#before he swapped to the sweatervest

[putuponpercy]

Thomas: But I didn’t even say anything! Edward: Your face says enough. Be nice.

[hermannsthumb]

So I just saw your Halloween prompts! I don't think you've done this one yet so could you do "we hate each other but we were invited to a mutual friend’s party and were warned to be civil so you complimented my costume and fuck you, i haven’t changed yet"?

from halloween prompts here

ok I thought I'd get a little funky with this one and set it within the first year of them getting shoved in the shatterdome together when they’re just total dicks to each other. for reference this is the ABSOLUTE EXACT OUTFIT NEWT IS WEARING!!!!!

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Newt arrives fashionably late to the party.

Well, it’s more just like late late. His date with a hot ranger hopeful went a little over schedule, so over schedule Newt had to straight-up bail on the guy before they got the check, which he felt bad about, and then he left his phone in the bar and had to double back for it (awkwardly pretending he didn’t notice his date chatting up another guy at the counter), and then he missed his bus and had to hail the most expensive Uber ride of all time, and basically didn’t make it back to base until well after he’d promised to appear with cupcakes. Newt spent a shit-ton of time on those cupcakes and basically sold his soul to get the ingredients for them (rationing, man, it’s killing his amateur baker dreams), so he books it to the break room with the tray without even bothering to change into his costume first. These are more important.

Everything is in full swing when he gets there. The lightbulbs in the overhead lights have been swapped out for purple ones, and the music is pulsing so loud Newt feels it vibrating in his stomach; tacky Halloween garland, most of it homemade, is hung from practically everything; every available surface not cluttered with bottles of cheap booze or chip bowls is cluttered with plastic Jack-O-Lanterns and dripping black candles. In short, it looks pretty fucking fun. Newt squeezes his way through the costumed crowd, rearranges a few candles to carefully slip his cupcakes onto one of the repurposed card tables in a place of honor, and resolves to make himself a drink with the first bottle of something he finds that’s not fruit-flavored—he’s earned it after his shitty night.

There’s a tap at his shoulder before he can make good on his promise to himself of a drink. “Yeah, whatever, I know I’m late, dude,” he shouts over the music. “It’s been a night. I—” He turns. “Oh.”

It’s not Hermann like he (admittedly, foolishly) thought, but rather Tendo, who’s already flushed a bright red, undoubtedly from whatever horrific purple concoction is in his paper cup. Newt wonders if it’s what’s currently foaming in the ominous black cauldron labeled Witch’s Brew next to the cheese dip. He’ll pass, thanks. “It’s about time,” Tendo says. “Gottlieb has been on my ass all fuckin’ night long about where you are. Go find him already.”

“Hermann’s been on your ass about me?” Newt says, eyebrows jumping. Out of everyone in this entire goddamn room—including the janitorial staff, who have had a bone to pick with Newt ever since his ill-advised kaiju eyeball experiment, and resulting explosion, that left the laboratory coated in slime for a week—Hermann is perhaps the very last person he would ever expect to give a shit about his whereabouts. It’s just that Hermann prides himself on not caring about Newt’s personal life, something he takes great care to remind Newt of at every possible opportunity, and Newt would’ve thought he’d have jumped at the chance to enjoy every Newt-free second to the fullest. He should know well enough by now that Hermann manages to find something to complain about in anything. “Why?” he says, and this time, he rolls his eyes. “Did he miss having someone to bitch at? Or bitch about?”

“Easy,” Tendo says warningly. He pokes his finger at Newt’s chest. “Try to keep it civil, boys, okay? I am not having you crush our chances of Pentecost approving a New Year’s bash with a repeat of—”

“Okay, okay,” Newt sighs, waving him off. He doesn’t exactly want a reminder of his and Hermann’s, uh, behavior at the somewhat disastrous Valentine’s Day party, either, or how tense the lab was for weeks following it. Well. Tenser than usual. “I got it. No fights. Where is he?”

“Hiding in that corner,” Tendo says. He gestures with his cup, splashing purple Witch’s Brew all down the front of his dumb greaser costume, and Newt squints where he’s directed; he thinks he can make out pale, sharp cheeks and the flash of a tweed coat. Trust Hermann to wear tweed to a Halloween party. He’s so lame. “Nice pants, by the way.”

“Thanks,” Newt says, distracted, and pushes his way through the crowd.

