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There are a lot of things Newt misses about back home. His own bed. Food not from a tin can. Snow, sometimes, maybe not that much though. His shitty daily iced coffee from Dunkin’. Oh, my God, he misses his bed. He misses it so bad. He’s told Hermann more than once that the second this whole thing is over—and you know, God willing they make it out alive—he’s catching the next flight back to Boston and curling up in his bed for a solid week. Once he liberates it from whatever storage unit it’s shoved it, he guesses. The Shatterdome cots are hard and rickety and about as comfortable as sleeping on a stone slab in a jail cell. He knows Hermann ordered some heavy duty mattress topper a week into their being stationed here so that his hip would survive the night, and frankly it’s been sounding more and more appealing each time Newt wakes up at three in the morning with his back stiff as fuck. Also, he’s in his mid-thirties now or whatever, that’s when backs start to love getting stiff. He really should just buy one. Should he buy one?
“You should know I tuned you out about,” Hermann finally glances away from his computer to the clock on his desk instead, “twenty-eight minutes ago, and I haven’t heard a word you’ve said since. What are you on about now?”
“Things I miss,” Newt says. “Back home, specifically, though I guess also in general.”
He’s waiting on some new samples to arrive and has functionally nothing to do in the meantime, because his last ones fell victim to a freezer malfunction he’s been privately (and admittedly unfoundedly) blaming Hermann for, given the suspicious timing of it following a minor incident involving Hermann’s favorite mug and some extremely corrosive acid that maybe was ninety percent Newt’s fault. Anyway, he’s been spending the day doing his second favorite thing, which is breathing down Hermann’s neck as he goes about his work and helpfully offering a running commentary. A lot of what Hermann does goes over his head, but that’s never deterred Newt from finding new and exciting things to criticize about Hermann to his face—and behind his back, and probably other body parts too—before. He’s been sitting on the edge of Hermann’s desk more or less monologuing for the better part of the last hour while Hermann has been drafting several extremely boring and probably kiss-up emails. He assumes they’re boring anyway.
“Ah,” Hermann says. He fixes his glasses and goes back to frowning at his computer screen. Newt is about eighty percent sure the guy is playing Tetris. Actually, he’s almost definitely sure, because he can see it reflected in Hermann’s glasses, and Hermann’s fingers have been hovering conspicuously over the arrow keys on his keyboard for the last ten minutes.
“I also miss going to concerts,” Newt says. Even if he could get a night off to go to one, it’s not like really any pacific coastal cities are cultural hubs for touring musicians right now, and the club Newt would sometimes hit up that was favored by musically-inclined locals was destroyed in a kaiju attack last year. “I miss playing concerts.”
He sighs and toys with a paperclip sitting on top of a pile of boring-looking forms Hermann has filled out half of. He bends it into a couple different shapes before another thought strikes him. “Shit,” he continues, “you know what else I miss?”
“I can’t begin to imagine,” Hermann says in a monotone.
“Weed,” Newt sighs. “I miss weed so bad, dude. You know what I mean?”
He misses getting stupidly high and watching music videos or shit like that. He could probably try to find someone on base to sell him some weed, or more realistically point him to someone outside the base who could, but it would almost definitely cost him an entire paycheck and easily run the risk of being shit weed. Pick a struggle or whatever. He can mostly make do with beer he steals from one of the rangers’ rec rooms in the dead of the night when he gets the urge to be mildly intoxicated with something, though if they ever catch on he’s pretty sure he’s overdue for a major ass-kicking.
Hermann hmphs and finally looks up at Newt. There’s a smug little arch to his eyebrow that’s pissing Newt off like crazy. “Mm. I don’t, actually,” he says. “I have some with me right now, in fact. Medical, Newton,” he adds with an eyeroll when Newt perks up in borderline elated surprise. “Don’t look so excited. The Marshal permits it.”
“Dude,” Newt says. “Dude. Please can I have some?”
“No,” Hermann says.
“Hermann. Pleasepleaseplease. I will do literally anything for, like, the tiniest hit in the world. A single hit. Literally anything. Hermannnnn.”
Hermann’s mouth twitches into a broad smirk, because he’s a sick bastard who derives joy from Newt in his suffering, weedless agony. “No,” he repeats. He drags out each letter an insufferably long time.
“I’ll never set foot on your side of the lab again,” Newt says. “I’ll start wearing headphones. I’ll deep clean the lab, like, once a week. I’ll, I don’t know, I’ll suck your dick.”
