#Give me that rush and young and newt and hermann… and

[cleanwhiteroom-archived]

hello check the blog cwr is seems to be back to pacrim universe too

Please I am so fragile do not play with my heart 👀🥺

[hermannsthumb]

Prompt: Newt has never seen the appeal of threesomes, frankly. They seem like more trouble than they're worth. But now there's two Hermanns standing in front of him, and his first thought (after "Did I take my meds?" , "Do I need new glasses?" , and "What the fuck is happening?") is that he needs both of them, immediately.

Anonymous said: Prompt (if you haven't written it already!) where due to time travel shenanigans, newt gets spit roasted by hermann(s)

i love how many requests i get for this kinda stuff HAHAHAH i technically have written this three times before, but in honor of newt’s birthday, let’s go for a fourth! MAJOR not sfw below cut!!!

----------

Newt is distracted as hell when he half-jogs into the lab one otherwise ordinary birthday afternoon, which might explain why he doesn’t see that there are two Hermanns at first. There’s too much on his mind—picking a club for tonight, what dissections he has to get done today before they can go out to a club, whether or not he remembered to wash his sexy club clothes, and if it even matters, because they’re just gonna get covered in glitter again. Whether or not the barista got Hermann’s coffee order right this time. Whether or not the special birthday breakfast pastries survived the journey. “It’s pouring out there,” he complains to Hermann, pushing his soaked hair out of his eyes and scraping his boots off on the pathetic rubber mat they keep in the doorway. “If it doesn’t let up, we might wanna reconsider going out tonight.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“Sweaty, wet bodies in a small room? Gross. No thanks.” Newt inspects the pastries: the brown wrappings of the one on top are slightly water-logged, but the pastry itself is fine. Perfect. “We could just rent a movie.”

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“And order some pizza.” Man, that’d make for a nice birthday. All cozied up in Newt’s bed with a monster movie and pizza. “Actually, let’s do that instead. I kinda wanted to go dancing, but—”

Hermann bangs his cane against the floor. It echoes strangely, almost as if he’s doing it twice at once, and Newt turns to him in confusion—or, as he discovers, them. He drops his pastry. He polishes his glasses free of water, and crams them back onto his face. He blinks a few times. “Oh, shit,” he says. “Dude, there are two of you.”

“I know,” both Hermanns say, and roll their eyes.

Newt approaches them cautiously. Two Hermanns. One of them is undoubtedly Newt’s Hermann, judging by his bad haircut, bad glasses, and bad clothing, which is the same boring slacks and sweater combo he was wearing when Newt left for coffee an hour ago. The other Hermann is a Hermann unlike one Newt’s ever seen before, clad in dark colors, with hair cropped somewhat more evenly and twice as many wrinkles around his eyes. Not two Hermanns—it can’t be two Hermanns. That’s a scientific impossibility. “Your brother,” Newt says. He knows Hermann has an older one, though the odds of Hermann having an older brother who uses a cane identical to his, on the same side as his, is a little slim.

“No,” Hermann says.

“You cousin?” Newt says.

“No,” the other Hermann says, but the corner of his mouth twitches up with an obvious fondness. “Your earlier assessment was correct, I’m afraid. There are two of me.”

Newt glances between them again. Same soft, brown eyes; same dark eyelashes; same weird, wide lips; same elegant cheekbones. Is Newt dreaming? No, he’s sure he’s not dreaming—it’s too, like, real to be a dream. (Besides, Newt’s brain is never this kind to him, and if it was, he would’ve just skipped the boring build-up and gone straight to the threeway.) Is he having some sort of a mental break, brought on by stress, or forgetting to take his meds somewhere along the line? Unlikely—Newt’s been way more stressed before, and he’s skipped his meds before, and he’s never had a reaction like this. It must be real. “Well, shit,” he finally says. “Hermann, this is the best birthday present ever.”

“Er,” Newt’s Hermann says. “It is?”

Newt cups the side of the new Hermann’s face, feeling it, inspecting it, reveling in the warmth of his skin. Yep—real, definitely real. Real and handsome. Newt pats his cheek. “You cloned yourself just so we could have an awesome birthday threesome,” Newt says. “That’s really touching, Hermann, seriously. I promise I won’t let you down.”

“No,” Hermann says. “That’s not—”

New Hermann gently places his hand over Newt’s, leaning into his touch, and smiles. There’s a hint of sadness to it Newt doesn’t quite understand. “I’m not a clone, darling,” he says.

“Oh, I like him,” Newt says. “He’s nicer. Definitely not a clone, then. Who are you, then, hot stuff?”

“He’s—oh.” Hermann sighs. “It all sounds so silly when I try to say it out loud. He’s from the future, Newton.”

Newt hums, considering New Hermann. Yeah, that makes more sense. Eye wrinkles. However far off in the future he’s from, apparently he’s picked up a bit more fashion sense by then, and maybe even a bit of style. “You came back in time just to have an awesome birthday threesome with me?” Newt guesses.

New Hermann laughs. Eye wrinkles, style, and apparently some sort of major head injury where he forgets how bad he and Newt hate each other. The future is now, or whatever. “Truthfully,” he says, “arriving on your birthday was unintentional. It’s difficult to get exact dates correctly with the sort of technology I was using, you see.”

“Apparently there’s some great big event that happens in 2035 that it’s absolutely imperative he warn us about,” Hermann says.

That’s a bit of a let down. Still cool by virtue of time travel, Newt guesses, but awesome birthday threesome would’ve been more exciting. “Oh,” he says. A let down, and a shame, really, because 11-years-into-the-future Hermann is pretty sexy, and Newt was hoping for the chance to get his hands on some of that. Or maybe get those hands on him. He’s not picky. “I mean,” he tries, one last desperate attempt, “what’s the rush, you know? You can always tell us afterwards.”

“Afterwards?” Future Hermann says.

“Afterwards,” Newt repeats. He grabs Future Hermann by the lapels of his dark labcoat and smiles cheekily. “You can spare a couple hours, can’t you, dude? For the birthday boy?”

A sudden warmth blooms behind the future Hermann’s eyes; his mouth stretches into a smile of his own, goofy and affectionate. Future Hermann sure seems to like him. Newt hasn’t got a problem with that in the slightest, actually. “Er, a couple,” he stammers, and Newt hears Hermann—his Hermann—inhale sharply, like he’s just been offended to the utmost degree. “I suppose that’s— Well, I suppose there’s no real problem there. It’s not as if I’m on a schedule. Time travel. After all.”

