Thleen

 hmmm

It starts, as these things tend to, with alcohol.

It’s a Thursday night, which isn’t very interesting, except it’s the first Thursday night A. B. (After Breach, and it’s a joke, but she’s almost certain at least one cult will refer to time in such a fashion). Almost a full week later, and things are almost settling into a new normal. The parties are beginning to die down, the giddy, breathless exhilaration fading into something more manageable. The Shatterdome is slowly resuming activity, because there might not be anymore kaiju to fight, but there’s always more work to be done.

It’s just that now there isn’t a deadline.

Newt and Rosalind are lying in his bunk, Rosalind resting her head on his chest, talking vaguely back and forth. It’s always chilly in the Shatterdome, but the two of them generate enough warmth. And they’re drunk, which always helps-- and why not, why not, the world hasn’t ended and it’s all thanks to them, and so they’ve every justification to do whatever the hell they want off-hours. His arms are wrapped around her, his fingers gliding over her back, a touch she’s still learning she’s allowed to melt under. Touches like that, with no purpose beyond pleasure, are immensely enjoyable, and she’s a right to them, now that they’re together.

He’s her boyfriend. Six months later, it still seems a pleasantly stunning fact.

They’ve jumped from topic to topic, going from a film they’d just watched (decent but not fantastic) to the perfect last meal (fish and chips, obviously, and his disagreements were noted and promptly discarded), and now it’s vaguely heading in the direction of sex. This is not really a surprise, not after three shots of tequila. She’s not opposed to it; even wiggles a little, squirming to press up more against him, just because she can.

Mm. What is he saying? She keeps zoning off. She blinks, opens her eyes, focuses up at him.

“--like, potentially, like, I’m just saying, who would you want to with? Not that I’m not happy or anything, but--”

“What?”

“Ros.” He actually jostles her a little. “Pay attention . . . I’m saying, if you were gonna bang someone else, who would it be? Y’know, like. One of those free-pass things.”

Oh. Mm. She grimaces for a few seconds, her brain swimming through the alcohol, before sighing and pressing her lips to his neck. “Oh, I don’t know. A woman, probably.” She’s so tired of men, it would be nice to be with a woman. Any woman, she isn’t picky. “Sasha.”

“Kaidonovsky?”

“Mmmhmm . . .” He keeps talking, why is he talking? She’s so tired, she’d like to just doze off in his arms. And maybe he senses that, because miraculously, he does shut up. His hand keeps rubbing her back, his chest rising and falling evenly. It’s very soothing, and she probably would have fallen asleep, except--

“I think it’d be Hermann.”

--which is just interesting enough that she almost doesn’t mind waking up again.

“Gottlieb?” she asks, like there might be another. Which is stupid, but it’s just . . . she thought he was gunning for someone more conventionally attractive. Which is a bit mean, but honestly, if you’re going to have a free pass, you might as well get someone to just work you over in the most intense way possible. And Hermann, for all she’s terribly fond of him, does not scream sex god.

Then again . . . Newton has never been particularly superficial, not where it counts. And maybe this isn’t about a free pass at all. Rosalind doesn’t sit up, not yet, but she’s a lot more awake than she was a few seconds ago.

“Why him?” she asks lightly, in as non-suspicious a manner as she can summon up. She knows their history, teased out in bits and pieces over the past few years, and it’s not so much sordid as regrettable, full of arguments and misunderstandings and stubbornness. She understands perfectly how it came about, and she knows damn well that there’s a fairly decent chance that might have happened between her and Newton if not for a few circumstantial differences.

“I don’t know. I don’t . . .” He hesitates, which is unusual enough. “I mean, he’s not that bad looking once you get past the weird clothes, and he’s like us, and I mean, it’s-- you know how it is with him. And I always wondered-- I mean, I talked to him for ages, I used to think we’d-- and I mean, he’s fun, I like fighting with him, I like fighting with you, maybe that’s just a thing with me and people I wanna sleep with, you know, which is probably some kind of kink, I bet we could look that--”

She reaches up, putting her fingers over his lips clumsily, shushing him and trying to tell him that she understands all at once. He might just work himself up if she doesn’t, and she doesn’t want that, not when this is so interesting.

“Are you still attracted to him?” She sits up, meeting his eyes. He looks so odd without his glasses. Not bad, but just different, a little softer and more at ease. Something warm twists in her, and she smiles faintly. Her fingers trace over his cheek, his jaw, watching him as he watches her.

“. . .yeah. Kinda? I don’t know. He’s a pain in the ass, but-- I don’t know, sometimes I think about . . . you know, what might have been.” He swallows thickly, his eyes darting away, and for a moment it might go either way. But then he shrugs sharply, and thank god, they move past it. “You’re hotter, though.”

“Hmm. I know.” She leans down, kissing his cheek, his nose, down to his lips before pulling back. He seems sorely in need of affection right now, and she’s more than ready to indulge him. She’ll switch the topic soon, she doesn’t want to belabor it and ruin the evening. But she has to know, because if this is going to be a thing, she needs a clear affirmative. It’s just like when she gets uncertain over her own kinks, she thinks, with all the clear-headedness of a drunk. He’s embarrassed and he doesn’t want to talk about it, and that’s fine, but she needs to know he wants it before she can make arrangements.

“And . . . would you want him to sleep with both of us? Together, like this?”

It’s a soft question, but he still tenses up. But give him credit: he doesn’t try to ignore it. Just goes quiet for a while, staring at the ceiling, as she waits for him to think.

