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Newton is not an athletic man. His version of lifting weights is carrying heavy kaiju specimen samples – and that's for, maybe, ten minutes at the most – and running happens only in the face of grave peril – which is recurring, but not so much that he's in shape from it. He is almost manic about his work, so it is rare that he sits down and eats a decent meal.
Cup noodles, for example, are excellent because they can be consumed while one is in motion. Pizza can be eaten with one hand! One. Hand. As long as he watches for grease drips and melty cheese blobs on paperwork, it's not so bad. Poptarts were a breakfast favorite, though they're a little harder to come by, what with the mounting apocalypse and such.
Hermann, for his part, hovers between exasperation and affection for Newton's lack of dietary finesse. Or awareness. Or health in general. Privately, he thinks the roundness of Newton's belly is adorable – though he will never say the words aloud – though he does worry for his health. Consuming processed foods at the rate that he does cannot be good for him – especially when he mainlines coffee and sleeps very little.
At the moment, Newton is working his way through blood samples collected from past kaiju specimens, in the hopes of creating some sort of comparable DNA profile. There are striking similarities between all of them – lending credit towards till his still fledgling theory that they are clones – that he needs to chart. Next to his elbow is an open bag of cheap, drug store donuts (sent in a care package from his mother; the woman knows her comfort food). He eats them, one after the other, without thinking. Hermann watches him suck the chocolate from his fingers and shakes his head.
“What was the last fresh vegetable you ate?” He asks, glancing up from his own work – calculations, as always, that he wrote in a fit of inspiration last night – and Newton freezes. “I'm genuinely curious.”
“Man, when was the last time we had anything fresh to eat period?” Newton counters, trying not to stare guiltily at the bag of donuts next to his elbow. Half of them are already gone – mostly consumed unconsciously. “You want one?” He gestures to the treat with his thumb, shifting to lean his elbow on the table and smile flirtatiously at Hermann.
“No,” he laughs, with a bare hint of derision, as he shakes his head. “No thank you – I will leave the sugary snacks to your department, Dr. Geiszler.” Newton is blushing, and he continues. “Despite the affect they seem to have on your tattoos.”
“Huh?” Newton tilts his head in confusion and crosses his arms in cocky annoyance (later Hermann will realizes that it was an attempt to shield himself). “What'd you mean?”
“Skin stretches,” Hermann supplies simply, “but tattoos do not. At least, not well. I do wonder what you were thinking, getting a full body piece like that, when you eat the way you do.” He shrugs and goes back to deciphering his notes. Frowning to himself, he picks up a piece of chalk, intent on working out his math on one of his many slate boards. When his colleague does not respond, Hermann looks over to his side of the lab. “Newton?” He calls out, but he is already gone.
In fact, Newton is halfway down the hall, shoving his fists deep into the pockets of his jacket. (It's a black hooded sweatshirt today; comfortable, well-worn, safe.) He tries not to feel the softness of his belly under his hands, but it's difficult not to. He digs his fingers into his own flesh with punishing sharpness. It's humiliating. His face heats up, hot and undisguisable, and he ducks his head to avoid looking at anyone. Also to hide the tears that are totally not burning in his eyes.
“Whatever,” Newton mumbles to himself as he kicks his door shut. “Whatever, whatever, whatever. I'm a fucking rock star.” He makes the mistake of looking down at himself.
His thighs are thick, flesh straining against the outside seams of his jeans. Sometimes, he'll find imprints of the stitching marking the inside of his legs – usually when he wears his pants fresh out of the laundry. Newton swallows and close his eyes. His hips are embarrassingly curvy under his own hands and he digs his fingers into the meat of his own body, pinching and squeezing it until it hurts. And he doesn't stop. He means to leave bruises.
He almost doesn't want to look anymore, but he feels like, in some harsh way, that he deserves this. A sick sense of reluctance curls in his chest, but he shucks off his sweatshirt and works on unbuttoning his shirt. His stomach all but spills out over his pinstriped jeans, rounder than he imagined it.
We carry the idealized versions of ourselves, Newton reminds himself snidely, curling his lip in disgust. He cups his belly in his hands, rubs his thumbs over the slope of it and pretends that his eyes are not wet with tears. We are burdened by the idealized versions of ourselves.
Hermann is concerned when Newton does not reappear for the rest of the day. It is not uncommon for them to still bicker and trade barbs; even more, it is sometimes the only way for them to make the toiling hours of lab work less toiling. There are certain issues that are protected from mockery – it is unspoken, but understood through mutual respect. Hermann narrows his eyes, turning a piece of chalk over in his hand; mayhaps he stumbled across one of those such issues.