Newt’s surprised that Hermann even bothered showing up in the first place, and he can’t imagine he’s been very exciting company to anyone all night. The guy hates parties. Sure enough, he’s staring sullenly at his shoes when Newt finally reaches him, back pressed against the wall, soda can gripped so tightly in his free hand Newt can see the aluminum starting to crinkle under his fingertips. Newt doesn’t say hi, just sidles up next to him. Hermann doesn’t seem to notice. “How’s the party?” Newt says.

Hermann’s whole body goes rigid; when he turns to Newt, his lips have curled down into an ugly grimace, like he just ate a whole lemon or maybe caught sight of his tragic hairdo in a mirror. It’s good to see you, too, Hermann, Newt thinks. “Distasteful,” Hermann says. “They haven’t a single decent thing to drink anywhere.”

“Hm,” Newt says. He shoves his hands in his pockets. “I heard you were asking about me.”

“Hardly,” Hermann says with a scoff.

“I heard Tendo didn’t get a second alone you were asking about me so much,” Newt says. “What, did you miss me? I bet you just came here tonight to hang out with me, didn’t you? I bet you were all disappointed when I wasn’t here, and…”

“Hardly,” Hermann snaps. Newt grins. “My presence at this party is in no way affected by your own. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“You were asking where I was, though,” Newt says.

Hermann’s lips contort again, this time into a thin line, and he turns a glare on Newt—though, Newt notices with a flare of glee, his cheeks have gone a bit pink. “I was aware you had…a date, tonight,” he says, slowly, “and—when you were not back by a reasonable time—well, forgive me for worrying that something may have happened to you.” His soda can begins to bend inward. “I wasn’t fancying the idea of having to tack on all of your work atop mine, is all.”

“Sure,” Newt says. He’d be touched, he thinks, if Hermann wasn’t the worst. “Anyway, look, I promise I’ll stay out of your hair—Tendo told us to behave ourselves. Just wanted to brighten your night real fast.”

Hermann snorts. “He warned me similarly. Well—in the interest of civility, I suppose I should compliment your costume.”

The grin vanishes off Newt’s face. Any feelings of good will towards Hermann—any sentimental feelings of companionability—that have been steadily building vanish with it. “Costume?” he says.

“Yes,” Hermann says. He waves his cane up and down, vaguely, over Newt. “Costume. ‘S better than mine, all I’ve got are some bloody vampire fangs in my pocket I haven’t even bothered to put on. You’re a clown, are you not?”

Briefly, Newt considers upending Hermann’s soda can over his head, or maybe indulging in a repeat of the Valentine’s Day party and using that whole fucking black cauldron. Instead, he just blushes and scowls. “Do you have to be such a jackass all the time?” he snaps. “No, I’m not dressed up like a fucking clown. These are my date clothes. A clown—that’s something coming from you, Doctor Sweatervest, you wouldn’t know fashion if it crawled out of the fucking Breach and stomped on you.”

Hermann looks mortified. Good—he should. “Newton—I didn’t—"

“Have a fun time,” Newt says, and storms off.

The thing about Hermann is that he’s a real square who knows exactly how to get under Newt’s skin, even when he doesn’t mean it; the thing about Newt is that he’s majorly cool and knows exactly how to get under Hermann’s skin, and he almost always means it. Newt thinks, if they were other people, he might consider them Frenemies, but he really can’t imagine a world in which Hermann would ever willingly be his friend, so half of that is a bust. Besides, Hermann’s not really his enemy either. He’s more of a…rival. Though it does complicate things severely when Newt takes into account how bad Hermann wants to get into his pants.

“That’s really great and all,” the guy Newt’s been chatting up by the snack table says, “but I don’t have any idea who you’re talking about.”

“It’s just like,” Newt says, “I know he wants me. I’ve caught him staring at my ass, like, twenty times in the lab. And when the eyeball incident happened—he was way too happy to strip me down for the emergency shower.” The event was very conflicting for Newt, too, to be quite honest, and he still looks back on it (Hermann, shouting at him and calling him an idiot, while ripping off his sizzling clothing) with a mixture of annoyance and arousal. He shrugs. “I just don’t know why he doesn’t admit it to himself. We’d all be happier. Can you believe he said I was dressed like a clown?”

“Uh-huh,” the guy says. “Look, Dr. Geiszler, I’m just trying to get some pretzels.”

“What?” Newt says. “Oh. Sorry. Here—” He uses a plastic spoon to scoop some out onto his new friend’s orange paper plate, and finds himself alone again very swiftly.

It’s not like the clown comment ruined his night or anything. It’s just that he hasn’t been able to stop thinking about it, once, or stop talking about it either, and every time he does, he feels angry and embarrassed all over again, and maybe sort of wants revenge against Hermann for it. He think he might know how to get it, too.