And that, right there, is where it really begins. Because they’re both drunk, because they’re both a little distracted, because they both love each other so much but there’s still a lot they have to learn about each other, they miss what they both mean.

Rosalind means: Is this a thing you want to do with him?

And Newt hears: Only in the hypothetical.

So it’s pretty easy for him to say “Yeah,” to agree and then tug her in close; it’s equally easy for her to kiss him, let him ruck up her t-shirt and grope her freely, and all the while her mind tick-tick-ticking away as she tries to think of how she might want to set this up.

§

The next morning, they don’t talk about it. It’s not a Thing They Don’t Discuss, it’s just that they start the morning hungover and then go to work and that’s that. They talk about a bunch of different things, and when Hermann comes in, there’s just a moment of hesitation before things settle down.

Conversation in the lab is much easier nowadays. She suspects it’s mostly due to their drifting, their two minds smoothing past their differences and reconciling their fights as their pride could never before have allowed. But god knows the imminent threat of extinction no longer looming over their heads also helps. Newt is a little less all over the place and Hermann is a bit more relaxed, and so they three work in an amiable sort of way over the next four days.

And at night, Rosalind thinks.

She likes Hermann, is the thing. She truly does. She gets on with him easily, the two of them similarly reserved and sarcastic, and she values him for both his intelligence and his wit. She finds him an easy man to converse with, and that’s rare enough for both of them. So she certainly doesn’t want to drive him away with something like this, and it might just.

Except . . . well. It’s not as though this is out of nowhere, is it? She’s almost certain Hermann has the same amount of unresolved feelings towards Newton, a similar clash of resentment and longing and lust and affection. So if she approaches this the right way, he might just be amiable towards it, right?

She’s almost certain she’s right.

And honestly, she’s so rarely wrong.

She waits until it’s Friday night, and then sends Newt out on an errand. Get me some ramen, please, she asks him, and implies vaguely it’s a craving thanks to PMS, because sometimes little lies are necessary. He goes, darling boy that he is, because he can be surprisingly thoughtful when she asks things of him (and he probably wants ramen too, so). It guarantees she and Hermann will be alone for at least an hour.

“I wanted to ask you something,” she begins. She’s leaning lightly against her desk, watching him as he absently straightens things out, cleaning up for the evening. He glances up at her, his gaze friendly, and she offers him a slight smile.

That really ought to have been his first warning. She is not, as a rule, a person who smiles.

“A proposal of sorts,” she continues. “It’s nothing urgent. But I’d like to see what you thought about it.”

“Of course.” He doesn’t stop wiping the boards, but that’s all right. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well. It’s something to do with Newton and I, actually . . . we were wondering if you wanted to sleep with us.”

There is silence.

It lasts an eternity.

“I beg your pardon,” he says, and does not turn around.

“You hardly have to answer right now,” she says, as though she’d proposed nothing more interesting than lunch. Her fingers are clenched tightly around her arm, but perhaps surprisingly, she isn’t the stammering mess she sometimes turns into when she and Newt discuss kinks. She’d wondered at that, at how easy this is, but it makes sense. She knows Hermann. Both he and Newton are men who say precisely what they feel; if Hermann were the sort to discredit her based on nonsense he’d have done it long ago. Inviting him into her bed won’t leave him gossiping and smugly asserting she’s unqualified to work here, so there’s really no consequences beyond a potential bit of awkwardness.

Besides: this is Newt’s idea, anyway.

“I’d rather you didn’t, actually,” she continues. The back of his neck has turned red, she notes with interest. “This is the sort of thing you should think about without the pressure of my staring at you. But we’d like you in our bed. He does, and I certainly would.

“You don’t have to say yes. Nothing will change.” She lifts her hips up off the desk. His blush is rising, hitting the back of his ears now. “But. If you are interested . . . come by my bunk tomorrow night. Let’s say eleven? That seems good.”

He still doesn’t say anything, but she smiles. He hasn’t actually lowered his hand from the chalkboard. “Either way: I’ll see you tomorrow, Hermann.”

Her heels echo as she walks out the door, and oh, there’s Newt, holding two reusable bags and smelling faintly of dumplings. “Hey! Are we--”

“Let’s eat in your room tonight,” she says smoothly, and tugs at his elbow, turning him around. “Come along. We can finish that vampire film.”

§

Rosalind doesn’t turn up in the lab the next day, which is just as well. It’s likely that was on purpose, clever girl that she is. It certainly makes this oncoming conversation a tad bit easier, although not very. He puts it off for most of the day, his mouth twisted up, his mind constantly going back and forth as he debates what he wants to say. If he wants to say anything at all, or if he’ll just ignore it and let the opportunity pass by unnoticed.

But that feels cowardly, in a way he detests.

“Newton,” he calls, and there’s such ease in the way Newton turns to look at him. Naturally, he scoffs to himself. Rosalind and Newton’s sex life is not as secret as they’d like it to be, although it seems only Hermann is privy to those unfortunate details. They get up to things an indecent amount of time. Of course he’s completely at ease with this prospect.

Which really just makes him think of the two of them. Of them discussing this, discussing him. Why him? Was he the only candidate, or was he one of a list? And either way, why him, with Newton and their sordid history, their twisted emotions for one another, why on earth had they decided he’d be a good partner for this? Was this Rosalind’s doing? But though they get on, he’s never had the sense she secretly lusted for him, so surely not. And yet--

“I, ah. I assume Rosalind has . . . informed you of her plans tonight.” He says it stiffly, wishing he wasn’t and yet absolutely certain he can’t be anything but. “Potentially our plans, I should say. Regarding the, ah, the three of us and, ah, sexual forays.”