Newton has never been shy about his body; he never tried to cover up or hide from him. But, nakedness in the face of amorous, reciprocated activity is entirely different from nakedness in the face of snide remarks. Hermann sighs, resting his forehead against the chalkboard. “What an idiot I have been,” he mutters to his calculations.
They end up sitting together at dinner, only because Hermann noticed Newton sulking in the halls and dragged him to the cafeteria. Their usual chatter is absent and Newton is subdued, poking at his food without eating it. He also refuses to look Hermann in the eye. Hermann frowns, resting his chin on his fist as he watches him actively avoid eating.
“Are you feeling all right?” He asks at length, and Newton shrugs. Herman shuts his eyes, fighting a mounting sense of defeat. I hope I have not ruined us beyond repair, he mourns internally before fixing his gaze on Newton's down turned face. “Would you mind coming to my room, later tonight?”
Newton pauses in the prodding of his dinner to glance shyly at him from behind his glasses. “Um. Okay.” He's smiling, though it is small and nervous, Hermann knows that it is genuine.
A little after 2100 hours, Newton is standing in the hall outside Hermann's door. It's cold and he's still swaddled in his sweatshirt, with his hands tucked into the pockets, though he has ditched his tie (he is, technically, off duty). Newton shakes his head to himself; he's being stupid and ridiculous. It's not like Hermann is going to break up with him for being fat.
But, Newton whines in frustration, spinning in an awkward little circle as he groans. Are they even really dating though? Could he safely say that they are dating, that they are boyfriends (which, he doesn't actually mind calling Hermann his boyfriend, or being called Hermann's boyfriend – he has no qualms about using the terminology), that they are in a relationship from which they could break up? Or is this just, like, a thing where they are affectionate and have sex, but aren't really committed to each other?
Stupid – fucking stupid – Hermann doesn't do anything without commitment. The first time they ever hugged, Hermann was probably planning their first date. He is not the type to be selfish or sloppy with another person. But then why the barb about his belly? Newton groans again with a curse, banging his head against Hermann's door.
Which opens under his face and nearly sends him sprawling onto the floor. Excellent. Fat and clumsy. Aces to you, Dr. Newton Geiszler.
“Are you all right?” Hermann asks, worried, as he helps him stand up straight. Newton nods shakily, not trusting himself to speak at the moment, and instead focuses on shutting the door. “Come here,” Hermann holds out a hand – the other is gripping his cane firmly – and it is steady; his sleeves are rolled up to just above his elbows and Newton tries not to be distracted by the planes of pale flesh. His voice is as steady as his hand, though his face is pinched with nerves and his eyes reveal his anxiety.
“Please,” he adds, when Newton does not move from his shocked stupor just inside the door. The word hovers in the air between them, crumbling under the weight of their combined tensions. Newton swallows – a dry clicking of his throat – and shuffles forward; he takes Hermann's hand in his own and allows himself to be drawn into his arms, head tucked under his chin. “I believe I owe you an apology,” Hermann begins, and Newton fists his hands in his sweater.
“S'okay,” he mumbles, burying his blushing face in Hermann's shoulder. “Really. It's okay.”
“Really, it isn't.” Hermann counters, idly stroking through Newton's wild hair.
“We've always been kind of, you know, sarcastic. With each other. So, like, it's okay.” He tries again, and Hermann unknowingly tightens his fingers in Newton's hair; it doesn't hurt, though Newton wishes it would because he still feels a little deserving of pain.
“Yes, but we have never been cruel. What I said crossed the line between sarcasm and cruelty, Newton, and I am not proud of that.” He sighs and Newton can feel the expansion of his lungs as well as his mounting frustration. “Newton, I am sorry.” This is, perhaps, only marginally easier to bare because they aren't looking at each other.
“Newton, I am truly sorry – not only for what I said, but for the way it made you feel.” His voice cracks – he sounds utterly wretched – and Newton can't help the tears suddenly burning in his eyes. “I could say that it was not my intention to hurt you – which it wasn't, I assure you – but that seems rather inadequate in the face of your pain.”
“Hermann,” Newton whines, his face wet. “Please, it's okay. I – I forgive you, okay?” There's a part of himself that just wants this conversation to end; it was difficult enough dealing with his own insecurities in the aftermath of Hermann's teasing, but facing their mutual hurts together is crippling – especially when the source of that hurt is internal.