Newt is the king of putting his foot in his mouth, an undisputed expert who may as well hold an honorary PhD in it at this point, and Hermann is used to it by now, Hermann expects it by now, Hermann knows when to take him seriously and when to roll his eyes and ignore him or call his bluff or dish out whatever particular ego-bruising Newt is deserving of in that moment. Obviously Newt won’t really suck Hermann’s dick because Hermann would never deign to put his dick within a mile radius of any part of Newt, let alone Newt’s mouth. He would probably rather die than entertain Newt in any remotely sexual capacity. Newt blurts the offer out before he can even register what he’s saying. But it’s fine, because Hermann will act scandalized and blush and snap at Newt to leave him alone, and Newt will pretend to be offended, and they’ll continue on as routine.
But Hermann tilts his head to the side, considering him. “Alright, then,” he says.
Newt almost slips off the desk.
“W-what?” he says.
Hermann takes his glasses off and sets them down neatly, chain and all. Both of his eyebrows are arched up high now, condescending as hell, an expression Newt recognizes clearly as the one he likes to whip out on Newt when he thinks Newt isn’t keeping up with him. “I will consent to giving you some of my marijuana if you suck me off,” he says, matter of fact. “Whatever you said—‘one single hit’. If you do a good enough job I may even let you have two.”
“Oh,” Newt squeaks.
Hermann folds his arms across his chest. “You were being serious, weren’t you, Newton?”
“I,” Newt says. He swallows. Was he being serious? He wanted to get a rise out of Hermann. He wanted to see Hermann get all red in the face and swell up and call Newt asinine and immature and whatever else, even though they both secretly knew he was into it. Newt really, really wants weed though. He would also be lying if he said he doesn’t also maaaaybe kinda want to suck Hermann’s dick regardless.
Most importantly, though, he wants to wipe that stupid smug look off of Hermann’s face. “Yeah,” he says, and then louder, “yeah, I was being serious. Of course I was being serious. Why wouldn’t I be. Are you being serious?”
“Of course I am.”
“Shit, dude,” Newt says, “in that case, I’ll blow you right here.”
Hermann purses his lips into a thin line, and then, to Newt’s mounting disbelief, reaches for his belt and undoes his baggy slacks. There’s nothing at all seductive or alluring in the way he does it—it’s very straightforward, almost mundane, the way Hermann does everything. He pulls his hand away when he gets his fly down. Newt can see his white briefs peeking through the gaping teeth of the zipper and his mouth goes very dry.
Hermann pushes his chair away from his desk and spreads his legs, the fabric of his briefs stretching tight across the bulge of his soft cock. He gestures to the floor. “On your knees, then, Dr. Geiszler,” he says.
There’s not much Newt can say to that. He slips down without a word to kneel at Hermann’s feet halfway beneath Hermann’s desk. If anyone walked into the lab, they probably wouldn’t even be able to see Newt—probably wouldn’t have any idea what Newt was doing, debasing himself just out of sight. He feels a funny hot prickle on the back of his neck. Debasing. Dumb. Newt maintains that sucking dick is extremely cool and awesome, and it’s extremely normal and not at all weird to suck your…co-worker’s dick for some of his dubiously legal weed supply. (Not that dubiously legal weed isn’t also extremely cool and awesome. It’s just that Hermann is neither of those things.)
His heart is thudding in his chest. He licks his lips and reaches up one hand to Hermann’s crotch, hovering just over it, not daring to touch him just yet. He’s never been this hesitant about touching Hermann before. Hermann’s face is as cool and impassive as anything above him. “I admit,” Hermann says, and he darts his tongue out over his own wide lips, his big dark eyes fixed on Newt, “I am curious to know if your excessively large mouth is actually useful for something.”
“I’ve never had any complaints,” Newt says, flashing him a grin.
“I should hope not,” Hermann says. His voice is lower than Newt has ever heard it before.
He pulls his cock out over his waistband. Even soft it’s on the thicker side, curved a little and flushed pink at the head, and it twitches in Hermann’s loose grip as Newt stares at it. Hermann has such long fingers. It’s nothing new to Newt; he likes watching Hermann wrap them around chalk and teacups and the handle of his cane, likes imagining Hermann pushing them into his mouth or curling deep in—well, you know. Hermann moves them on his cock now, short, methodical tugs to bring himself to hardness, exhaling in time with them. Newt’s stomach twists in on itself. He wants to touch himself too, really badly, but he feels like that’d be making it weird.
When Hermann is mostly stiff, he stills his hand, thumbing at the tip where a small bead of precum is gathering. “Well,” he says. “I suppose a deal is a deal.”
With his other hand he pulls open a drawer to the right of Newt’s head and retrieves what looks like a small silver cigarette case engraved, bizarrely, with his initials. He snaps it open and offers it out to Newt: inside are five neatly-rolled joints. When Newt reaches for it, Hermann yanks it away, his eyebrows quirking up in that annoying as fuck condescending way again. “I believe we agreed upon, what was it you said…” Hermann’s cock smacks against his stomach as he drops it to delicately select a joint, and he pulls a fancy lighter from his desk next. “One ‘hit’, was it not?”