There’s a blank sort of look on Newton’s face, which is immensely worrying. He stares at Hermann for a long few seconds, and then, slowly, his eyes widen.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, clapping a hand to his mouth, and suddenly Hermann feels like his stomach is dropping out of him. There’s a faint ringing in his ears, a slow-dawning heat crashing over him in a tidal wave of horror-- he’d misunderstood, oh, god, oh, god, she hadn’t been-- this wasn’t--

“Oh my god,” Newton says again, and then spins on his heel. One hand rakes through his hair, and then he turns again, staring at Hermann with wide eyes. “Oh my god! Oh my god, she-- she actually asked you? She--”

“If it was a presumption--” he begins hurriedly, because he would like to get this conversation over with as quickly as possible so he can go walk into the ocean.

“No! No, it-- I didn’t think she’d-- I mean, we were talking about it, but--”

“You were discussing it?”

“Purely hypothetically! We were just-- don’t get mad, okay, we weren’t, like, fetishizing you, it’s not like we were sitting around thinking about how we were gonna corner you in the lab one night, we just were talking about potentials and she said Ssssaomeone not, not here, someone else, and I said you, and--”

He breaks off abruptly, his hand wiping over his mouth again. He’s as red as Hermann feels, which should be gratifying but isn’t, really, not at all. His mind feels like it’s fizzing, random flashbang thoughts bursting like fireworks in his mind, terrified and giddy and confused all at once. He feels drunk, or high, or some state of inebriation, like he can’t think anymore, like all his usual orderly thoughts have been scattered, like someone swept an arm across a checkerboard and now all the pieces are lost.

“Okay,” Newt breathes, and glances up at him. “Okay. Okay, so . . . so . . . so what did you say?”

“I,” he says stupidly. “I, ah, I hadn’t . . . she didn’t demand an answer. Simply told me to appear tonight if I wished to, ah, participate.”

“Do you want to?” Newt swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. But though he’s still bright red, there’s at least a measure of calm to him that hadn’t been there before. “Everything else aside, I mean, do you actually want to?”

Hermann stares at him. It seems a question with no right answer, frankly. On the one hand, there’s no, safe and logical, a retreat from this frankly terrifying situation. No, he does not, he’s finally in a decent place with Newton and he’s almost sure Rosalind thinks of him as a friend, this is the best he’s had in years, no, he doesn’t want to mess this up, and anyway, this is-- this is terrifying, this is a thousand anxieties bundled into one, performance anxiety and terror about his appearance and about being with not just one but two people with whom he’s a semi-delicate relationship, so no, no, he is deeply flattered but he will pass because that’s the safe way out, that’s the most logical course of action--

--but.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself, he doesn’t actually want to pass.

The thought is terrifying, oh, yes. But it’s entrancing as well. It seems too good to be true, but Rosalind is sensible. She’s practical enough to divorce emotion and pleasure, and if there’s anyone who could sustain this kind of thing, she seems to be it. And Newton--

Newton had been the one to want him.

It isn’t that he’d been pining. He isn’t nearly as pathetic as that. What had once been an ardent adoration had become a fierce hurt and dislike, had become a softer resignation, had become something like friendship, easier than he ever thought it could be. And yet there is ever a part of his heart that will belong to Newton, in the same way that he’s certain a part of Newton’s heart will always belong to Rosalind, should they ever part ways. It isn’t longing. It’s just . . . wistfulness, perhaps, a what if that he rarely thinks of. A bundle of emotions, fondness and adoration and frustration and affection, still mucked up together and needing to be sorted out.

But Newton had asked for him. Wanted him. And that makes a difference, even if he’s too practical to think this is anything but a one night stand.

Can he stand it? Yes, he thinks, and he knows he isn’t deluding himself. Yes, he can. He wouldn’t have been able to a few weeks ago, before their Drift; he certainly wouldn’t have years ago, when he was still so hurt and broken from the bitter disappointment that was Newton Geiszler in person. But now, yes, he rather thinks this can just be something . . . fun.

How odd.

He still hasn’t said anything, he realizes abruptly, but to articulate all of that seems a Herculean task. He stares at Newt, and he can’t stop thinking about Newton asking for him, and--

“Okay,” Newt says, and rubs his face again, like somehow that will help. “Okay, okay-- come here, all right, sit down, sit down-- look.” They’re closer now, sitting across from each other on office chairs, and there’s something determined in the screwed-up lines of Newton’s mouth. “Listen. It’s fine. It’s fine if you want it and it’s fine if you don’t, okay? But it’s not weird. It’s not going to be weird, it’s just going to be a thing, okay, it’s going to be just a fun thing that we do, or don’t do, but either way, like. Don’t overthink it, okay?”

“A bit too late for that,” he manages dryly, with an awful sort of chuckle that fools no one.

“Oh my god-- look. Is it a hard no? Just-- just start there, okay, just say no if you don’t want it, is that easy enough? Or yes. Yes is also an option, just yes or no.”

This was so much easier when Rosalind had given him an out. Appear or don’t, he hadn’t had to tell her. But--

“Yes,” he says, and can’t actually meet Newt’s eye.

“Cool!” He springs to his feet so quickly the chair knocks over with a loud clatter. “Cool, cool, that’s-- cool, okay, so, cool, great, excellent. Great! Great, great, that’s great, okay, I’ll, I’ll see you tonight, then, I guess, or not, I just--”

And then he leans down so swiftly Hermann doesn’t realize what’s happening until it is. Newton’s mouth on his, slotting into place just so, one hand tipping his head up, and oh they’re kissing, hard and just a little clumsy, and then he’s pulling back and Hermann doesn’t want it to end.