Hermann is lurking in the same place Newt left him, though instead of his soda can, he’s tensely nursing a paper cup. His name is Sharpied across it in his familiar scribble. Newt announces himself by wrapping his fingers around Hermann’s, raising the cup to his lips, and taking a sip. (It’s more soda.) “Hey, Hermann,” he says.

Hermann stares at him blankly; a familiar blush is making its way back to his cheeks. “Ah,” he says. “Hello.”

“What’s up?” Newt says. He scoots in next to Hermann until their shoulders touch; then, for good measure, he brushes his hand over the one Hermann has clenched firmly on his cane. He feels Hermann shiver. “You having fun?”

“Not—” Hermann clears his throat. He’s looking down at their hands. “Er. Not particularly.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Newt says, and (this time, settling his hand on top of Hermann’s) adds in a low voice, “I bet I could make it more exciting.”

The revenge plan was pretty simple. Preying upon Hermann’s obvious feelings for him, Newt would seduce him, get halfway through makeouts in some secluded hallway, and then pull away and be like just kidding! You suck!, announce he was going to find the sexy ranger he had a date with tonight who was totally into him, and go enjoy the rest of the party while Hermann—well, moped, Newt guessed. At least understood how Newt felt earlier. Except once they actually start making out, Newt realizes that’s kind of fucked up of him, and if Hermann tried the reverse (not that Newt has feelings for Hermann, obviously, but like—hypothetically), Newt would probably lock himself up in his quarters and cry for weeks. Plus, Hermann is apparently kind of awesome at making out?

“I take it your date did not go well,” Hermann breathes in his ear. “I can’t say I mind very much. Will you pull my hair again?”

Newt’s going to examine all this later. “Fuck yeah,” he says.

[puppyluver256]

More role swap! It's an unfortunate loss that Trencil got his name changed for this, it's a beautiful beautiful pun that loses all effectiveness when the person in question isn't a vampire. But I digress.

Captain Marv Truncler is a dedicated man of the seas. He will tell any interested youngster about the stint he did in the navy before retiring to become captain of a fishing vessel. He's got quite a lot of stories to tell, almost too many for someone of his age to have gathered throughout his life. Also kinda weird that he sticks to the shadows a lot, no idea why. Maybe if he got out of the shadows he could let his grandson know he cared about him and all that grandfatherly jazz. Then again, the boy's kinda in that angsty phase in life, y'know...?

Trenton Vancey used to be a well-respected landscaper, however he has since retired in his old age. He still enjoys gardening as a hobby though, and his garden is the envy of any who sets eyes upon it, including the new arrival who he recognizes almost instantly as someone who would admire the flowers he grew quite often. He is saddened that there is a blanket ban inside the facility on any and all flowers, but he can understand and respect the reason given (allergies are the worst, he can certainly attest to that as he, his daughter, and apparently that sailor all have a similar allergy to garlic). The ban doesn't seem to include artificial flowers, at least as far as he can tell, so maybe if he had the proper supplies he could make some? That would bring an extra spot of color and character to the place, at least.

💖🐶 Check out my pinned post for ways to support my artwork, among other things! 🐶💖

~If you like, please reblog to show your friends! Likes are appreciated, but reblogs let more people see my content! If you have something to say, feel free to give feedback in tags/comments/replies as well!~

Marv Truncler and Trencil Varnnia © LimboLane Break Your Silence designs and artwork © PuppyLuver Studios

-----

[Image Description: A digital illustration of role-swapped versions of Marv Truncler (aka Cap'n Marv) and Trencil Varnnia (aka Trenton Vancey) from Smile For Me. Cap'n Marv is a vampire with purple skin, long grey-blonde hair in a ponytail with a magnificent mustache to match, teal eyes with pink sclera, and visible vampiric fangs. He is wearing a white and blue sea captain's hat, a dark blue fisherman's coat with a red plaid undershirt, pale denim pants, and blue boots. He has part of his mustache in his fingers and is fiddling with it, the other arm behind his back. Trenton is a man with medium tan skin, green hair with a purple and pink floral accessory, and brown eyes. He's wearing a light green turtleneck, a brown sweatervest, green pants, and brown gardening boots with mud caked onto the soles. The background is a pixellated mishmash of multiple muted colors. End ID.]