“After all,” Newt says. “What about you, Hermann?

Newt’s Hermann is silent for a little too long to be anything but considering. “Er,” he says.

“Good,” Newt says.

--------

“Alright, boys,” Newt says, “I’m not as young as I used to be, so I can’t promise I’m very good at this anymore.”

“Anymore?” Newt’s Hermann says.

Newt winks at him over his shoulder. He has a witty joke on the edge of his tongue, but it dies when the Hermann in front of him (older, nicer Hermann) begins to tenderly stroke his jaw without warning. “You’ve always been so handsome,” Hermann says. His hand trails up the side of Newt’s face and stops in his hair, where he begins to twirl a strand around his finger. Newt shivers. “I could stare at you all day.”

“That’s kinda creepy, Hermann,” Newt says. “And cute, I guess? Okay, here goes.”

He opens his mouth wide and takes in Hermann’s—the new Hermann’s—dick as deep as he can, which is somewhere around the three-fourths mark. He used to be a lot better at deep-throating in his twenties. Also, Hermann is somewhat very well-endowed. “Bugger,” the future Hermann moans. His eyes flicker shut, and his grip in Newt’s hair tightens, and Newt feels a surge of pride. He’s always loved being able to turn Hermann to jelly like this, and apparently some things never chance. He hopes future Newt is still giving it to Hermann like this. “Newton, that’s marvelous.”

“Oh, by Jove,” Newt’s Hermann murmurs. He’s standing behind them at the edge of the bed, his knees braced against it gently. He’s also undoubtedly enjoying the view. Newt smiles around Hermann’s dick (puffing out his cheeks for show, just a little), and wriggles his ass obnoxiously at his Hermann. He needed the guy inside of him five minutes ago, goddamn it. Hermann seems to get the hint: there’s a shaking hand placed on his hip, a lone finger prodding his lube-slick entrance to check he’s properly prepared, and then Hermann’s dick sliding into him inch-by-inch. Newt moans. 

“Newton,” the two Hermanns groan out in near-unison, the one as Newt begins to bob his head up and down his dick, the other as he bottoms out and his pelvis hits Newt’s ass.

Newt pulls his mouth off of Hermann’s dick for only a second. “Fuck me already,” he begs. His voice is raspy even to his own ears.

He’s not sure which Hermann he’d intended to direct the plea towards, but both take it to heart: the Hermann behind Newt begins to rock in and out of him, picking up speed with each little thrust, while the Hermann in front of Newt pushes his dick back between Newt’s lips and begins a series of shallow thrusts of his own. Newt feels speared open, and used; Newt feels fucking awesome. “Mm,” he moans. He ruts against the bedsheets lazily.

“Wait, wait,” the Hermann fucking his mouth suddenly says, voice breathless. “Your—ah—your timing is not quite right.”

“It most certainly is right,” the Hermann in his ass huffs. “You’re meant to be following my lead. Yours is off.”

“Hardly,” the first Hermann says. “Stop moving—we need a bloody rhythm. We needn’t overwhelm Newton.”

Both of them still. Newt hears them debating how to proceed in a series of hissed whispers (though he’s too busy happily sucking on Hermann’s dick to bother with proper eavesdropping), and then the Hermann behind him is pulling out, while the Hermann in front of him pushes further into his mouth and down his throat. Newt’s throat burns pleasurably; his eyes begin to water, and he gags very slightly. “There we are,” the first Hermann continues in a grunt. “Now—” He pulls out until the wet head of his dick is just grazing Newt’s lips, while the other Hermann pushes back into Newt’s ass. “Much neater.”

Newt swallows down a hysterical laugh, or maybe it’s more of a whimper, and just grins instead. “You guys work it out?”

“Shut it,” the Hermann behind him gasps. He grinds deep in Newt, hitting all the right spots, and Newt is grateful for the return of the other Hermann’s dick in his mouth to muffle him before he can really make an embarrassing sound.

They keep up the pattern for all of five minutes, which Newt is pretty impressed with. Slowly, though, they start to get impatient; lingering too long inside of Newt, or pulling out a bit too slowly, or jumping the gun just a bit too early to rock back in. The Hermann in behind is the first to snap and forgo it entirely, suddenly gripping onto Newt’s waist and pounding into him as hard as he can. Not that Newt is complaining. “Ah, Newton, that’s so—” he moans, and Newt rewards him with a little teasing squeeze, “I—”

“Mmhm,” Newt says. Part of him wants to start worrying about his own orgasm, but honestly, he’s enjoying this too much. 

Getting an idea, he pulls his mouth off of Hermann and replaces it with his hand. Hermann always gets really embarrassed when Newt lets him come on his face, and he’s curious about if that’s changed in eleven years. “This feels so awesome,” he says. He begins jerking Hermann off quickly, barely a centimeter from his lips. He’s sure he’s gonna say some dumb shit—he loses his mouth to brain filter (which already works at minimum capacity) completely when he’s this turned on. “So, so awesome. I wanna do it again with both of you guys in my ass or something, but I want you to come all over me first, fuck yeah, come on, Hermann, do it—”

“Newton!” the Hermann above him chokes out, throwing a hand over his eyes, which gives Newt all the warning he needs to stick his tongue out and catch a small portion of his jizz. The rest makes a mess of his glasses. Kinda gross. Pretty hot, too.

He’s not surprised when he feels the Hermann behind him stiffen and come in him only a second later, cursing and gasping—he really does like to see Newt messy.

While they both collapse to the bed and attempt to catch their breath, Newt rubs his fingers through the mess one Hermann made of his face and uses it as lube to stroke himself off. He doesn’t take very long, either, considering this is definitely one of the hottest things to ever happen to him. Top five birthdays for sure.

“So,” he says, ten minutes later. He’s positioned himself in bed as the middle of the Hermann sandwich. Both Hermanns (arms draped around Newt) look at him, but Newt only looks back at Future Hermann. “What did you come here to tell us?”

“Oh,” Future Hermann says. He blushes. “Er. Right.”

[smokedstorybara]

So! The promised fanfic ramble!

It’s gonna be an Old Guard Kaysanova fairytale? au inspired loosely by you know i dreamed about you (before i saw you) by BeeLove and Space Angel Hermann and Witch Doctor Newt by WaldosAkimbo on AO3 (links in a reblog so this’ll show up in tags) and several fairytales I grew up on

But, like, without any magic or supernatural elements so far

(Can’t do a readmore cause my laptop broke, sorry)

So it starts with Nicolò in a monastery asking his lover to run away with him to somewhere they can be together openly and his lover basically saying he’s with Nicolò specifically cause he thought he’d be the least likely to catch feelings. Nicolò kinda laughs it off like “yeah it was just a joke, duh” and then after the guy leaves he pulls an already packed bag out from under his cot and just takes off. Just, like, “screw this I’m out.”