“That is kind of you to say, darling. However, I don't believe I've done anything to earn your forgiveness.” Hermann presses a kiss to his forehead, and Newton squeezes his eyes shut. “You are beautiful, Newton. Every fantastic, flawed inch of you. It is a scientific fact, and I am sorry that I ever made you doubt it.” Practically sobbing, Newton clings to Hermann, his shoulders shaking and his chest heaving.
After a few moments, Newton takes a deep breath and pulls back to exhale. Hermann shivers at the gust of air across his exposed collar bone (Newton's shuddering and grasping has left his shirt rumpled in a disarray; he is distantly proud of that.) and fixes him with a fond smile. “Beauty is not a scientific fact, Dr. Gottlieb,” Newton points out, his face red and damp.
“Yours is,” Hermann counters, oddly romantic. “It is written in the numeric infinity of pi.” He blushes, pink across the bridge of his nose, and flicks his gaze to across the room. Newton smiles, watery and wobbly but determined, and rises to his tip toes to press a kiss to his cheek.
“How surprisingly poetic of you,” He whispers, nuzzling against his ear.
“I have my moments, Dr. Geiszler. You might be surprised by what you inspire in me.” He turns his head, catching Newton's mouth with his own. They kiss carefully, lips barely parted, until Hermann pulls away. “Is this all right?” He's nervous, his eyes fighting to stay focused on Newton's. Newton realizes – though he should have seen it sooner – that Hermann is scared. He's scared that everything is ruined, scared that his sharpness cut away whatever affections Newton might have had, scared that he isn't even allowed to kiss him anymore. It's okay, he thinks dimly, I can hurt myself enough for the both of us.
“Yes,” Newton breathes, holding Hermann's face in his hands, “this is more than all right.” He surges up, nearly overbalancing them both, slanting their lips together and pressing his tongue against the roof of Hermann's mouth. Rocking to his tip toes, he unconsciously straddles his uninjured leg, so accustomed to adjusting for his comfort.
Hermann lets his cane fall with a clatter and settles his hands on the curve of Newton's rounded hips. He digs his fingers into the soft flesh and Newton hisses, ducking his head and ending the kiss. Clenching his eyes shut, he shakes his head in disgust; the thought of Hermann feeling his body – imperfect and bloated – has him feeling cold and sick in the back of his throat.
“I'm sorry,” Hermann drops his hands to his side, shame evident on his face. “Did I hurt you?”
“Um. No. Not really – no, you didn't hurt me.” Newton says in a rush, staring at the floor, his face aflame. “It's just... you know.” He gestures ineffectively, to his body. “A problem area?” He cringes as he says it, the terminology clunky on his tongue, like he cut it straight from some trashy magazine and forced it into his vocabulary; it's not his nature to refer to any part of him as a problem area. Hermann sighs and shifts so that their foreheads are touching. “It's okay,” Newton argues, “really! I'm just feeling, um. Self conscious?”
“You've never been self conscious around me before,” Hermann shakes his head in disbelief.
“Please stop internalizing my issues into something that's your fault?” Newton asks him, smiling gently. “It's kind of my own thing that I guess I need to deal with now.” He shrugs, like there is nothing else to be said.
“I find it hard to believe that my ignorant comments have nothing to do with your new found reluctance.” With yet another sigh, he steps back and holds both of his hands out in front of himself. He waits until Newton takes them. “Will you try something with me?” Newton nods shakily, his voice trapped by the urgent, searching honesty of Hermann's tone.
There's a mirror, full length and intimidating, bolted to the wall opposite the foot of Hermann's bed. Hermann pauses, bends to pick up his cane and leads him over to the it. Newton feels like a doll – albeit, a chubby and ungainly doll with tattoos – as Hermann forces him to stand still, maybe a foot from the mirror, and face his reflection. He drums his fingers against his thigh and tries to look elsewhere, but Hermann is having none of it.
“Look, please,” he says, as if he were conducting a lecture, as he shuffles behind him and hovers directly over his shoulder. Newton looks and frowns – chubby, in the stomach and hips and face (God, has his face always been so stupidly round?) and short and it's painfully obvious that he can't carry himself in a way other than slouching – until he drops his gaze to the floor and burrows deeper into his sweatshirt.
“Hermann,” he whines, glancing over his shoulder and wrapping his arms around his middle.
“I said look, please, darling.” Hermann reminds him, his eyes soft, as he follows the slope of his cheek with the back of his index finger. “Please,” he repeats, and Newton turns to look at himself. “I don't know if you can see,” Hermann murmurs, “but your eyes are captivating.” He shifts, tries to stare at the floor again, but Hermann forces his chin up. “I think I loved your eyes first.”