[hermannsthumb]

If your'e still taking prompts the one from the halloween list: "we’re secret friends with benefits and you accidentally wore my shirt to to the party so you’re pretending you came as me and it turns out your impression of me is on point and you know me better than you know myself are you sure you’re not in love with me??" seems like such a good newmann one. love your writing :)

from list of halloween prompts here

this one is literally so fucking good for them. god. GOD. theres like the tiniest bit alluded to not sfw in the beginning (after the making out) but after that its fair game

--------------------------

“Ngh,” Newt says. “Keep doing that.”

“Hmm?” Hermann says. He drags his mouth up from Newt’s collarbone, eyes dark, pupils wide, mouth curled into a lazy smile. Almost coquettish.

Newt blinks down at him blearily. And with a little poorly-concealed irritation. “I said keep doing that,” he says. “Not stop doing that.” He gives Hermann’s head a nudge. A tiny gentle one. He’s eager, he can’t help it; Hermann always gets him all eager and hot and bothered. He doesn’t think he’ll mind. “C’mon, baby, c’mon--”

It’s a mistake. Hermann minds: his demeanor changes in an instant, like Newt flipped a light switch that was clearly labeled with a do not touch! in masking tape and Sharpie. (Shit, Newt thinks.) “Don’t,” Hermann snaps, and swats at Newt. “You know I can’t stand it when you pull--”

“I’m not pulling your hair!” Newt says. He drops his hand away and holds it high above his own head just to make his point. “I swear. I was just trying--”

Hermann rolls off of him and onto his back, huffing, arms folding across his bare chest. Lacking any better ideas, Newt follows him. “Aw, Hermann,” he says, “don’t be like that.” He presses kisses to Hermann’s jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to--”

“Unhand me at once,” Hermann mumbles. Newt kisses his cheeks, his mouth. Hermann kisses back. His hand slides up to cup the back of Newt’s neck. “Wretched little man,” he continues to mumble. “Ah.”

“There we go, Hermann,” Newt says, grinning against his lips, and adds, sarcastically (because it always makes Hermann laugh), with a little nip of teeth, “There’s my Hermy-wermy.”

Hermann makes a face. “You know I can’t stand that either.”

“Really?” Newt murmurs. He tiptoes his hand down Hermann’s chest, down to the waistband of his ugly slacks, the open zipper; his grin spreads wider. “Because I think,” he starts to tug Hermann’s slacks down, “your hermy-wermy would say otherw--”

There’s a knock at the door.

Mood ruined, and all of Newt’s hard work getting Hermann game to go again ruined, too, Newt slides his hand back to safe territory and lets out a colorful stream of profanity. Hermann wrinkles his nose beneath him. Whatever, he curses just as much as Newt. “Fuck,” Newt finishes. “Who the hell is that?”

Hermann pushes him off and sits up with a grunt. “We’ve probably got a damned laboratory meeting we forgot about,” he says, “because someone couldn’t keep it in his Hot Topic skinny jeans long enough to wait until we clocked out for the night.”

“They’re not from Hot Topic,” Newt says. He pauses. “How do you even know what Hot Topic is, anyway?”

“I’ve seen the label on them,” Hermann says. There’s another knock. Hermann sighs, and makes to slip out of bed. “If you won’t get it, Newton, I will.”

Newt drags him back down quickly. “What are you doing?” he hisses. “Get back here! You are not answering my door looking like--” He plucks at the elastic of Hermann’s tighty-whiteys peeking out, pokes at the hickey purpling on his neck. “--this. Or at all, actually, how suspicious would that look? This is my bedroom.”

“We’re colleagues,” Hermann says with a sniff. “It’s perfectly natural for us to--er--consort. Outside of work. For all they know we’re talking about work.”

“In our underwear?” Newt says, and points out, “It’s not really natural for colleagues to screw each other as much as we do.”

Hermann flushes. “No one would be able to tell--”

To be completely honest, Newt really, really doesn’t care whether or not people know he and Hermann are--uh--rivals with benefits, but Hermann is always so weird about privacy, and Newt supposes it’s a little bit of a cliche to sleep with a co-worker, so he takes one for the team. “Jesus, Hermann, I’ll get the door,” he says. He swings his legs to the floor and does his jeans back up, then grabs the first shirt he can find and pulls that on too. “Just sit there and look pretty.”