Travels around for, like, a year or so before settling in a little one room house on the very outskirts (like, a bit of a walk from the rest of town) of a cute village to the east. Starts a big garden and sells vegetables and stuff in the local market. Befriends inquisitive teens Nile and her brother (don’t know if he’s got a canon name and can’t find anything on it) and local blacksmith Andromache and her wife Quynh. Starts writing a collection of recipes to also sell cause he kinda missed all the writing he did at the monastery. Also, helps out the town doctor whenever they need an extra hand.

Builds a whole reputation as the mysterious, quiet but kind, plant guy who lives at the edge of town (possibly a witch? But definitely a good one).

Then one day he’s out walking along the riverbank during a storm - maybe heading home from somewhere when it hits? - and sees someone in the water, struggling. Gets the guy out, somehow, and carries him to his place cause it’s closest and the man definitely needs to get somewhere warm and dry. He doesn’t recognize him and the guy has a pretty bad fever and a nasty looking cut on his leg, so he decides to give up his bed to this stranger and tend to him until he’s well.

-

Crown Prince Yusuf wakes up a couple days after falling into the river while traveling to find himself in this tiny one room house filled with plants and books and loose paper and is immediately enamored with the place - and it’s owner, his hero, the beautiful and shy Nicolò.

(He’s told, by Nicolò and the good-humored boy who’s running his market stall for him while he tends to Yusuf, that this isn’t the first time he’s woken since Nicolò fished him out of the river, but it is the first time he’s been lucid - apparently he called Nicolò an angel at one point, and the village boy finds it very amusing)

After his fever breaks a couple days later, when it’s just his leg keeping him there (and his huge crush on Nicolò), he convinces Nicolò that there’s enough room on the bed for both of them and really there’s no good to him sleeping in his creaky little wooden chair. Mostly by pulling Nicolò down next to him when he helps Yusuf back to bed after testing his leg by walking around the room. And then refusing to let go.

They both quickly grow accustomed to sleeping with Nicolò wrapped in Yusuf’s arms.

Of course neither of them say anything about their growing feelings cause Yusuf is Nicolò’s patient and Nicolò mentioned early on that he used to live in a monastery and left cause he fell in love with one of the other priests, who didn’t return his feelings, and Yusuf doesn’t know how fresh that heartbreak is for him.

After he gets well enough, Yusuf starts going to market with Nicolò and hanging around his stall, gossiping with the townspeople and making friends. He starts to wonder if maybe he could just... stay, even after he finishes healing. This life is just so peaceful and happy and he wants it, wants to be able to keep it.

But then some soldiers come through town searching for the missing crown prince and he realizes he can’t stay.

He tells Nicolò that he has to leave, that he has responsibilities he has to get back to. Nicolò says he understands (he does). They kinda skirt around acknowledging their feelings for each other, and in the process realize the other definitely feels the same, and Yusuf promises to return. At some point.

Yusuf returns home and there’s a big celebration. The crown prince has returned alive and safe! After, he tells his family everything that happened. His little sister laughs at him - as is her job as little sister - but his parents are pretty understanding and do their best to comfort him.

The next summer, the royal family goes to their summer house out in the countryside, and Yusuf realizes it’s only, like, a couple days’ walk from Nicolò’s town. He spends the next couple days staring out into the distance and yearning so visibly that eventually his mother tells him to go, spend the rest of summer with his man. So he packs a bag and goes.

Nicolò’s gardening when Yusuf arrives and they have a really nice, heartfelt reunion with a big hug and tears and stuff. Yusuf explains to Nicolò that he can only stay for the summer, that as soon as autumn starts he has to leave again. Nicolò again says he understands, because he does. And they fall back into the comfortable routine from before Yusuf left - sharing the bed, walking to market together, Yusuf sketching or writing poetry while Nicolò works in the garden (Nicolò secretly collecting all the poems and sketches Yusuf discards and carefully copying them with the fancy script and steady hand he learned in the monastery and binding them together with twine), cooking together, and basically just behaving like they’re married.

Then autumn comes and Yusuf leaves, promising to return the next summer. And he does. And the summer after.

For several years they build a relationship in summers. In gardening and cooking and laughing with the neighbors at market. Never saying anything about what they mean to each other (beyond, like, light flirting) but never needing to, always simply understanding. But also never acting on that feeling - beyond the cuddling at night and spending all day together, but the blacksmith’s wife doesn’t count that and her opinion is important.

(Not too important, she’s just a little protective of her friend and his feelings and suspicious of this man who’s only there in the summer and only gives vague excuses of ‘responsibilities’ for why he has to leave for the rest of the year - “what if he’s got a wife?” “Trust me Quynh, he’s not that kind of man.” “But are you sure?”)

Then one year Yusuf looks around the little house and looks at his sketches and has a thought. A thought that sticks with him all the way home (‘home’ meaning ‘where he and his family live 3/4 of the year’, though he’s not entirely sure the word still fits and wouldn’t be better suited attached to somewhere a little more green and peaceful). And he brings it up to his mother, who encourages him to follow through.

So the next summer, when he returns to the village and to Nicolò, he brings canvas and paints and other supplies and explains to Nicolò that he wants to be able to keep pieces of this place with him the rest of the year, to look at when he misses it all too much or when things get overwhelming and he needs some of the peace and comfort of the place and it’s people.

Nicolò kisses him. (Finally).

He kisses back.

They talk. Finally acknowledging how they feel, but also that it’s not something that can actually go anywhere - though not going into why - and agree it’s probably best to just continue as they have been. (If Quynh were party to this conversation she would likely be very upset).

So that summer things stay mostly the same, except Yusuf paints. Everything.

At one point he makes a flower crown and plops it on Nicolò’s head while he gardens and then instantly goes to paint that because it’s just too soft. He writes “A King Tending to His Subjects” on the back.

He shows all the paintings to his parents after summer has ended and they decide they all need to be framed and hung up around the palace. Yusuf is very on board with this plan since it makes looking at them whenever he needs to easier.

Until he realizes it means his sister can also look at them whenever she wants to, and tease him.