“You did not,” he counters, like a petulant child.
“I did. They're quite fetching. I think I loved them before I even know your name.” They're both red faced, and Hermann rests his hands on his shoulders. “Do you like your eyes?”
“Um.” He's startled by the question. “I guess so? They're nice, I guess. A nice, solid brown.” He shrugs, and Hermann smiles indulgently at him.
“What do you like? About yourself, I should specify.” His head is tilted to one side, as if he's just asked about something mundane and inconsequential (Did you see the latest memo about budgets? Ridiculous!) and Newton purses his lips as he searches for an answer.
“I like my eyes okay,” he says slowly, though it's true. When Hermann nods – an obvious cue for him to keep talking – Newton fumbles to add, “and I like my hands,” as he looks down at his hands. “Cause they do science and stuff?” It's a lame answer, and his face is flushed in embarrassment.
But, as he stares down as his hands and wiggles his fingers, he finds that he does, in fact, appreciate these particular body parts. He has strong hands – hands that can dissect specimens and play piano and build machines and cradle the metaphorical hearts of loved ones. He is stupidly grateful that Hermann trusts his hands to hold his metaphorical heart. Due to poor planning, the design of one of his tattoos has crept up to the heel of his palm (And didn't that hurt like a bitch? There's sensitive skin and then there's sensitive skin!) and he sort of loves it, even if it used to bother him.
“I have good hands,” he finally admits, holding them up in front of himself.
“You do. I'm quite fond of them. For, if I'm being honest, some purely selfish reasons.” Hermann agrees as he shifts, cupping Newton's face and tilting it for a kiss. “I'm rather fond of your mouth too, for equally selfish reasons,” he whispers, and Newton smiles. He tries to turn to deepen the kiss, but he's stopped by a palm on his chest. “Just a little longer, darling.” Complaining, low in the back of his throat, Newton relents and shuffles back to face himself. He looks the same, though his hair is a little messier and his glasses are askew. He's no skinnier or smaller though.
“Would you mind terribly,” Hermann starts to ask as he wraps his arms around Newton's shoulders; he clasps his hands together, resting them just over his solar plexus. “If I took off your jacket?” Newton freezes, his eyes – fetching, honey brown – widen and he covers Hermann's hands with his own.
“Um.”
“Would you rather do it yourself?” He keeps his hands flat on Newton's chest and rubs his thumbs over the soft material of his sweatshirt. When he doesn't immediately answer, Hermann starts to pull away, and Newton grabs his hands, slides their fingers together. “Do you want me to?” His voice is steady and kind, and Newton nods head shakily.
Hermann moves slowly as he pinches the tab of the zipper head between his fingers. He inches it down carefully, the zipper teeth clicking with each pull. It's loud, in the echoing silence of the room, though Newton can barely hear it over the pounding of blood in his ears. Hermann keeps his right hand on Newton's chest, tucked just inside the sweatshirt, over the frantic beating of his heart. “You all right, darling?” He murmurs, and when Newton does not immediately answer, the zipper stops. “Newton?”
“Yes,” he blurts out, face red. “I'm. Fine. Yeah. Keep... Keep going?”
“You're sure,” Hermann asks, though it sounds more like a statement. Newton nods, with just a little more confidence, and reaches up to cover Hermann's left hand with his own. His skin is warm. Together, they finish unzipping the sweatshirt. Hermann steps back to give him room to take it off fully, and Newton tosses his sweatshirt on the bed. Taking a deep breath, he glances at his reflection, and instantly focuses on his shoes. He doesn't want to look at how his shirt – a standard white button down, even though he is off duty – stretches across his midsection.
He drops his hands to drum his fingers nervously against his thighs; there's sweat gathering at the nape of his neck and he feels a little sick. It's one thing to examine his body in the privacy of his own room – quantify and qualify his countless physical flaws – but it is another thing entirely to look at himself under the scrutiny of someone else. Newton hunches his shoulder and wraps his arms around himself, digs his fingers into flesh of his ribcage.
“What is it?” Newton drags his gaze up to meet Hermann's in the mirror. His head is tilted and his eyebrows are raised; he has that look on his face that means he's about to poke all sorts of holes in Newton's scientific theory. “What's wrong?” Newton shrugs slowly – deliberately raises and lowers his shoulders just once – and Hermann sighs. “Will you please talk to me? I don't think I've ever seen you this quiet.”
