers almost soaked through. It doesn’t take much to wind him up. Hermann likes that about him, he thinks. He starts to rock against Newt. 

“Would you mind,” Hermann says, his breaths ragged, “if I…?” 

Newt shakes his head: Hermann can do whatever the hell he wants to him right now, to be honest. He helps Hermann push his boxers down around his thighs and feels the mattress dip as Hermann does the same with his pajama pants and briefs. For as often as they’ve fucked in other ways he hasn’t built up the courage to properly ask Hermann to hit that yet, and as the head of Hermann’s dick nudges at his thighs, spreading them apart, he considers extending the offer now.

He starts to angle his leg up so Hermann can slip inside him, but Hermann stills him with a hand to his side. “Ah, just like this,” Hermann breathes. “Newton—”

“Can you,” Newt says, “I mean, your hip—”

“I can manage like this just fine,” Hermann says. “We’ll be quick about it.”

Hermann slides his dick easily between the slick gap of Newt’s thighs until it’s snug up beneath Newt’s tdick. Newt feels a little lightheaded as he tightens his thighs around it, hot and pulsing, the tip dragging wetly against his own damp skin. Hermann layers kisses over the back of his neck. “Keep still,” Hermann says.

“Yessir,” Newt says, aiming for irony, but it comes out a whine. He never manages to last very long with Hermann. Something about the guy gets him worked up like nothing else.

Hermann fucks between his trembling thighs in quick, measured thrusts. Newt's tdick throbs with each graze against it, each time Hermann’s cockhead catches and drags over his hole, and when he reaches down to jerk himself off, Hermann bats his hand away and replaces it with his own. Newt goes a little cross-eyed.

“Oh, fuck, dude,” he gasps, dropping his head back against Hermann’s shoulder. A low growling noise rumbles up from the back of Hermann’s throat. Newt can feel the heat of his orgasm building in the pit of his stomach: he chases it, urging Hermann’s fingers in deeper, squeezing around him eagerly, desperately. “Yeah. Keep—”

Hermann swallows his pleas down in a hungry kiss. He gives a final thrust between Newt’s soaked thighs, sliding up tight against Newt's tdick, and Newt cums on his fingers with a helpless little whimper. Hermann waits until he sags to the mattress before continuing to rock his hips. He doesn't bother with a rhythm, going fast and sloppy. “Let me blow you,” Newt begs into the pillow. He loves getting his mouth on Hermann and feeling Hermann come apart under him.

“Just about there,” Hermann says. His body suddenly goes rigid. “Oh—!” He finishes in a few hot pulses over Newt’s inner thighs and Newt fumbles to catch the mess in his boxers before they stain the bed.

Hermann stays pressed up against his back for a few moments, his chest heaving, before slipping off of Newt with a parting kiss to his shoulder. When Newt rolls over Hermann is giving him a sweet little smile that crinkles the corner of his eyes. It makes Newt feel kinda funny. He swallows, his throat suddenly tight.

“Newton,” Hermann says, almost soft, “would you mind...?”

He's struggling to pull up his briefs. “Uh, of course!” Newt says, glad for a distraction.

He dutifully helps Hermann tuck himself back into his pajamas, though he doesn’t bother doing the same himself, instead mopping their mess up with his boxers and kicking them to the floor. He’ll probably just steal a pair of Hermann’s sweatpants and make a discreet beeline to the base laundromat before heading to the lab.

Then again—he is kinda tired.