She doesn’t tease him. Instead she reminds him he will have to get married at some point, and marrying some nobody former priest would make some of the wealthy and powerful suitors he’s turned down very upset. He tells her he knows, but wants to have as much of Nicolò as he can, while he can. Would rather spend these summers with him before having to marry someone else than deprive himself of that specific happiness he’s found altogether.

She drops the topic.

-

Summer begins again and Yusuf doesn’t arrive. Nicolò waits out in front of his house every day, late into the evening. But no Yusuf.

Quynh starts to throw theories of why and threats of what she’ll do to him if he ever shows his face there again. Nicolò assures her that it’s not necessary and that he’s certain there’s a good reason.

Then about a month into the summer a young woman rides into town in a desperate frenzy, asking where Nicolò lives. Nile leads her to Nicolò’s little house.

She jumps off her horse as soon as she sees Nicolò and tells him in a rush that Yusuf had been kidnapped - by Keane, a dangerous outlaw - just before summer. That none of the warriors their parents sent had been able to get him back and that one of their advisors, a man named James Copley, had suggested they promise his hand in marriage to whoever rescues him in order to better motivate some of their less motivated allies.

Their father had gone through with it in desperation, before the family realized the whole thing was likely a ploy by King Stephen - a rumored associate of Keane’s - to get Yusuf to be his husband after being turned down by him just weeks before the kidnapping.

But Yusuf’s father can’t go back on his decree, so they need Nicolò to get to Yusuf before Stephen (in part because they really don’t want Yusuf to be forced to marry someone he doesn’t love just because he got kidnapped because Stephen can’t handle rejection, and in part because the decree does mean if Nicolò rescues Yusuf they can marry without causing problems with any allies - aside from Stephen, but really do they want to stay allies with him after this?).

Nicolò snaps into action, asking Nile’s brother - who had been helping him with his work - to run his market stall and tend his garden while he’s gone. And then Nile insists on going with him, informing him that Andromache has been altering her father’s old armor to fit her, and should be finished by now, and reminding him that he himself taught her and her brother how to wield a sword (her brother had seen Nicolò’s while visiting once when they were still teens and insisted on learning, Nile had joined as soon as she found out. Nicolò had never been good at telling them no). Nicolò tells her to meet him in the town square at sunrise and then turns into his house to prepare.

Nile offers Yusuf’s sister a place to spend the night and leads her back into town. They stop by the blacksmith, to tell her what’s happening and that Nile will need the armor by sunrise, on their way to Nile’s home. Where they explain everything again to Nile’s mother.

At sunrise, when they bring Nile’s armor to her in the square, Andromache and Quynh insist on coming as well. The five of them set off, Yusuf’s sister leading.

Along the way, royal guard Sébastien LeLivre intercepts them, confessing to being involved in the kidnapping - not that he knew that’s what was happening, just that a friend of his convinced him to skip part of his rounds that night - and wanting to help make it right. They welcome him into the group, not having time to really get into whether they should and not wanting to waste time convincing him to go home either.

They arrive at Keane’s stronghold to find it swarming with outlaws. The group fights their way to the door and Nicolò goes in while the others stay to continue fighting the horde.

When he gets to the room Yusuf is held in, King Stephen is already there. Shouting at Keane that he explicitly said to cause no physical damage to the prince.

Nicolò takes advantage of Keane’s distraction to take him out. And then it’s just him, his love, and Stephen. Who he suddenly realizes he knows, and who recognizes him at the same time.

They fight - with swords and words. (Though first Nicolò asks when Stephen became a king and is told the man’s brother died not long after Nicolò left the monastery and as he had no heir, Stephen was excused from the priesthood to take the throne).

Eventually, (Inevitably), Nicolò wins. Unfortunately, not without great injury.

Nicolò helps Yusuf to stand and they support each other out of there. As they walk, Yusuf asks questions, and makes comments, about things said during the fight. Mostly just disparaging Nicolò’s old taste in men (Nicolò responds that his taste has definitely improved since he left the monastery) and coming to the discovery that Nicolò is the runaway prince of Genoa. Fourth son of the king and queen, who was sent into the priesthood young and then disappeared.

When they exit the building, the group clears them a path to the horse and they all ride off as fast and as far as they can. And then they stop to tend Yusuf and Nicolò’s wounds. Despite the men’s protests that they need to keep moving. They take a lesser-known path when they resume their journey, with the hope that Stephen’s men won’t find them on it, so that they need not push their horse - and themselves - too hard.

They arrive at the palace to find Stephen has again beaten them, and is spinning lies to Yusuf’s parents. Telling them that Nicolò orchestrated the kidnapping in order to manipulate his way into becoming consort to a crown prince.

Of course, the king and queen take the word of both their children and one of their guards (Sebastien) over the king known to have dealings with Keane, who Yusuf turned down just weeks before his kidnapping.

(“Besides,” Yusuf’s father points out diplomatically, “I can’t go back on my decree. So whether you’re right or not, Yusuf is marrying this Nicolò. Ah well. Nothing to be done.”)

-

They have two wedding ceremonies: the big, grand, official one at the palace with hundreds of guests (at which Nicolò is reunited with his family - happily in some cases, less so in others), and the small, peaceful one in Nicolò’s garden. They wear flower crowns in the second and they both cry (as does Quynh, but she will never admit it).

[eloarei]

Pacrim2 thoughts

ALRIGHT so I saw Pacific Rim 2 the other day, and here are some opinions! The NON-SPOILERS first.  First and foremost, I am a BIG FAN of the original movie. I give it at least a 9.5, I really love it. This one, I’d give it a solid... 8? It was a good, enjoyable movie and I don’t regret paying matinee prices to see it. =] The action was good, the overall plotline was not bad, and graphics were cool obviously.  ...It definitely felt different from the first movie though. The pacing felt a little odd at times. I feel like the movie would have greatly benefited from having a few slower or superfluous moments. It’s not that it didn’t have moments that were quiet, but I still felt that overall it was a little rushed. And everyone kind of... felt new. Even with the senior pilots, I didn’t feel very much a sense that they’d been there for very long? And where were all the old people? Everyone was so young.  Oh, but the end-boss fight was pretty cool. =D  Ah, also! I liked the premise they set up in the beginning with the whole scrapper society; I think it would have been cool to have focused on that more. TBH I’d have watched an entire movie centered on the grittier aspect of the world.  Now there really isn’t much else I can say without resorting to spoilers, so I’ll put that under a cut: 