Newt learns two things in the course of squeezing his head out the door and talking to a mildly intoxicated LOCCENT worker: one, that the guy was sent by Tendo to remind them about the super awesome spectacular Halloween party going on down the hallway right his second, and two, that Newt and Hermann were invited to this Halloween party, apparently agreed enthusiastically to coming to it a week ago, and if Newt doesn’t find Hermann and show up with him in ten minutes, Tendo is totally never speaking to them or inviting them to another awesome party ever again. Newt learns a third thing once he and Hermann toss on the rest of their clothing, smooth out their hair a little, and hurry down the hallway to where the party is being held within those allotted ten minutes: he’s accidentally put on Hermann’s shirt. A fourth: Hermann’s accidentally put on his.

Before Hermann can waltz in through the door and raise questions (because his buttons are straining obviously under his low-cut button-up sweatervest, kaiju blood stains a spot just under the lapel, and Newt’s swimming in Hermann’s sleeves and has got a fucking pocket protector in), Newt drags him off to the side and shoves him against a deserted wall to explain their predicament.

“We have to change,” Hermann declares immediately. “We can’t be seen--”

“No, look,” Newt says. He’s quickly formulating a plan. They won’t be able to swap pants, obviously, but-- “Take off your blazer and sweater.”

Hermann frowns. He tucks his blazer tighter around himself. “No,” he says. 

“Take them off, jackass!” Newt orders, ripping his own tie off from around his head and starting to kick off his boots. “And your shoes. Look, it’s a Halloween party, right? People dress up for Halloween parties. Let’s just say we’re going as each other, everyone will get a huge kick out of it, no one finds out we’re, you know.” He adjusts his left index finger and thumb into a small circle, and pokes his right index finger through it a few times with bonus sound effects. “Rendezvousing. Platonically. Your public image is saved.” 

“No,” Hermann repeats, though he flushes. “I am not wearing your disgusting boots.”

Patience running very, very thin, Newt corners him closer against the wall. Not very successfully: Hermann does, after all, have several inches on him. Newt has to glare up at him. “So help me God, Hermann,” he says through gritted teeth, “if you don’t give me your blazer right now, you can find some other horny bozo to--”

“Fine!” Hermann says quickly. He yanks the skinny tie from Newt’s hands. “If you spill anything on--”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.”

After a hurried exchange of accessories which leaves Newt looking like an exceptionally short and baggy Hermann, and Hermann like Newt if he wore contacts and enjoyed attacking his hair with scissors, they waltz into the party together. Newt’s actually pretty pleased with how their costumes turned out, all things considered--Hermann even consented to having Newt draw shitty approximations of his tattoos on Hermann’s arms with a marker they found in Hermann’s pocket.

Everyone at the party gets a total kick out of it, too, which is the best part--especially when Newt decides to toss in some quality Hermann Impressions. 

“Newton,” he grumbles, poshly, hands on his hips, "quiet down right this instant.” That gets a few laughs. “You know I can’t stand it when you have fun.”

More laughs; Hermann, nursing a drink, looks only the vaguest bit amused. “Very funny,” he says. “My turn, now.” He shrinks in on himself in a way that makes him look just a bit shorter, and clears his throat: the voice that comes out next is so high-pitched, so scratchy, so fast, so--uncomfortably Newt that Newt nearly drops his own drink in shock. Especially once Hermann tosses in equally uncomfortably Newt hand gestures. “I’m going to do something ill-advised and dangerous to prove I’m right and give Hermann a stroke,” he declares. “Don’t you just love kaiju? They’re so cool.”

“I’ve never said I loved kaiju,” Newt says, but he’s grinning. 

“They’re so cool,” Hermann repeats. “Do you like my tattoos? You know I have a Doctor Who one on my--?”

“Dude!” Newt hisses. He was eighteen, okay? Anyway, that’s not the kind of private, personal information that Hermann should be sharing if he wants to even remotely pretend they don’t get up to hijinks in the lab after hours. 

“Dude!” Hermann echoes, perfectly.

The little crowd of their co-workers laugh. (Louder laughs than any of Newt’s impressions got.) Newt laughs, too, despite his embarrassment. And despite something beyond embarrassment, something he can’t quite put his finger on--it’s making his heart race, his palms sweat. Hermann sure must, well, know him to get him down like that, obvious comical exaggeration aside. (Or maybe it’s just because Newt talks a lot.)

“Ha, ha,” Newt says. “Okay, you win.”

“Thanks, dude,” Hermann squeaks in his Newt-voice. He winks. 

Newt corners him at the snack table crammed into the far back of the room later, while Hermann is--innocently--scooping some bat-shaped pretzels onto a plate with a large plastic spoon. Newt makes his presence known by stealing a handful and swallowing down half of them. “Gotta say, dude,” he teases, “I’m a good look on you.”