“It sounds so stupid when you say that,” Newt mumbles, unable to tear his eyes from stupid Hermann’s stupid dick. He feels heat creeping down his face all the way to the pit of his stomach. Hermann gives him another smirk and lights one of the joints, and Newt (less because he gives a shit and more to be petty) says “You can’t smoke in here. You’ll piss off the Marshal.”
“I disabled the smoke alarms well over a year ago,” Hermann says, waving his hand at Newt dismissively. “You were always setting them off anyway. Besides, it’s hardly as if anyone will be able to smell it over your assortment of decaying bits of kaiju rubbish.” He wrinkles his nose. “It reeks. I’m surprised you don’t reek, too. Playing with garbage all day and crawling about on the floor. Disgusting.”
Newt bites his lip and squirms as Hermann takes a short drag. “Dude,” he whines. “C’mon. You said—”
“You’ve not earned anything yet,” Hermann scolds. “Now open up.” He holds the joint between two fingers above Newt’s head and takes his cock back into his grip. He nudges his cockhead at Newt’s mouth, smearing precum across it, and Newt parts his lips obediently as Hermann slips himself in.
Hermann drops his hand away with a sigh when his cockhead grazes the roof of Newt’s mouth and Newt swallows his precum instinctively. Newt’s knees are shaking, and he squirms to get closer, settling both his hands on Hermann’s thighs, sliding Hermann in deeper. He likes how Hermann smells, chalk and mothballs mingling with sweat and musk. He likes how hot and thick and heavy Hermann feels on his tongue. He likes the patch of scraggly, curly dark hair he can see at the base of Hermann’s cock, and he wants to run his fingers through it, nuzzle his nose into it. He feels a pulse of heat between his legs and clenches his own thighs together. “Mmgh,” he says.
“Mm,” Hermann agrees. He settles back in his chair and lets his eyelids droop to half-mast.
Newt presses on eagerly until Hermann’s cock grazes the back of his throat, and he gags, the fleeting jab of pain making his eyes water and his dick throb in his stupid skinny jeans. He jerks back but doesn’t let Hermann slip all the way from his mouth. Hermann seems to like that: he lets out a breathy moan and grazes his hand over Newt’s shoulder, his dark eyelashes fluttering. “Good,” he murmurs.
And Newt, uh, he likes that too. He braces himself on Hermann’s thighs and bobs his head, stretching his mouth wider each time he gets Hermann in a little deeper. Hermann’s dick is slick with his spit and leaking precum freely at the tip. Newt swallows around him, his cheeks hollowing out, and Hermann’s hips twitch forward. He makes a strangled grunting noise as his cock bumps at the back of Newt’s throat again.
Newt’s pulse is pounding in his ears, his fingers twisting in the ugly grey wool of Hermann’s slacks, and it takes him a few seconds to realize that Hermann is talking to him. He pulls off of Hermann’s cock with a wet sucking sound and straightens up. “Huh?” he slurs. He has drool at the corner of his mouth, and he wipes it off on his wrist.
“I said hold still,” Hermann says.
He grips Newt’s chin as he takes a longer drag of his joint. Instead of passing it over for Newt to take his promised hit after him, he leans down and covers Newt’s open mouth with his own, exhaling the smoke past Newt’s lips. Newt squeaks and sags into him and only barely remembers to breathe it in. He coughs when Hermann drops away from him. “Oh, fuck,” he moans. Hermann’s lips felt like he’s always imagined they would, weird and wide and chapped, and it makes his skin feel like it’s on fire.
Hermann gestures back to his slick cock and Newt takes him back in without complaint. He squeezes Hermann’s thighs, his sucking growing eager and sloppy as a warm fuzz spreads through his limbs. He can feel spit trickling down his chin. He knows the front of his boxers are soaked through, probably his jeans too, and it’s everything he can do to not start rutting needily at Hermann’s leg. He scrabbles at Hermann’s slacks and drags Hermann towards him, shoving Hermann’s cock in deeper until he almost gags again. Hermann’s head falls back, his mouth dropping open.
“Bugger,” he groans. “That’s—very good, Newton.” He slides his hand from Newt’s shoulder to his cheek, rubbing his thumb along Newt’s stretched-wide lips, and it comes back wet with Newt’s spit and his own precum. Newt hollows out his cheeks again and Hermann shivers when his palm brushes at the bulging shape of his own cock. He hums in approval. “Very good,” he repeats, in that low sexy voice again. He presses his palm back to the bulge. “Look at what a mess you are, you filthy boy.”