OKAY so FIRST OF ALL.  MAKO WHY???! And WHERE THE FUCK WAS RALEIGH? Or any of the other surviving pilots? Honestly, like I AM GLAD that Hermann and Newt were in there because look, I’m a huge shipper, and also I really feel like they are pivotal to any story that takes place in this universe. But the other characters should have made at least short appearances too!  And really, (oh shoot, got distracted. What was I talking about?)... Uhh... shit. Just... um... OH. So like, it also felt kind of ??? because they made little to no mention of what happened over the past 10 years, or like... made any justification for why they were still running the Jaegers. I mean, it’s cool, but I would have liked a little more backstory.  TBH I thought the way they handled Newt and the Precursors was predictable, and I mean that in a good way. I would have LIKED a sequel that didn’t involve Newt getting possessed, but that was sort of what I thought would happen. I would have LOVED to see him in a little more pain though. XD Emotional pain! Seriously, he and Hermann really needed like... just a little more time, a few slower moments to really drive home the impact of ...everything?  OH BUT “ALICE”. GOD. I was like “NO! They retconned Hermann supposedly being married (from some commentary or novelization or something) (hooray, retconning!) but now they gave NEWT a wife?! FUCK.” But then I had me a good chuckle. The scene was sort of uncomfortable because I couldn’t tell if it was supposed to be funny or horrifying? Newt felt a little manic, but maybe not the way I’d have written it.  Um. I liked Amara! Very cute. But I think there were just too many characters and not enough time to properly establish them all (or maybe better writing could have helped a little, but I dunno. Honestly, I really just think the movie should have been 15 minutes longer).  I’ve heard people describe this movie as being... like a pretty good fanfic, but not what they would have wanted in a sequel, and I pretty much agree.  IDEALLY: the movie would have included most, if not ALL, of the previous cast (who didn’t die), plus Jake and Amara, but maybe not ALL of the new cast? I just, they didn’t grow on me, y’know? And I’m fine with the whole Newt getting possessed thing, but I think it could have been done with a little more finesse or detail or something?  OKAY but the way they set it up for another sequel I am definitely okay with. I headcanoned the “humans attack the precursors” plot a long time ago, so yeah, I’m great with that. Probably won’t go the way my fic does lol but that’s fine.  So, there’s my disorganized thoughts!! ^^; I’m more than happy to discuss it further, if anyone wants to. Like I said, I love the series. 

[hermannsthumb]

47. our first date goes horribly so i don’t know why i say yes to a second date, and now, we’re stuck at the diner until the snow slows down and i’m having fun

47. our first date goes horribly so i don’t know why i say yes to a second date, and now, we’re stuck at the diner until the snow slows down and i’m having fun

from winter writing prompts here

okay i really enjoyed this one and it got to over 2.5k SO in the hopes of saving people lengthy scrolling i posted it to ao3 instead!

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Like, the thing is, as much as it sucks, Newt kinda went into this whole thing knowing he was gonna fuck it up somehow. He holds no illusions about his charisma, or his ability to maintain a stable, cohesive line of conversation, or even the general fucking fact that he tends to overwhelm people within five minutes of meeting them. His relationship with Hermann was (important indicator here: was) good for that reason–Hermann never had to put up with him in person. He never had to find out that Newt sometimes gets so excited about something he can’t help but interrupt whoever it is he’s talking to, or rants about anything and everything that crosses his mind, or cracks weird jokes when he’s nervous. He never had to hear Newt’s (shrill) voice. He never had to see Newt’s (cool, but probably tasteless) tattoos. 

It never felt like blatant deception. Newt wasn’t going to start out a letter to Hermann like hey, man, I sound like a symphony of kazoos and one time I got tossed out of a TGI Friday’s because I drank too much at happy hour and started ranting about the mating habits of salamanders. It just…wasn’t the right kind of medium for that.

The way Hermann’s looking at him now, though, is making Newt reconsider.

read the rest on ao3 here

[hermannsthumb]

i have a soft spot for phone sex stuff, so like hermann buys his first vibrator and drinks maybe a little too much to build up the nerve to use it and ends up calling newt bc "his voice calms him" but that may or may not have just been an excuse to get newt on the phone

i love this so much.......idk if its meant to be a prompt but (winking emoji)

also this is pretty e-rated LOL i kinda just jump right in under the cut. 18+! beware! here are some pining pen pals

Masturbation, for Hermann, has always been a largely perfunctory affair. Stress relief. Part of a routine, relegated to furtive strokes with his hand and some discount body wash in the shower once or twice a week. He doesn’t make a big show out of it. He doesn’t use anything but his hand. His fantasies are rarely even that elaborate (he doesn’t allow himself anything that elaborate): the gentle touch of the hand of another man (nameless, faceless, messy-haired and reckless), the recollection of the young man (twenty-one) he’d kissed on a date when he was twenty, and as of recently, Newton. Newton smiling; Newton laughing; Newton allowing Hermann to ruck up his t-shirt and stroke his hand down his soft, soft chest, teasing him gently, touching him in return. 

(Hermann has one printed photograph of Newton, sent along with his friend’s usual weekly correspondence some months ago: round stubbled cheeks, thick glasses, mischievous smile, freckles. Hermann has other photographs of Newton saved to his phone, pulled from various social media sites—Hermann is not obsessed—as well, a single video of the man bookmarked in his browser. Newton is very pleasing to look at.)

In fact, these recent fantasies about Newton are part of the reason why Hermann is ruminating over the whole idea of masturbation in the first place.

They’re becoming a problem.

Lately, all Hermann can think about is Newton. His routine is entirely shot. He doesn’t bring himself off in the shower anymore—or, he still does, but it’s in addition to other occasions on which he brings himself off. He masturbates in the mornings, after he’s had a wet dream about Newton (which are distressingly frequent). He masturbates at night, when he can’t get Newton’s latest correspondence out of his head. And it’s true, the fantasies Newton stars in are fairly mundane, scarcely even that erotic, but they’re becoming less so each time. Hermann stroking a hand down Newton’s chest becomes Hermann toying with Newton’s nipple with his fingers, his teeth, as Newton squirms underneath him. Newton smiling and laughing becomes Newton beckoning him close, begging, breathlessly, for Hermann to touch him, to kiss him, to undress him, to—well. 

It’s the reason for Hermann’s current state of near constant sexual frustration. It’s also the reason for why—after years of relying solely upon his fist—Hermann has finally caved in and bought himself a vibrator.