“There!” he says, stumbling back with wide eyes, “there, yeah, okay, yep, definitely not gonna be weird, okay, bye--”

He’s out the door in an instant, and Hermann is left sitting there, blinking, his mouth aching pleasantly.

§

“You asked him!”

It’s not a question, and so Rosalind doesn’t respond. Just glances up from her book, a little smile on her face, before reaching for her bookmark.

“I did, yes. Did he talk to you about it?”

“Did he-- yes! Yes, he did, and oh my god, Ros, you can’t just keep--”

“Keep what?”

“Doing this! You can’t just keep doing things and then telling me later! You’d hate it if I pulled that crap on you, don’t do it to me!” Newt wasn’t glaring so much as just staring down at her, manic and wild, one hand running sharply through his hair. She sits up with a faint frown.

“What crap? We talked about this, Newt.” Her frown grows deeper. “I asked you. We talked about it last week, I said do you want to do this with him, and you said--”

“I didn’t think you meant literally!” His voice hits new octaves, and Rosalind winces.

“I can call it off,” she begins, because she has no desire to do this if he doesn’t want to. It isn’t quite guilt curling in her stomach, but she hadn’t actually meant to put him through this. God, especially not with Hermann. It was supposed to be a gift, or at least something pleasant. But he interrupts before she can continue, one hand waving through the air.

“No,” he says, and there’s something odd in his voice. “No, we don’t . . . I’m not, we can still . . . I’m still, you know, down for it, I just--”

“Oh,” Rosalind says softly. Newt’s head snaps up.

“Oh? What do you mean, oh, what is that--”

“You two-- you kissed him, didn’t you?” she says, and he makes a noise, high-pitched and entirely incomprehensible. Her smile returns, and she leans back, beckoning at him to sit down. “You did. How was it?”

“How-- how did you--”

“You know I’m a genius, dearest. Answer the question.”

“It was-- I mean, it was fine? It--” Something like guilt flashes over his expression. His eyes dart down for a moment, and the mania fades in favor of something more serious. “I . . .”

“We’re all right,” she interrupts, and they are, she’s pleased to find. She’d expected a little more jealousy, but no. His kissing Hermann wasn’t an act of unfaithfulness. It was a prelude to tonight, nothing more. She reaches for him, taking his hand, and leans in to kiss his cheek. “Are you all right? Are you certain you want to do this?”

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s stronger than before. He grins at her, albeit so terribly shakily. “Yeah. Totally.”

“Good. Then go get ready.” She’s already showered and done what she wanted to; all that’s left is to get dressed, and it’s only nine, so that can wait a bit. She’s certain Hermann will arrive at eleven promptly.

§

Time, Hermann knows, does not truly lengthen or shorten in any capacity. A second is a second, no more and no less. Yes, there are days that last forever and hours that pass like minutes, but that doesn’t mean they’re truly changed. It’s down to one’s perception, that’s all. Another little trick of the mind, nothing more or less, and just another little thing he ought to be able to will himself into ignoring.

And yet the time that passes between Newt’s kiss and eleven o’clock seem an eternity. Years pass as he finishes cleaning the lab and heads back to his bunk. He thinks to give himself more than enough time to get ready, no sense in being anxious about not having enough time to bathe or what have you, but that’s a mistake. It means he’s left sitting on his bed only to spring to his feet to pace before remembering that he probably ought to save his hip for, ah, later. Except he can’t just sit still, he can’t read, he can’t even get work done on his laptop, every single thing seems to require so much focus and he can’t focus, he can’t--

Somehow, it becomes ten, and with equal parts relief and increased anxiety he goes to get ready. A shower, yes, and he brushes his teeth twice, more out of fear of what Rosalind might think than anything with regards to Newt. Boxer-briefs (grey, sensible, not particularly sexy but at least it’s not briefs, so huzzah for him), slacks, and just one layer. He’s gone over a thousand scenarios for how this could go wrong, and at least a third of them begin with not being able to get undressed fast enough.

And then it’s ten-to, and there’s nothing left but to go.

He pauses when he reaches Rosalind’s door, listening for a moment despite himself. It’s to be nosy, he tells himself; certainly not because he needs to pluck up his courage one last time. He can hear them, Rosalind’s light tones and Newt’s fast-paced replies, the two moving in melodious harmony. To his complete shock, he hears a laugh, soft but clearly female, and sort of hates that it makes his stomach twist awfully.

He knocks sharply. For an awful moment there’s nothing but silence (another eternity, waiting out here, he knows it looks perfectly innocuous but still he hopes no one passes by and sees him on this sordid little mission) before it swings open.

Rosalind has her hair down, he notices first. He’s never seen it down before. The effect is striking. It leaves her looking softer, more approachable. Is this how Newt sees her all the time? It’s strange to think about. They’re strange to think about, a little unit all their own, Newton sitting on the bed behind her, peering at him, a contained little unit in dim orange lighting and the smell of something sharp and bitter in the air. He tries not to let the thought linger. He doesn’t want to think about he’s the odd man out, how once this is done they’ll still be together and he’ll be alone in his room, because that way lies unnecessary grief.

“Come sit down,” she says. And because she told him, he does. Sits right next to Newton on the bed, feeling a little ridiculous, like a schoolboy waiting to be lectured by his teacher. He glances over at Newt, who gives him a grin and a shrug: this is what it is, his gesture seems to say, learn to love it.