“Of course you’d think that, you narcissist,” Hermann says, but he’s smiling. He swipes a few pretzels back. “Get your own. The bowl is right there.”

Newt steals another from Hermann’s plate. “It’s a crying shame you didn’t borrow my jeans, too,” he says. “I bet you could rock ‘em.”

“Mm, I highly doubt that.”

“You absolutely could,” Newt says. He glances around to make sure no one’s looking, and quickly darts his hand out to pinch Hermann’s ass. Hermann drops the spoon back into the pretzel bowl in surprise. “Though I guess there’s not much to fill them out--”

“You’re a wretched little man,” Hermann says, for the second time that day. The guy really needs some new insults.

“Your voice was really fucking good, by the way,” Newt says, casually, as they lurk in a different corner (lit up with a blacklight) a few minutes later. He’s finally gotten his own plate of food, though he keeps stealing from Hermann’s anyway. “Your Newt voice, I mean. And the--” He waves his hands around. “Do you practice it a lot?”

This pulls a snort from Hermann. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“How’s it so good, then?” Newt pushes, and Hermann shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “I suppose I just--pay attention to you.”

Newt cracks a grin, and bumps his elbow against Hermann’s side. “I would kinda hope so.”

“Not like--” Hermann sighs; Newt shuts up fast. (Hermann’s moments of emotional candidness are very, very rare: the most he’s ever done after a fun romp in the sack, beyond leaving immediately, is pat Newt’s hand and say thank you, Newton.) “What I mean to say is that I am...fond of you. Fonder than I am of anyone else. And I watch you, occasionally, because I am fond of you, and notice small things about you--your speech patterns, how you carry yourself...”

That’s, well--it’s certainly candid, and unexpected, and good, of course, to know that Hermann like-likes him, but it’s also a little-- “That’s kinda creepy, Hermann,” Newt says. “You watch me?”

“That’s not--” Hermann stammers, and it turns into a quiet groan. “Oh, I’ve fouled this up. Newton--”

Newt saves him by stretching up on his tiptoes and planting a firm kiss on his mouth. Completely chaste. Devoid of any dirty intentions, like all of their previous kisses have been, like what they’re used to. Just a simple little kiss. It takes Hermann aback: Newt can feel him freeze up before he returns it tentatively.

It’s over in seconds. Newt pulls back and pats Hermann’s cheek. “I know what you mean,” he says. “I feel exactly the same way.” Then his grin returns. “I mean, I don’t watch you like a creep or anything--”

“Shut up,” Hermann says, pink-faced and very pleased.

[hermannsthumb]

ok trying this again lol hopefully tumblr doesn't eat my message but i saw where you reblogged that halloween prompts last night and wanted to request "strangers who hooked up at a party while in costume but tbh i might be in love with you so i’m gonna walk this earth looking for the right woodland nymph" for newmann. the thought of hermann dressed as a woodland nymph is CUTE!! thank you, maria

from list of halloween prompts here

HEHE this one took me a while bc i’ve been slammed with a cold the past few days thats made me want to do nothing but like. lie in bed. HERE YOU GO ENJOY

———————————————

“Sexy fairy, huh?” Newt says.

The dude leaning against the wall lowers his drink and frowns. “Pardon?”

“Shit,” Newt says. “Hang on. Sorry.” He pulls out his plastic fangs and works his jaw a few times, then settles right back into his most charming smile. “I said sexy fairy, huh?”

“Oh,” the dude says. He looks down at himself–the illfitting white tunic, the tacky fake vines glued to it, his sandals (socks with sandals, actually, wow)–and gives a self-conscious tug at the equally tacky flower crown atop his head. He’s a real hottie. Big brown eyes, dark eyelashes, cheekbones–definitely Newt’s type. He’s surprised that no one else dove in to chat him up first. “I think it’s meant to be a nymph, actually. I bought it at the costume shop on the way here.”

He’s all posh and English. Newt wasn’t expecting that, but he thinks he can dig it. He leers. “So the sexy is all you, then?”

The nymph’s frown only deepens. “What do you mean?”

“I mean–” Newt sighs. “I was calling you sexy.”

“Oh,” the nymph says again. “Er. Thank you.”

They slip into uncomfortable silence. (Way to go, Newt. Struck out already.) “Are you here alone?” Newt tries again.