It’s fairly small. It’s fairly discrete. Smooth. A nice shade of dark purple. Enough settings that Hermann won’t get bored with it. (And it was on sale.) The packaging it came in was discrete, too: a simple black box, with not even the company’s name written on the side. It didn’t mean Hermann wasn’t still mortified when he opened up his mailbox and found it shoved in, neatly, alongside a few bills and a new letter from Newton, and hurry up to his flat as quickly as possible with it tucked under his arm.

The letter lies, unopened, on his bed. The package lies, opened, next to it. Hermann lies next to both, vibrator in hand, stripped down to his undershirt and boxers, wondering how on earth he can possibly mentally boost himself up for this. 

His solution is to break into a bottle of brandy his brother sent him for his last birthday and have a drink. Or two. Enough so that the overwhelming buzz of anxiety making his skin crawl is replaced with a calming static instead. A more gentler buzz. The vibrator’s buzzing, too, though Hermann hasn’t touched himself with it yet. He’s merely holding it a few centimeters from his face, considering it.

In his peripheral vision, Hermann catches sight of Newton’s letter. Newton.

Maybe Hermann could use the vibrator on Newton. Maybe Newton would like to watch Hermann use it on himself. Maybe Newton would use it on Hermann. Maybe he would start by pressing it to Hermann’s chest, and trail it down, down, past his pubic hair, past his prick, nudge Hermann’s legs apart…

He should call Newton. That seems like an excellent idea, frankly. The line is ringing before Hermann even realizes he’s fumbled with his cell phone and dialed Newton’s number (and before he can second-guess himself). The line continues to ring. He hasn’t considered time zones; it’s late for Hermann, but Newton may still be lecturing.

Newton picks up before Hermann can talk himself into hanging up. Hermann switches off the vibrator. “Hey, Hermann!” Newton says. He sounds delighted. Warmth flushes, pleasantly, down Hermann’s neck, to his chest, to pool in the pit of his stomach; his erection begins to stir to life already. Hermann is very easily wound up, and he is very easily unwound. 

“Newton,” Hermann says.

“Hey!” Newton repeats.

“Newton,” Hermann says again.

“Uh, yeah,” Newton says. “It’s me.” He’s quiet for a moment. “You okay, man? You sound...tired.”

“Yes,” Hermann says, quickly. “I needed—er.” He stares at the vibrator. “...Well. Your voice calms me.”

Newton laughs again, a little louder. “It calms you?”

Hermann was tipsy, but he’s begun to sober up, fast, and now he wonders, perhaps, if this wasn’t a very good idea. He flushes for an entirely different reason. “Please forget I called,” he sighs, and makes to hang up, but Newton says “Wait!”

Hermann puts the phone back to his ear. “Are you upset about something?” Newton continues.

“Not exactly,” Hermann says. He thumbs the vibrator. “A bit nervous.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

For a moment, Hermann debates making up a problem. Something to talk through with Newton. Instead—the brandy giving him a bit more courage, the possibility of Newton reciprocating any advances he might make too alluring to turn down—he throws caution into the wind. “I bought a vibrator,” he blurts out.

Newton drops his phone. At least, that’s what it sounds like: there’s a rush of air, a loud clatter, and then Newton swearing, loud, as he presses it back to his ear. “Jesus, Hermann. You bought—”

“A vibrator,” Hermann says.

“I heard you the first time!” Newton squeaks. “Why are you telling me?”

He’s flustered. The notion pleases Hermann, oddly, especially seeing as Newton hasn’t hung up on him in a fit of embarrassment. (Maybe it’s not as one-sided as Hermann has always feared.) Hermann switches the vibrator back on. He decides to play coy. “I’ve never used one before,” he admits. “I’m not quite sure what to do. I thought you might’ve.” 

“Why—” Newton splutters, “you think I’m—I’d know—”

“You seem the type,” Hermann says.

“Oh, boy,” Newton says, still in that same, high little squeak. “Okay. Uh. Well. I do. I have, I mean. But.” There’s a noise, as if he’s readjusting his cell phone. When he speaks again, his voice is significantly more hushed. “I’m kinda in my office right now, dude. At campus. If I wasn’t—”

“I’ll be fast,” Hermann says. “I usually am.”

Newton swears again. “Holy shit. Uh. Okay.” Another small rustling noise. “Okay. Okay. I locked the door. Uh.” He laughs again, far more embarrassed. “I usually start at my, uh, chest. Then work down.”

Hermann presses the vibrator to one of his nipples; the resulting sensation, and the knowledge that he’s doing this at Newton’s command, makes his whole body shudder, a moan slip from his lips. “Ah.” He slides it over to the other and draws out the same response, only this moan is a little louder.

“Jeez,” Newton says, weakly. “Then. Uh. It depends on what kind it is. Sometimes I just kinda—press it to my dick for a bit.”

Hermann slicks his hand up with a small bit of lubricant (also new, ordered alongside the vibrator at the website’s recommendation) and gives himself a few light tugs. Just enough to slick himself up there, too. He pulls his briefs down, neatly, around his thighs. He tucks his phone under his ear. He presses the vibrator to his erection.

“Oh,” he gasps, almost instantly, “oh, Newton—”

“Sorry,” Newton wheezes out, “I gotta—” He swears, again, and then Hermann hears his breathing going harsh, labored, coming out in sharp pants and trailing into little whines. Newton is touching himself, Hermann thinks; Newton is touching himself to Hermann. Hermann switches the vibrator up a setting.

He’s overwhelmed by it all very quickly: the vibrations travelling through his prick, making his whole body tingle, Newton’s whimpering moans in his ear (Hermann, holy shit, oh, wow), the very thought of what Newton must look like on the other end—his cheeks flushed red, his eyes screwed shut tight behind his glasses, his teeth digging into his pretty pink bottom lip to keep from being too loud, to keep from drawing attention to himself, hunched over his cluttered desk with his hand shoved down his jeans. If Hermann were there—if Hermann could touch him (or, better yet, kiss him)...

Newton comes first, with a low, keening whine; Hermann quickly grabs a wad of tissues with the hand not clutching the vibrator and presses it to himself to catch his own release. His phone tumbles to the mattress. He drifts, pleasantly, into the fuzzy, lethargic lull of his afterglow—the best of any orgasm he’s ever had before—and only comes back to himself when Newton’s pants turn to low swearing once more, audible even from where Hermann’s phone rests. Hermann rolls to his side to press his ear to the receiver. “Holy shit,” Newton says, with a little giggle. “Holy shit, Hermann. Ha. Wow.”