He is. He’s desperately grateful for it so far, frankly, if only because god knows he isn’t about to lead this venture. Newt isn’t, either, not if the nervous bounce of his leg is any indication. Rosalind looks at them both as she closes the door behind her, frowning faintly.

“Hmm,” she says. He’s heard her make that noise before. It’s the noise of her facing down a slightly tricky problem, not so much unsolvable as merely unusual.

“I think we ought to-- come here,” she says, and goes not to Newt, but Hermann, gesturing until he obediently moves back on the bed, sitting properly on it. She follows right after him, and before he realizes it she’s half atop him, their legs slotted and one hand pressed up against the mattress. Her head tips, and then there it is, they’re kissing, just like that, absolutely no build up and here we go.

Not that that’s such a bad thing.

He has so missed kissing. It’s different than it was with Newt. That had been quick and startling, so fast he wasn’t able to really enjoy it before it was done. But this is slow, slow and careful. Intimate, almost, as they get to know each other in this new light. Each push of her lips is inviting, soft and sweet, and he responds in kind. Slowly her hips settle down, straddling his thigh, easing her way onto him. He doesn’t know if that’s due to fear for his hip or consideration for him in general, but either way, he appreciates it. Vaguely. He really isn’t thinking much right now; just goes along with each kiss, setting his hands on the swell of her hips, soft curves and warm skin. Instinctively he tightens his grip, fingers digging in tight, and she sighs, soft but emphatic, a sign of approval that he shudders to hear.

The kisses grow hungrier, until at last Rosalind’s mouth slips open, tongue teasing lightly against his lips. Her hips rock down again, grinding up against his thigh pointedly, and behind her he hears Newt groan softly.

“Christ, babe . . .” Her hips move in direct response, another little rock, and he can feel her grin growing against his mouth. “Ros-- don’t be a tease, it’s a threesome, come on--”

“If you want to join in,” she says breathlessly, breaking the kiss to glance over her shoulder, “then take your clothes off, to start with.” She’s taking her own advice, it seems, for in the next moment she’s pulled at her dress, tugging it over her head and tossing it carelessly to the side. She’s left in her underwear, and that’s--

Scheiße.

“Do you like it?” she asks, her tone far too innocent to be real. He opens his mouth and closes it, his fingers curling as he tries to think of a response that isn’t simply groping or falling over himself in desperate arousal. But good god, she looks like a bloody Playboy special. White lace, transparent and thin, hoists her breasts up, while the feathered edges emphasize the curve of her waist. Matching panties draw attention to the sharp line of her hips, the curve of her thighs . . . Rosalind tips her head lazily, a small smirk on her lips, more than pleased by his staring. Her hands are much more efficient, tugging at the buttons of his shirt, because she’s as industrious in the bedroom as she is in the laboratory, apparently.

His attention is diverted by the sudden presence of Newt, sans shirt, and good lord-- he’s almost grateful for the diversion, because it means he can safely take his eyes off Rosalind, just for a moment. His eyes flick over him, and that’s just as intoxicating a sight, frankly, if not slightly less overwhelming. The violent contrast of color over his torso, down his forearms, a little obscene in how direct they are, and yet artistic enough, in their own way. And the physique beneath-- Newton is fitter than he thought he’d be, firmly solid in a pleasing sort of way. It’s all very much what he imagined (and he had imagined, again and again, not obsessively but idly, little flashes of ashamed thoughts at 3 AM in his bunk over the years, just often enough to keep him on edge) and somehow entirely new all at once. He reaches over, idly, fingers sliding against one shoulder, pleased when Newt wiggles up to push into the touch.

He thinks faintly of how it might be, to have that body beneath him. Either one, really, he isn’t so picky.

“I know, right? Ich liebe es sie so zu sehen,” Newt says, grinning as he nods at Rosalind, and thank god, because the spell is broken, just like that. It makes it all the easier to speak now that it’s not just two semi-naked figures, but rather them, Newt still as loud and boisterous as ever, Rosalind as smug as a cat. “When the hell did you get this!”

“When I did. Don’t you mind that right now.” Rosalind sits up straighter, perching back in such a way that’s almost assuredly uncomfortable and decidedly attractive, pushing her chest out just a bit. “Far more important,” she continues, and turns those blue eyes on him, sharp and direct, “what is it you want to do, hm?”

“What?”

Hermann regrets that in the next moment. He’s really sounding like an absolute idiot today, but good god, what the hell kind of question is that? What do you want to do, his colleague asks, clad in lingerie and grinding down on his leg, a woman who he’d always regarded as entirely professional, a woman who had a reputation for killing a man if he crossed her, what do you want to do, as if he’d ever dared think such a thing, having far too healthy a fear of Rosalind and her wrath.

The silence stretches out painfully, as Hermann balks, torn between instinctive lust and a lingering sense of professionality.

“Ooooor maybe we can pick, babe? Hey, c’mere.” Thank god for Newt. Hermann glances towards him as a drowning man might a bit of driftwood, not entirely certain of its long-term safety but too desperate to care. Rosalind wrinkles her nose, but silently acquiesces as she reaches for Newt-- tugs at his arm until she can pull him over for a kiss, eager and a little more prolonged than she’d intended.

It’s a little . . . it’s something to watch them kiss. He’s seen it before, snatches in the corner of his eye on those rare occasions he’d caught them. He’s always looked away, coughing politely, because that’s not something he’s a part of. But now he is, and it’s . . . it’s attractive, honestly. It’s entrancing to watch, to see how he slides his fingers over her, against her neck, down, tugging blindly at her bra strap; how she reacts, melting into the kiss, her hand slipping down his torso to pull at his trousers, a protesting little mn at his prying, and she’s so wonderfully flushed as she pulls away.