It’s the wrong thing to ask: the nymph makes a face and takes a long sip of his drink. (Purple, with weird foam on top, probably whatever’s sitting in the punchbowl marked Witch’s Brew.) “Yes,” he says. “I came with my date, but he–ah–”

His eyes drift to a guy in a semi-matching costume on the dance floor, who’s currently bumping up against some hunk dressed as a sexy pirate.“Ditched you?” Newt says.

The nymph makes a non-committed sound. His hand tightens around the head of his cane (which he’s also wound fake vines around–Newt appreciates the creativity). “I didn’t want to dance,” he says, and then it’s his turn to sigh. “We only met a week ago, on some moronic–dating app my sister insisted I try. I should’ve known he’d…”

That won’t do; Newt was trying to get the guy’s number, not send him spiraling into moodiness. “Hey, I’m here alone, too,” Newt says. “All alone.” He doesn’t even know the host–it’s one of Tendo’s exes, he thinks, who he may or may not have gotten sushi with one time years ago but never bothered unfriending on Facebook.

“Mm,” the nymph says. He gives Newt a long once-over. Newt wishes that he’d planned better, and worn something a little sexier than just standard vampire. (Like sexy pirate; the guy the nymph’s date latched onto instead had the right idea.) As is, he’s probably only passably sexy: his pants are tight enough, and his shirt is open enough, and he has enough glitter in his hair (because it’s fun) to light up like a fucking disco ball in the light. “I suppose you’re going to ask me for my mobile number now. Or offer to get me a drink, despite the fact that I clearly already have one.”

Newt grins goofily. “That was the plan.”

He get another long, considering stare. Then the nymph sets his drink down and clasps his free hand around Newt’s wrist. “Follow me,” he says.

“Cool,” Newt says. “Uh, are we going to the kitchen? I think it’s–”

They’re not going to the kitchen: they’re going to an empty broom closet. Newt can appreciate a forward-thinking man who knows what he wants.

“You ought to know,” the nymph gasps, tangling his fingers in Newt’s hair, “I don’t really do these sorts of things.”

“Really?” Newt says. He grins up at him, face inches from the guy’s stupid tighty-whiteys. “’Cause I do. You want me to put my fangs back in?”

“No. Ah–!”

***************************

Newt wakes up with a hangover (predictable), his phone buzzing off the side table with his alarm (annoying), and the strangest sensation that he met the love of his life last night (unexpected). The sensation is only amplified when he picks up his phone and sees that he’s, apparently, sent no less than five texts to his dad about it (his fucking dad, of all people, Newt needs some friends), but it quickly turns to dread when he sees the mess that is his poor forearm.

(“I’ve got a spot right here,” Newt slurred. After mutually-reciprocated hijinks in the closet, he and the nymph–who had told him his name at one point, Newt was sure, he just totally forgot–proceeded to get totally smashed off whatever the fuck Witch’s Brew was and then make out in the corner until Newt finally reminded him that he still wanted his phone number. The nymph was game. He was less game when Newt showed him where to write it in bold black Magic Marker one he rucked up his sleeve: his right forearm, between his jellyfish tattoo and his Godzilla tattoo, on a small patch of empty, freckled skin.

“Cute,” the nymph said, wryly.

He said it in a way that made it clear he didn’t think Newt’s tats were actually very cute. “I like them,” Newt said.

“Can’t I just–” the nymph was struggling with the marker, “–put it right in your, ah, phone?”

“This is more fun,” Newt said.”)

The number is nothing more than a smeary mess now–probably casualty to the massive rainstorm raging outside that, if Newt’s soaked pile of clothing on the floor means anything, has been raging since he stumbled home last night. 

He can’t even remember the guy’s name.

SOS, he ends up texting Tendo after a healthy amount of coffee and Tylenol. hooked up with super hot guy at a party last night and have no fucking clue how to see him again and i think i might be in love. help

you’re almost forty, Tendo replies, which is no help and isn’t at all the sick burn Tendo probably thought it was.

Newt resorts to stalking Tendo’s ex’s Facebook page instead. For anything, really. There are only a few photos up from the party last night (so far, anyway), and most of them are focused on the dance floor and the guy’s friends. Newt clicks through obsessively anyway. The ornate Jack-O-Lanterns that’d been on the front porch, Tendo’s ex and some chick in zombie makeup, the punchbowl of foaming purple Witch’s Brew, and–finally, in the very back corner of a shot–Newt standing with his mystery man. Tacky crown and all. He exists, at least, not some extremely specific hallucination on Newt’s part, even though a reverse image search turns up with absolutely nothing but links to buy his costume. 