“Mm?” Hermann says. He realizes he’s neglected to switch off the vibrator. He reaches out a hand to do so now; his limbs feel like lead.

“That was,” Newton says, “uh, hot.”

“It was,” Hermann agrees. He smiles lazily, though he knows Newton can’t see it. “Thank you.”

They’re both quiet. “You wanna do that again some time?” Newton says.

“I’d like that,” Hermann says.

[hermannsthumb]

MARIA give us the newt stretching in booty shorts in front of his hot neighbor!!!

Anonymous said: SUGGESTIVE STRETCHING NEWT FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

Anonymous said: If you have time/inspiration can you please write a fic where newt and Herm are neighbours and newt keeps going outside to do yoga or something in workout clothes that are way too small whenever herms is out there?

my god. how did you all know i wanted to write this. its almost as if, after deliriously posting tweet after tweet with this concept at 4 am, i begged someone to prompt me on tumblr so i could write this for someone other than myself. enjoy some thirsty reclusive nerd hermann

The flat next to Hermann’s has been vacant for as long as he can remember. For a good reason, Hermann supposes; not many people fancy living at the top floor of a many-leveled building in the very back corner, even if the elevators here work fairly smoothly. Hermann himself would’ve avoided it if he had any other choice--he can walk up the staircase just fine during power outages or fire alarms, but it’s not exactly ideal, as it usually means an extra painkiller for his leg as he readies for bed. It’s blessedly quiet, at least, blessedly isolated, which means Hermann can be left alone with his numbers and calculations in peace.

At least it used to be quiet.

Hermann has a new neighbor, and he hears him before he sees him.

He’s only barely given a heads-up that someone moved in to the flat in the first place, and only as a result of a chance meeting with his landlady on the ground floor when he went to collect his mail. Some sort of scientist, she told Hermann, teaching biology three times a week at the local high school despite his multiple (or so rumor has it) doctorates. “As long as he’s quiet,” Hermann bristled, though privately, he was excited at the prospect of living so close to someone who was sure to be like-minded. A scientist, biologist, even, with multiple doctorates. Hermann expected someone professional, someone exuding intelligence, someone Hermann would like to have as a colleague. Maybe even a friend. Maybe he’ll have him round for dinner, or for tea, or maybe he’ll just wait until they pass each other in the hallway and nod tersely at him and never interact beyond that. That’s how Hermann’s favorite relationships play out.

The biologist manages to sour all of Hermann’s good will before Hermann can even think seriously of introducing himself. Twenty-four hours after Hermann learns the vacancy has been filled, he’s woken up at seven in the morning to loud music blaring from next door. It takes him a few minutes to realize it’s not just recorded music--the biologist is playing an electric guitar.

Still half-asleep, Hermann reaches blindly for his cane, slips on his dressing gown and glasses and slippers, and marches straight over to the biologist’s flat to pound on the door. After a minute, the music stops. After another minute, the door swings open.

The biologist doesn’t look anything like Hermann expected, either. He’s young, very young (Hermann’s age, Hermann realizes), messy-haired, tattooed, freckled, and he’s wearing thick glasses that take up half his face and very tight skinny jeans. He’s also exceptionally handsome, which is most frustrating of all. Hermann wanted to shout, maybe even get a few whacks with his cane in at the man’s calves and pretend it was an accident, but his words die in his throat.

The biologist leans against the doorframe and smiles charmingly at him. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Newt. Are you Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Newt,” Hermann manages to say.

"Yeah,” Newt says, and nods. “That’s me.” Then he repeats, a little more forcefully, “Are you Dr. Gottlieb?”

“Er,” Hermann says, blinking. “Ah! Yes. That’s--yes, I’m Dr. Gottlieb.” Then he remembers why he’s here. “Why the hell are you playing guitar this early?”

Newt shrugs. "Because it’s fun,” he says. “I’m an early riser.”

“I’m not,” Hermann says.

Newt’s still giving him that damned smile. “I’ll keep it down,” he says.

Hermann turns on his heels and slams his door behind him.

Hermann’s next run-in with Newt (or Dr. Newton Geiszler, he finds out, after snooping around the mailboxes) occurs a few weeks later. It’s a nice day, warmer than usual for April, and Hermann wakes uncharacteristically early (though not to loud guitar music, this time) so he takes his morning coffee out to be enjoyed on his small balcony in his small wicker chair. The view is not perfect, and the horizon is mostly obscured by the buildings across the way, but Hermann can still see the pink and orange of the sunrise. It’s enough for him. (Out here, he can pretend Dr. Newton Geiszler does not exist, that the flat next door remains empty, that his happy solitude has not been interrupted.)

Dr. Geiszler’s balcony is a mere few feet away, close enough that one could easily hop over the railings to get to one from the other if they wishes. He’s managed to clutter up the space already: he’s propped a bicycle up against the opposite railing (despite the fact there’s a perfectly good bike rack in the front of the building) and filled all but a small spot with large potted plants (herbs, vegetables, a bewildering amount of strawberries) that have spilled dirt everywhere. Not just a nuisance, but a mess, then. Hermann shudders to think what the inside of his flat looks like.

Newt’s glass door slides open, and Hermann forces himself not to groan aloud. “Hi, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says cheerfully. “Nice morning, huh?”

“Hmph,” Hermann says. He turns away.

“Do you usually chill out here?” Newt says, evidently determined to finish the conversation.

“Sometimes,” Hermann says.

“Cool,” Newt says. He drums his fingers on the railing. “Good talk. See you, I guess.”

Newt’s glass door slides shut.

He sees Newt again a few days later. It’s another nice morning, so Hermann’s out on his balcony with coffee once more, and Newt pops out--whistling--in a bathrobe with a yoga mat in hand. “Hope it’s cool if I stretch a bit out here,” he says. “I need some fresh air.”

“It’s your balcony,” Hermann says. He flicks through the newspaper he brought out until he gets to the crossword puzzle. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Newt unroll his yoga mat and drop his bathrobe.

“Oh, I did that one this morning,” Newt says. “If you need any help with clues--”

“I don’t, thank you,” Hermann snaps, a little irritated at the implication that he needs help with a crossword puzzle, and he looks up to tell Newt to mind his own business--

--and is greeted by the sight of Newt in a tight white t-shirt and the tightest, shortest athletic shorts he’s ever seen in his entire life. “You okay, Dr. Gottlieb?” Newt says, grinning as he watches Hermann mop up coffee from the front of his dressing gown.