Newt whimpers pathetically. He can get it all in. He’s positive. He rises up on his knees and strains to get closer to Hermann’s lap, doing his best to relax his throat, swallowing reflexively around each thick inch of Hermann as he pushes him in deeper, deeper. His glasses slide to the end of his nose. He stops when he brushes against Hermann's pubic hair, the strain of his cock against his mouth—in his throat—almost too much to bear. He moans around it when Hermann pushes his glasses back up, too gently. “Up here,” Hermann breathes, “come here—”
Newt’s earned his second hit. Maybe his third hit. He holds very still for Hermann as Hermann—ignoring the mess he’s made of Newt—breathes smoke into his mouth once, twice. Newt’s brain feels slow, fuzzy, like the TV static that’s spreading to his fingertips, and he thinks he would be happy staying here on his knees for Hermann forever. He nuzzles stupidly at the base of Hermann’s cock (his coarse pubic hair tickling his lips) before he wraps his fingers around it and mouths up the side, Hermann’s cockhead dragging a tacky line of precum across his cheek. He licks at the tip to make Hermann shudder and takes Hermann back in to the root.
“I think,” Hermann gasps, grasping his shoulder weakly, “oh, I think I might—”
Newt moans in encouragement, squeezing his own thighs together in a desperate attempt for some friction on his throbbing, soaked dick. He holds himself on Hermann’s cock and breathes in the thick musky scent of him as Hermann’s hands flutter between his shoulders, his hair, the swollen puff of his cheeks. Newt’s starting to feel dizzy. He thinks he’s maybe forgetting to breathe. Finally Hermann’s cock goes stiff on his tongue; he twitches and pulses hotly once, twice, and Newt winces at the bitter taste as Hermann grunts out something nonsensical and spills down his throat.
Newt swallows half of it and coughs as he pulls off, the rest of it streaking messily down his chin and staining his button-down. His legs are jelly under him, the throbbing between his legs unbearable, and he sprawls back flat on his ass beneath Hermann’s desk. He wipes his mouth off on his sleeve. “Um,” he pants out. He eyes up the joint dangling uselessly between Hermann’s fingers, burnt down to the filter and smoldering still. Hermann stubs it out on his desk and leaves it there.
Hermann’s chest is heaving and the ends of his hair are curly with sweat and plastered to his forehead. He pulls a handkerchief from his top pocket and dabs at his face with it. He tosses it, damp and crumpled, down at Newt like an afterthought. It lands in the spread vee of Newt’s legs, just beneath the obvious wet patch in his jeans. Newt stares at it. Hermann kicks the handkerchief towards him. “Clean yourself up,” he says, his voice hoarse. “You’re filthy.”
Newt wipes his face clean as Hermann tucks his soft cock away with a quiet hiss and does his slacks back up. The cigarette case and matching lighter are returned to the top drawer. Newt waits on his knees patiently, dizzily, blinking up at Hermann. He’s not sure what he expects Hermann to do—summon him into his lap to spread him with his long fingers while Newt whimpers, or maybe up onto the edge of his desk to press his stupid prim mouth between Newt’s soaked thighs and return the favor. Newt would take his shoe even. One grind of Hermann’s heel against him and he’d be a goner.
Hermann’s eyes flick down to the dark spot on Newt’s jeans. He sniffs and does up his belt. “Well,” he finally says, “off you are, then. Under the circumstances I find it highly unlikely I will be getting anything else done, but you’ve distracted me enough today as is.” He sounds as posh and uptight as ever, the red in the whites of his eyes and the slight slurring drag to his words the only indication that he’s anywhere near as high as Newt. He nudges Newt’s knee with his shoe. “Up, Dr. Geiszler.”
“Oh,” Newt says. He blinks and shakes his head. “Um, I wanted. Do you want..?” He almost undoes the buttons of his jeans, a silent plea for Hermann to touch him, rub him, do whatever he wants to him, but the risk of Hermann turning him down is too humiliating to consider. His cheeks are hot. There’s a salty, bitter taste at the back of his throat. He wants to kiss Hermann again. “Okay, um, nevermind, I’ll—”
Newt scrambles to his feet, narrowly avoiding knocking his head against the underside of Hermann’s desk, and inches past him. His head is swimming, his movements clumsy. He wants nothing more than to collapse into his uncomfortable bed, furiously masturbate, and drift off into a very satisfying nap. And change. God, he needs to change his jeans so bad it’s not even funny. He swallows around the bitter taste lingering in his mouth. He doesn’t really mind it. “Then again,” Hermann continues, blissfully—or maybe willfully—unaware, “I suppose I did need a break. Thank you.”
Maybe it’s the weed mellowing him out, but he flashes Newt a very rare, indulgent smile. It makes Newt feel weird all over. It’s been a weird day. Hermann put his mouth on his, he reminds himself. He put his mouth on Hermann’s dick, and Hermann let him. Hermann liked it. Newt liked it. “Okay,” Newt mumbles again. “Um, thanks for the weed. I’ll—yeah.”
He stumbles off to his quarters.