“I am not taking this off so quickly. Certainly not before you two are out of your pants.” But she sounds a little more breathless about it. Relaxed, less an authoritative colleague and more a young woman, and perhaps that’s what does it. Or maybe it’s his own competitiveness finally stirring, spurred on by the smug little looks Newt keeps shooting him, leaving him burning in the best possible way. As Rosalind leans in to kiss Newt again, his fingers slide up her back, making quick work of the catch, delighted by the way she jerks a little in surprise.

It’s nice to be able to surprise her. Nicer still to catch her attention, as she breaks the kiss in favor of regarding Hermann.

“Take that off,” he murmurs, leaning up to bite lightly at her jawline, and it isn’t a request. His fingers splay over her bare back, and he can see Newt swallow thickly in the corner of his eye. His confidence grows, and he tugs her in tighter, pressing her flush against him. Her breasts push up, her back arching as she stares down at him. “If you want to cite it in terms of fairness . . . we’ve both our tops off, don’t we? But,” he says, and draws back, “I’m not particularly in this for fairness.”

“--ah,” Rosalind says very softly. Her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushing a lovely red. She does nothing but stare at him-- and then, all at once, squirms, tugging it fully off, quietly obedient.

He can’t say he’s ever given much thought about the shape of her, but oh, what a sight. Her chest rises and falls as he stares-- and even that is different now. He doesn’t steal glances, but rather stares pointedly, his thumb rubbing idly beneath her ribs, drinking in the fullness and curve of her breast, the peak of her nipples, the way her flush goes all the way down.

But just looking isn’t fun. He leans up, kissing her hungrily, as one hand reaches up to grope at her. He can hear Newton whispering softly, a reverent little holy shit that’s equal parts furious and stunned, but honestly, he’s not particularly focused on him right now. Later, later, when Rosalind isn’t whining against his lips, when he isn’t so focused on finding out just how eagerly she pushes up against his hands. Her hips resume their rocking pace, grinding down against his thigh, til he’s certain he can feel hints of wetness against his trousers.

She breaks away an eternity later, panting as she glances to the side, staring at Newt. Whatever she sees in his expression pleases her, because what was dazed distraction becomes something smug all at once. It’s alarmingly attractive, just as she is, and so perhaps he can be forgiven for being wholly preoccupied with running his hands over every inch of bare skin he can, tipping his head to put his mouth to one breast, teeth scraping pointedly.

“I-- oh-- I haven’t forgotten you,” she tells Newt, and strokes her fingers lightly against his shoulder, the touch affectionate. “Give me, a-ah, give me just, just a moment . . .”

It takes a little rearranging, but they manage under Rosalind’s bossy orders. Newt and Hermann strip down speedily, trousers kicked off, and both of them do that fun thing where they steal glances without doing something so embarrassing as looking. Rosalind doesn’t give them much time, anyway: soon she’s sitting back, spreading her legs, as Newt settles between them.

For his part, Hermann sits to the side, content for the moment to play third fiddle (as it were). The promise of a show is more than enough to sate him at the moment.

“I’ve missed your mouth on me,” Rosalind says, running her fingers through Newt’s hair as he ducks down. His hands grip her thighs, fingers digging into her soft skin. “It’s been ages-- oh,” she adds, breathing the word out, as Newt slides his tongue slowly up, spreading her open languidly-- obscenely, Hermann thinks, his cheeks red and his eyes locked on the sight. On her, her legs braced open wide, cunt already slick, gleaming in the low light-- god, and already she’s inching her hips up, needy for something to fill her, and gott but he wants to--

Newt’s eyes flick over for just a moment, smugness clear in his gaze, before returning to the task at hand. Releases her thigh to tease two fingers against her entrance, his tongue sliding up to trace over her clit pointedly. Her breathing grows heavier, her mouth dropping open. Eyes gone hazy, and she bites at her wrist, trying to muffle her initial whine. Hermann watches with bated breath as what began as soft sighs melt into moans, low and earnest, a flush slowly spreading down her body.

“Newt-- oh, just like that--” It’s breathier than he’s ever heard her, her voice trembling, and suddenly Hermann can’t stand to be a mere spectator. In an instant he’s darting towards her, kissing her hungrily, and her hand is on him, slender fingers wrapping around him, and this, this is perfect. She moans into his mouth, her hand working slowly (too slow, and he grunts in impatience until he realizes she’s doing it on purpose, because this isn’t how he’s going to come, not at all, this is just a prelude).

Soon mere kissing isn’t enough-- he slides his mouth down, biting at her neck, hand running over her body, as she moans against his ear. There’s something utterly satisfying to suck a mark against her neck, to pull back and see a bruise already forming, and he likes it so much he bites another, lower, as her voice goes even higher and her hand works faster--

--and then she falls back on the bed, leaving Hermann hissing in dissatisfaction, throbbing and aching for more. Her thighs are trembling, her back arching up against the bed. Newt’s wonderfully good at this, if the way Rosalind’s expression has just melted is any indication. One arm is thrown over her eyes, her mouth dropped open as moan after moan slips past her lips, loud and unhindered, mangled words and cut-off phrases woven between. Only his arms keep her from writhing entirely away: one hand grips her thigh while his fingers pump in and out of her, fast and slick, curling up just so every few moments, just to hear the way her moans kick into a delighted shriek each time. The tip of his tongue drags over her, low moans rumbling in his throat as he works her. Hermann watches with wide eyes, aroused and jealous both (of Rosalind? Of Newton? But oh that’s the best part, of both, he wants to be the center of Newton’s attentions just as much as he wants to leave Rosalind mewling, and he will be). Her thighs begin to tremble, and he’s holding his breath, he realizes, waiting, and then--

“Oh, N-- god damn it--!”