“Ah,” Hermann says, “yes, er--” Newt stretches his arms above his head and the hem of his t-shirt rides up, revealing a pleasing expanse of tattooed stomach, a trail of light brown hair--Hermann tears his eyes away and back to the dark stain still spreading all over his chest. “Just clumsy. Very clumsy.”

“Mm-hmm,” Newt says, and Hermann swears he hears him laughing as he rushes back inside to change. When he’s returned (clean and with a new cup of coffee), Newt’s switched to a different pose entirely: on his hands and knees on the yoga mat, faced away from Hermann and arching his back rather suggestively. The stretchy fabric of his tiny shorts pulls, and pulls... “How’s the puzzle coming?” Newt calls over his shoulder.

“Good,” Hermann chokes out.

Newt has a very nice ass.

Newt stretches on his balcony three more times that week, then the next week, then the week after, each time in those tiny little shorts and that tank top that barely covers him, each time arching his back and moving his hips in a way that makes Hermann blush and stutter, each time with a cheery little “Hi, Dr. Gottlieb!” 

Hermann considers avoiding his balcony altogether, but that feels like losing, in a sense. Admitting to his unfortunate inclination for his annoying neighbor. Admitting to the fact that he can be overwhelmed by some simple yoga. (Admitting that, when he’s alone, sometimes he imagines Newt in those tiny shorts bending down in front of Hermann, the fabric of his shirt riding up...) Well. The point is that Hermann refuses to stop enjoying his balcony. And what’s Newt stretching for, anyway? The man’s a bloody part-time science teacher. It’s not as if he needs to. If anything, he should be embarrassed, not Hermann.

“Hi, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says as always, winking at Hermann as he rolls out his mat. His shorts are bright red today. Monday they were hot pink. Hermann wonders just exactly how many of these Newt owns.

“Good morning,” Hermann says, begrudgingly.

Newt puts his hands on his hips and rolls his shoulders back with a satisfied groan. “It’s nice as shit out,” he says.

“Mm,” Hermann says. He’s not bothering with a puzzle today--he hasn’t managed to concentrate on those in weeks--but instead idly flips through one of his old notebooks of research. Newt pulls out two small weights. They can’t weigh more than a pound or so each. “Switching it up?” Hermann asks, and then curses himself for acknowledging that he’s well-familiar with Newt’s usual routine.

“Yep,” Newt says.

Newt goes down on his hands and knees, rear stuck out as always. He does his usual stretches while Hermann turns pages and feigns disinterest. Then Newt picks up a weight.

The sound he emits makes Hermann flush hot from the tips of his ears to his chest and clench his notes so tight the paper starts to rip. “Are you alright?” Hermann squeaks. 

“Yeah,” Newt says, oddly breathy. “Why?”

“No reason,” Hermann says.

Newt does it over, and over, and over, his tattooed arms flexing, the stretchy fabric of his shorts pulling, and each deep grunt of effort is more obscene and orgasmic than the last. “Do you care if I take this off?” Newt suddenly says, tugging at the hem of his tank top. Sweat beads his brow. His glasses have slid down his nose. He’s breathing far more heavily than necessary.

Hermann shakes his head, and Newt’s tank top is off and over his head in seconds; Newt is not remotely well-built. Unfortunately, that’s exactly Hermann’s type.

Hermann enjoys a nice cold shower thirty minutes later.

Hermann has a great deal of difficulty following Newt’s inevitable attempts to small talk him the next time. “So you’re a doctor,” Newt says, stretching his leg over his head. He looks like a freckled, rainbow pretzel. “Of what?”

“Physics,” Hermann says.

Newt whistles. “Impressive.” He switches to the other leg. “Just you up here, then? No one else?” Hermann narrows his eyes and nods. “Yeah. I’m the same way.” There are a few light patters on the thick awning overtop Hermann’s balcony. Newt looks up. “Oh, shit, it’s raining.”

It is, and getting harder and steadier by the second. Hermann quickly grabs his cane and prepares to head back inside his flat. “See you tomorrow, dude!” Newt calls, scrambling to his feet and tugging on his slider--

--which doesn’t budge.

“Dr. Gottlieb,” he says. “Hey, uh--”

“What, Geiszler?” Hermann sighs, half inside.

Newt tugs on his slider handle again and smiles sheepishly. “I’m locked out.”

The wind is blowing the rain onto their balconies, cold despite it being spring, and Newt’s already half-drenched and shivering pathetically. Hermann caves immediately. “Can you climb over here?” he sighs, stepping back outside.

Newt nods, lighting up with excitement. “Dude, you’re the best!” He shimmies over both railings and the minuscule gap between them and lands heavily on his feet in front of Hermann. Right in front of Hermann. “Hi,” he says.

Hermann can make out every tattoo beneath Newt’s soaked white tank top. “Inside,” he manages to say, and Newt nods and trails after him. He shuts the slider behind them.

“You have a nice place, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newt says. He’s dripping on Hermann’s carpet and still shivering. Hermann sighs again.

“Let me get you a bathrobe,” he says, while Newt looks delighted. “And a towel. And a change of clothing.”

Newt’s stripped out of his tank top once more when Hermann returns from his small laundry room with a small stack of the promised towel, bathrobe, and spare set of pajamas, folded and freshly-warmed in the dryer. “Here,” he says, and thrusts them out at Newt, who immediately begins toweling at his hair.

“You’re fucking awesome,” Newt says. He reaches for the pajamas--which are more or less the single pair of sweatpants Hermann owns and the oldest t-shirt he could find--with one hand, still drying his hair with the other. “Okay, heads up, I’m not wearing any underwear, so you might wanna look away.”

“You’re not wearing any--?” Hermann chokes out, face burning, but Newt’s reaching for the elastic waistband of his (tiny, wet) shorts (with nothing underneath, apparently) so Hermann immediately fixes his eyes on the ceiling. 

“Okay,” Newt says after a few minutes, suspiciously close, and when Hermann looks back at him he’s a mere few inches away. (The sweatpants and t-shirt fit him poorly, the cuffs of the former rolled up, the latter straining across his torso, and he hasn’t bothered belting the bathrobe.)

Hermann’s breath catches in his throat; his knees feel a bit unsteady. “Er,” he says, leaning heavily on his cane. “All fine, then, Newton?”

“It’s Newt,” Newt says, and smiles. He puts his right hand on Hermann’s waist. Then his left hand.

All that stretching has made Newt very agile, which he’s happy to demonstrate to Hermann.