“Hermann,” he says, louder than he had intended. “I am not... skinny.”
“Yes,” Hermann acknowledges carefully, resting both of his hands on top of his cane, “and that is something I like about you.” It takes a moment as he shuffles around until he is standing directly at, rather than behind, Newton's shoulder. He deliberately does not touch him. “Truly. I appreciate your body. I would appreciate your body at any size but, the size you have right now, fits you very nicely.”
“What.” Newton doesn't mean to look quite as suspicious, but it's very difficult not to. He narrows his eyes and furrows his brow. Flattery is nice and all, but he's almost convinced that is total bullshit. “That does not make any sense, dude. How can you even say that? Have you seen me? You cannot say that you'd still want me at any size. Seriously dude.”
“Let me explain,” he continues, as if Newton isn't having some sort of conniption. “You take up space as if you are owed it – as if you came into this world with the world already indebted to you. If someone doesn't like you,” and he takes on a rather sardonic tone, “or your theories or your tattoos or your methods or even your clothes. Well, that's unfortunate for them, as you have little inclination to change simply to please ruffian naysayers.”
Hermann smiles, fondly, and Newton blushes, “Which I find to be both admirable and exceedingly attractive. You are unapologetic about all aspects of your life and character, Newton, and that is not something to shy away from or disown.” Newton stares at him, any biting retort caught in his throat.
“Did you just say ruffian naysayers – seriously!?” He finally asks, vaguely hysterical.
“Why am I not surprised? Out of all the things I just said to you, that's the only thing –” Hermann rolls his eyes to the ceiling, building up to some great martyred monologue, when Newton grabs his face and all but smashes their mouths together. It's a frantic kiss, just on the proper side of brutal, and Newton is putting an insane amount of focus into sucking on his tongue.
“Oh my God. Your fucking eloquence... Jesus.” He mumbles, nipping at Hermann's lower lip.
“Oh my God,” Hermann whispers steadily back. “Your utter lack of it.” Newton laughs and drops his head to rest on Hermann's shoulder. They hold each other, Newton's arms slung around Hermann's waist; Hermann's arms looped over Newton's shoulders. It's comfortable, quiet, for a few moments, until Hermann nudges his cheek against Newton's temple. “Shall we continue?”
“What – what else did you, um. Want to do?” He clears his throat, hating the way the words crack in his mouth. Biting his lip, he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly.
“I want to take your shirt off. I want you naked.” Hermann flushes at the roughness of his own voice. “I want – I would like you to watch,” he gestures uselessly to the mirror. “Is that all right?”
His heartbeat pounding in his ears, Newton turns to look at himself. He squares his shoulders, gauging the space he takes up, and hook his thumbs in his pockets. “Okay,” he says finally, tilting his head to look at Hermann, “yeah. That's, ah, all right.” He nods, a punctuation mark to his self assurance, and Hermann rewards him with a quick peck on the mouth.
Newton still has his sneakers on, so he makes short work of kicking off his shoes and socks. Hermann elects to keep his on and Newton takes a moment to appreciate the contrast between his bare, pale feet and Hermann's dark, leather shoes. It makes him feel vulnerable, in a trusting sort of way.
It's a little awkward, at first, trying to unbutton the buttons of Newton's shirt while standing behind him, but Hermann is lucky enough to be just tall enough to be able to do it. He wraps his arms around his shoulders, slowly working his way down his chest, as he nuzzles against his neck. Newton struggles not to suffocate on his own tongue when Hermann bites down on a sensitive spot under his jaw.
“Will you look at yourself?” He whispers, laving over the reddened skin. “You're hard.” And he is, dick straining against the zipper of his jeans, and Newton whimpers, his head dropping back against Hermann's shoulder. His shirt is tossed on the bed, with much less neatness than Hermann usually affords their clothing, which means he's almost as gone as Newton. He settles his hands on the curve of Newton's hips and presses an open mouthed kiss to the back of his neck.
Newton stares at himself; as always, he's captivated by the way their skin looks pressed together. The long, pale lines of Hermann's fingers splice the vivid color of his ink into a spiderweb of barely coherent mosaic. He sucks in a breath, watches his chest expand and relax. His body is still cushioned with slopes and swells, though it is not so unbearable now. Hermann slides his arms around him, wrapping them firmly around his middle, and Newton marvels at how skinny they are.
“I like how our bodies look together.” Hermann mumbles into the hot flesh of Newton's shoulder, and Newton nods. He cups his exposed belly in his thin, pale hands – a mimicry of Newton's own pose earlier that day – and soothes over the skin with his thumbs.