He has better luck with a blurry photo of his mystery guy’s (deadbeat) date laughing in the kitchen under the bright orange string lights: Tendo’s ex actually tagged him. Probably because he wasn’t totally crashing the party after seeing a post about it like Newt was. Newt’s luck pretty much stops there; not only does the guy make no mention of the nymph Newt spent the night with when Newt stalks his page, but he hasn’t updated his status in literally six months, and none of his friends (because Newt combs through his friends list, too) look remotely like Newt’s mystery man.

So. Newt sends him a friend request.

He accepts it in the amount of time it takes Newt to take to feed his fish, heat up a tiny bowl of spaghetti-o’s, and regret sending it in the first place; he almost spills the bowl over his laptop in his hurry to send a message. Hey, weird question, but who’d you bring to that party last night?

lol why?

“I’m in love with him” is definitely a little forward, so Newt makes up a fast, and hopefully at least mildly believable, lie. He has my umbrella.

Typing for a while. tbh idrk him, we met online. his name was hermann

Then: i think hes a teacher or something

who are you anyway? comes a second later.

Hermann. Newt likes it. It also rings a very, very vague bell. cool thanks! Newt sends back, and then quickly unfriends the guy. Anyone who could possibly ditch a guy as hot and funny and, overall, perfect as Hermann (as Newt remembers him, anyway) is not worth Newt’s time.

exciting update, he texts Tendo. his name is Hermann!

Newt has a lecture to teach at six, three hours from now, so in lieu of actually preparing for it, he decides to be a creepy stalker instead. Hermann’s date said he was a teacher: none of the local public schools have a Hermann (or a Herman, for that matter) on any of their staff pages, K all the way up to Twelve, nor do the private schools. He has better luck when he pokes through staff directories for nearby universities instead: this gives him two Hermans and one Hermann, but neither of their provided pictures look remotely like Newt’s Hermann. Not even when Newt squints.

He spares another miserable glance at the smeary ink on his arm before shutting his laptop. Maybe it’s just not meant to be.

He’s walking to campus from his bus stop the following week–the day before Halloween–when the most fucking unbelievable thing in the world happens.

He sees Hermann.

Just sitting outside the campus coffee shop at a little table, sipping a paper travel mug dotted with little orange pumpkins. Reading over some notes. Newt’s sure it’s Hermann: it’s Hermann’s big brown eyes, Hermann’s long eyelashes, Hermann’s sharp cheekbones, Hermann’s cane propped against the brick wall next to him. Newt’d recognize him even with the stupid nymph costume swapped for more sensible sweatervest and tweed. “Hermann!” he shouts excitedly, waving both arms. “Dude!”

Hermann looks up. He drops his coffee.

He’s completely speechless when Newt finally manages to book it across the street (dodging traffic, including the bus he came in on) and collapse, panting, into the empty seat across from him. “I can’t believe it’s you!” Newt says. “Holy shit, dude! I’ve been trying like crazy to track you down. I lost your number, so I had to message your shitty boyfriend–”

“Not my boyfriend,” Hermann says, faintly.

“Right, your shitty date,” Newt corrects. “You look so good. I almost didn’t recognize you without all the leaves. I’m so glad I found you. What are you doing here, anyway?”

Hermann blinks a few times. Registering it all. “I work–” He says, and gestures to the stairs that lead up to the main part of campus. “Er, here. Physics. I teach physics.”

That explains why Newt couldn’t find him on any faculty pages–he just assumed that Hermann couldn’t possibly be working at the same university as him and didn’t bother checking. He though he would’ve remembered seeing a face like that around. Physics, though, makes sense–it’s not like they’d be in the same building. “I do too!” Newt says. He leans in, beaming away. “Well, not physics, biology. I can’t remember if I told you my name or not. It’s Newt. Dr. Geiszler, if you wanna be serious, but I’m pretty sure we’re way beyond that at this point.”

“Ah,” Hermann says. “No, you didn’t say your name.” He blinks a few more times before finally seeming to get over his shock, and it’s replaced with mild amusement instead. A small smile. “You’re a doctor?”

“Are you that shocked?”

“You’re not very–” Hermann does a very bad job of disguising his laugh as a cough. “Professional. You know–at the, ah, party, you really should’ve just let me–”

“I know,” Newt says, and Hermann’s smile grows.

“Writing it on your arm was a terrible idea,” Hermann says. “I was horribly offended, you know, when you didn’t call the next day.”

Newt fishes his phone out of his pocket, unlocks it, and offers it out to Hermann with a grin. “Looks like I won’t be making the same mistake twice, then.”