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So okay, he's sitting in a chair with wheels on it instead of one of those absurdly goddamned uncomfortable wannabe-desk-things lecture halls always seem to be full of, and he's way more covered in ink than he was fourteen years ago, and all he's got on his lap is a battered spiral notebook with half the pages missing instead of something he could take any useful notes in, but none of that is actually any of what matters.
This is what matters: Hermann striding into the lab, coming to a stop in front of Newt, scowling at him briefly before turning and rearranging his chalkboards so he's got a blank one to work with. He proceeds to ignore Newt entirely for the next three minutes, putting up some kind of preliminary equations and expressions and occasionally muttering under his breath.
Finally, finally, he turns around, and he's scowling again. "Mister Geiszler," Hermann says, disdain coming through loud and clear, and Christ that might actually be the fastest Newt has ever gotten hard in his entire life. Now he's glad he's got at least the notebook (that's what it's there for, after all).
"... yes, Professor," Newt says, when it becomes clear that Hermann is waiting for a response. He gets a cocked eyebrow in return, half a wink he might have imagined, and then, awesome, the scowl is back. It's a sexy fucking scowl, okay, at least in this context. Newt is allowed to enjoy being scowled at.
"It has been made clear to me," Hermann says, after a moment, "that the department head is under the impression that your less-than-stellar average so far this semester is somehow my doing. I have attempted to show him that your work, when you choose to do it, is exemplary, and that the problem lies not in your proficiency with the subject material but with your utter lack of a work ethic, but my complaints have been unheeded. Hence this private tutoring session. Do you believe you are in need of private tutoring, Mister Geiszler?"
"N-no, sir," Newt says, and somehow he's even harder now, fuck, this is fantastic and also agony. He shifts in the chair. (Just like they planned.)
"Nor do I," Hermann says, and rolls his eyes. "So you are going to demonstrate here, clearly and with no possible ambiguity, that if you ever chose to apply yourself you would have no problems, and I am going to show my cut-and-dry findings to the department head, and we will both be rid of this. Do you have somewhere to be?" This last, Newt assumes, is in response to the fact that now he's shifted once he can't stop fidgeting. "So do I, Mister Geiszler, but as it's your misbehavior that has landed us here, the least you can do is give me your undivided attention for the next ninety minutes."
"Of -- of course, Professor," Newt says, after a brief pause during which he tries valiantly to find a comfortable position and kind of fails.
"Or perhaps you're in some sort of discomfort? Is something the matter with your seat?" Newt resists the urge to make some really tortured seat/ass/why aren't you fucking me yet joke, shaking his head instead, and Hermann takes that as -- reluctance to admit the truth? Because the next words out of his mouth are "Stand up, Mister Geiszler; if there's a problem with your seat I need to know so it can be remedied before another student loses his hard-earned ability to sit still like a civilized human being."
So Newt stands up, and just as he stands he drops the notebook he'd been planning to use as a privacy shield; before he can bend down to grab it, Hermann's cane is planted on top of it -- shit, when had Hermann gotten so close? -- and Hermann is looking at his really incredibly obvious boner with that goddamn eyebrow again.
"Or perhaps," Hermann says, voice starting to pitch just the slightest bit deeper, the way he knows makes Newt almost incapable of any rational thought whatsoever, "you have been doing poorly intentionally in the hopes that something like this will happen?"
Newt bites his lip, figures discretion is the better part of valor, keeps quiet for once in his life. Keeps still, too, now he's upright, despite the way he wants to lean into Hermann so badly he's actually having to rein himself in.
"Well." Hermann takes a step closer, then another step, until the two of them are almost breathing the same air. "I cannot say I am averse to this turn of events, Mister Geiszler. But you will," he says, steps closer again and bends down just slightly so he's speaking directly into Newt's ear, "be required to prove to me you deserve it before I allow you that ... pleasure. I have, after all, suffered no little amount of needling from the department head. I find it difficult to be at all convinced you should be allowed any kind of release."
"Prove how?" Newt says, and he almost doesn't manage not to close the distance between them this time. Not yet. He knows. "I'm pretty sure I'm up for whatever you've got in mind, dude."
"Professor," Hermann corrects.
"Professor. Sir."
"Much better," Hermann says; Newt can almost hear the smug smile on his face. Then he reaches out and grabs one of Newt's hands from where he'd been fiddling with the hem of his shirt, pulls it to the front of his absurd old-man pants, and flattens it so Newt can feel his erection. "We both know you're bright, Mister Geiszler." Somehow his lips have gotten even closer to Newt's ear. He's not sure he's actually going to make it through this entire scene. Jesus fuck. "I'm sure you can figure it out."