--Newt pulls back, all at once, grinning as his muscles flex and he keeps Rosalind pinned to the bed. His mouth is soaked, and he licks his lips with a hideous sort of smirk. She looks ready to strangle him, her expression seething, the anger clear in every line of her body-- and yet he must have done this before, because she isn’t struggling so much as squirming, whining as she tries to get what she wants anyway, delighting when she doesn’t.

“Newt, damn it, for fuck’s sake--”

“Ich werde nie müde werden,” he tells Hermann, glancing over with a wink. He pays for his inattention a moment later as Rosalind sits up and turns in one smooth motion, squirming away from him. In an instant Hermann finds himself very suddenly with a lapful of Rosalind, spiteful and warm and (this is most important) very, very wet, all but soaked as she straddles him and rocks her hips down. He chokes, his hands going to her waist, trying not to sputter as she settles on him.

“Hey--” Newt says, protesting, and Rosalind glances over her shoulder.

“You had your chance,” she tells him sharply, and she and Hermann both are smirking as she turns back towards him. Rosalind pushes her fingers through his hair, ignoring Newt’s clear sulking, and leans in to nip at Hermann’s jaw.

“There’s a few ways we can do this,” she murmurs, and sighs as his hands wander over her thighs, her hips, the touch no longer worshipping but eager, hungry to feel as much bare skin as he can. “I can ride you like this. You can bend me over something. Or--”

“On your hands and knees,” he decides. The idea goes from genesis to his mouth without input from his brain, but it’s an excellent one, if Rosalind’s sudden sharp inhale is any indication. Her hips jerk down again, and then she nods.

“Come here,” she tells Newt, and tugs him closer as she slips off Hermann. On her hands and knees, and Hermann’s eyes linger on the arch of her back, the way she and Newt look together as he runs his fingers against her cheek fondly. That affection is lost a moment later as his fingers drag over the bruise on her neck, and he can just see the scowl forming, but, well, that’s rough luck for him, isn’t it?

(And it’s absurd, because this wasn’t ever a fight over Rosalind. A fight over Newton, if anyone, but even then, it isn’t as though Hermann imagines this is anything but a one night stand. And yet still that fierce, ugly competitiveness burns in him, as he meets Newton’s gaze deliberately and runs a hand over Rosalind’s hip, the swell of her ass, and oh but he loves the jealousy in Newt’s gaze-- and loves, too, knowing just what thoughts are running through his head, because the same precise thoughts that are running through Hermann’s. An amalgam of jealousy and arousal, lust for Rosalind and the terribly complicated mixture of emotions towards each other, all combined into one heady mess with no real winners or losers, it’s awful and embittering and thrilling, he loves it, he loves this, he loves--)

“Are you going to fuck me or not!”

--right. Hermann blinks, jerks, breaks Newt’s gaze just so he can focus down at the frankly stunning woman beneath him, who is squirming impatiently, glancing over her shoulder with a look he normally associates with trouble.

“You as well,” she adds, turning back to glance up at Newt-- who is much quicker on the uptake, it seems, because in the next few moments there’s a slick noise. They both of them moan, Newt low and Rosalind muffled, and Hermann stares, torn in two, wanting desperately both to watch and participate all at once. He can just make out faint details, the way her head bobs, the careless way Newt grips her hair, fingers threading through red strands, tugging her in closer, and how she whines for that show of force. Her back arches again, her body angling towards him--

--and bugger that, this isn’t just about him.

Fuck, and he breathes it out, a fervent curse as he pushes into her, that fantastic first little shove, and she’s so slick and hot around him, tightening eagerly for the way he fills her. Christ, and it’s all he can do not to just finish then and there, except that would be utterly pathetic and Newt would never let him forget it. But she feels so good, so tight, so satisfying and it’s been ages and honestly, it feels as though this has been building up for ages. Not just from when she kissed him, but when she asked him, maybe. Or maybe when Newt kissed him; maybe that was the start. A slowly winding coil, leaving him desperate for both of them.

Because it really is about both of them. He knows that. He’s fucking Rosalind, yes, of course (and he’s fucking her, hips snapping forward, settling into a steady rhythm, because he might not get around as much as Newton but nor is he virginal, and Rosalind’s delighted moans attest to that). But his eyes keep darting between the two of them, delighting on the details. On the line of her back, the brightness of her hair, the sweet way she keeps making noises, so shocked each time, like she doesn’t mean to whine but can’t help it. And then Newt, bright and brazen and both precisely and nothing like how he used to fantasize. Lean torso and clever fingers, his eyes so hungry as he stares down at Rosalind, watches his cock slip in and out of her mouth, the sharp jut of his hips and the artistry of his tattoos, god, gott but he wants him--

And maybe he hears that. In the next instant he’s glancing up, meeting Hermann’s eye, and there’s that same mixture of longing and lust and jealousy in his expression. That desire, that neediness, coupled with the very real possessiveness he must feel seeing another man fuck his girlfriend, and of course there’s desperation for this not to end, for this moment to stretch on into infinity, just the three of them, together, connected, finally--

--or perhaps that’s just him.