“I like your body,” Hermann whispers, biting down on the meat of his trapezius. Newton sucks in a breath, unconsciously grinding his hips back; he can feel how hard Hermann is against his ass, and he blushes. “I like this part of your body,” Hermann continues, his voice a rough growls, as he pinches a handful the rounded expanse of skin under his hand.
Newton doesn't want to watch, but he can't help himself; he can't look away from his reflection. Hermann is sucking a bruise on his shoulder and groping at his stomach with a single mindedness that he usually reserves for complicated math formula. And Newton can't look away from his eyes – behind the thick lenses of his glasses, they are blown dark and wide. He stares, mouth glistening pink and open, until Hermann glances up and meets his gaze in the mirror.
“Don't you see?” he purrs, still massaging at Newton's belly. “You captivate me.”
“We look good together,” Newton whispers, his voice cracking, and Hermann nods with a sly smirk.
“I like our contrast.” He trails a finger up and down the side of Newton's belly without breaking eye contact. Newton's breath hitches in his chest.
“Me too,” he stutters with a smile, his face painfully red. He still wants to hide and look away and put on his shirt, but Hermann is observing him like he's a particularly elegant line of code or an algorithm he never expected to understand – something that he was always searching for, but never thought he would ever deserve. Newton suspects his face is saying the same thing. He turns his head, angling for a kiss, and Hermann meets him halfway, because he's generous like that.
They kiss, tongues languid and playful, and Newton reaches up to grip Hermann's wrist, hard, as he whines. Hermann shifts, holding Newton's hand in his own; he slots their fingers together while rubbing over the warm skin of his belly with his free hand. Newton whimpers, high in the back of his throat, as they pull apart. They're both breathing hard, and Hermann smiles.
“Darling, I cherish you.”
Hermann presses close against his back, sliding his hand down the gentle slope of his stomach, to settle over his dick. He makes short work of the button and zipper, and Newton chokes on a curse when Hermann wraps a hand around him. He's achingly hard, and he tries valiantly not to buck up into his grip. “Will you watch?” Hermann whispers, his voice rough and unsteady. “Please, will you watch?”
Newton swallows, squeezing his hand around Hermann's; Hermann squeezes back and Newton blinks his eyes to focus. He feels a little muzzy, drunk and overheated and, with his free hand, he reaches behind him to tangle his fingers in Hermann's hair. Back arched, muscles stretched, pale hand – not his own – holding his cherry red dick, hair dark with sweat – he's a little bit sexy.
“Holy shit,” he whispers, his eyes golden bright. Breathing is suddenly very difficult. Newton swallows, and watches the motion of his reflection's throat. There's a bead of sweat trailing down the center of his chest and he can't help but follow its path with his gaze.
“I told you.” Hermann jacks him lazily, rubbing his thumb over the tip of his cock until he whines. “You are worthy.”
“Oh yeah?” Newton laughs, breathless and distracted, as his hips stutter, “worthy 'f what?”
“Everything,” Hermann answers simply, twisting his wrist so that Newton jerks in his arms. “The whole of the cosmos, were I able to give it to you.” It's easy to lose himself in the mindless heat of Hermann's grip, and he fights against the sudden tears blurring his vision as he tightens his fingers unknowingly in his hair. “Ah,” Hermann hisses in pain and Newton instantly drops his hand to rest on his shoulder instead.
“Shit, sorry, sorry,” he mumbles, blindly turning his face for an apologetic kiss.
“It's all right,” Hermann whispers into his mouth, hand still working him, “I liked it.” He tilts his head, sucking meaningfully on the patch of skin behind Newton's ear as he rolls his hips forward. “I like you as well – would go so far as to say I love you, with the depths of all that I am.”
Newton curls in on himself, sobbing, as he comes on himself and Hermann's hand. He's a little disappointed that he didn't managed to watch his own climax. Hermann wraps an arm around his chest, soothing him with soft murmurs as he trails his fingers through the mess on Newton's stomach. “It's all right, love, it's all right.”
“Thank you,” Newton gasps, turning to throw his arms around Hermann's neck. He clings to him, burying his face in his shoulder as he shivers. “Thank you, thank you...” The fabric of Hermann's sweater is scratchy against his sensitive skin, and his pants are hanging open on his hips, and he's a sweaty, sticky mess. But Newton can't help laughing as he presses an almost innocent kiss to his cheek. “Thank you.”