For a while, there’s nothing but the sound of sex, moans and harsh breaths, and he can’t decide where to keep his gaze. From Ros to Newt and back again, greedily drinking in the sight of them, all the things he knows he isn’t supposed to see and hear, not really, not him, the sights and sounds that by all rights belong only to them, that he’s simply a voyeur towards. It’s selfishness personified that he views it, and yet he does, coveting it, drinking it in as he chases his finish.

(That isn’t the worst part, though. The worst is the intimacy, and that, he glances away from. Focuses on digging his finger into Rosalind’s hips as Newt mutters an apology down to her for going too hard, fingers shakily smoothing over her cheek, because that’s them, just them, and he has no part of it).

Seconds and minutes-- and then all at once a short, sharp curse bursts past Newt’s lips, a low groan as he knots his fingers in Rosalind’s hair, yanks her forward, hips snapping in one, two, three sharp movements. Fuck, and she’s panting as he pulls back, her arms trembling, slumping down onto the mattress now that there’s no need to hoist herself up. Hermann can see her face that way, her lips swollen and reddened, wet with spit and traces of come, and it’s that which makes him finish-- that obscene sight that he hadn’t known he’d been desperate to see, her all debauched and broken down, hazy with arousal and deliriously turned on, panting back at him with as much lust in her gaze as he feels for her. There, a hook in the pit of his stomach, a shock of arousal that leaves him gasping as he spills into her. And he likes that, too, that claiming little mark, he moans softly as he pulls back, sees the mess he left behind.

“Newt--” Rosalind groans, half a plea and entirely exhausted, rolling over onto her back. In an instant Newt sits up. “Please, I want--”

“Yeah-- yeah, hang on,” he says, and the two of them move so he can slip between her legs, pushing them apart with no small relish. There’s just a moment of hesitation as he stares, eyes dragging over the come dripping out of her. Arousal and jealousy flit over his face, twisting and blending together, and Hermann’s just about to say something when he dives down. Back curving, the notches in his spine curving, and his tongue slides so eagerly over her cunt, spreading her open, leaving her yelping eagerly as he fixates on her.

“Fuck-- Newt, Newt,” a soft wail, a chanting plea that only grows louder as her thighs tremble involuntarily, her back arching up-- and she looks so beautiful like that, Hermann thinks distantly. Not like she normally does, not perfect and made up, not all untouchable, but rather eminently, gloriously human. Hair sticking to her face and her cheeks flushed, her mouth dropped open and the lines of her body so clear, not anything but herself, raw and messy and perfect. He can’t help but lean down and press his lips to her; immediately he’s rewarded with a happy whine, her mouth moving eagerly as she returns the kiss again and again, fingers gripping the back of his neck, nails digging in as she goes all tense in the best of ways, stiff and trembling and then loose, slumping back on the bed.

There’s silence.

Rosalind sighs, and it sound so wonderfully sated. Carefully, Hermann lies next to her, Newton already clambering up, and they lie there, catching their breath, until at last the world doesn’t seem to be so far away.

§

It’s later. Showers have happened.

As it turns out, Rosalind is the sort who doesn’t really care to be touched after sex. Hermann can sympathize; he’s sticky and hot, and the last thing he wants is more touching. Instead: a nice bracing shower, just to get the worst of it all off, and then he wanders back in, clad in his trousers (overdressed, perhaps, but one can’t wander around naked all day), just a touch awkward as he sees the other two.

Rosalind is laid out on the bed, the sheets wrapped firm around her body, her wet hair pinned up messily. Newt, much less artfully, is simply sprawled there, the two of them carefully not touching-- save for their hands, where a few fingers are intertwined, simple and understated but most certainly there. She’s got her eyes closed, but they’re talking, a nonsensical conversation that it’s fine for him to overhear. A continued debate, if he’s judging the tone, a debate on . . . superpowers? Or something like that, some debate on the most useful fictional ability, which just goes to show Newton really has been a terrible influence on Rosalind.

It doesn’t matter. The conversation tapers off as he comes in, and Rosalind opens her eyes.

“Well,” Hermann says, and he hates, he hates how awkward he can be sometimes, he really does. “That was . . . enjoyable. Ah. I’ll just be heading back, I suppose, I’ll see you--”

“Why leave?” Rosalind says it a little too quickly.

“Yeah, you don’t-- you can stay. If you want. If that’s cool, I mean, you can definitely stay, we’re gonna just eat pizza and watch something stupid, I mean--”

“You are going to eat pizza, I can’t stand cold pizza, you know this--”

“That is not the point right now oh my god--”

“All right,” Hermann interrupts, and he genuinely doesn’t know if it’s because he wants to stay or because he wants to stop a potential fight. “All right. I’ll-- yes. All right.”

He will, however, do it with a shirt, because he isn’t a savage. Buttoning it up gives the other two more than enough time to shift over-- and for him to get himself together a little. To try not to blurt out something nasty in compensation for his uncertainty, or worse still, to simply bolt for the safety of his room so he can process what just happened.

He’s done both before, and spent years and years fighting with Newton as a result.

Instead: he sits on the bed. He lets Rosalind arrange both he and Newton as she likes, until she’s propped up against both of them, limbs long and loose, gaze lazy as she stares at Newton’s laptop. He watches the film. And he even eats a little pizza, because it does taste good when it’s three days old. And they talk, and they laugh, and they go silent, and sometimes they even kiss.

And it’s good.

HERE WE GO
LES MISERABLES
BY VICTOR HUGO

( i got through books 1-3, that's impressive imo )