My name is Valen and my pronouns are whatever you want them to be- i’m more of a genderless, floating soul than anything !! I’m 20 years old (unc i know) and i love weirdos, freaks, outcasts, losers and nerds !!
( i’m pretty new to tumblr so bear with me )
LINKS
— Newtmas Fic Masterlist
— My Crank Newtmas Fic
— Thomas Journal Entries to Newt: The series
💬 0 🔁 0 ❤️ 0 · Thomas’s Journal Entries to Newt: The Full series - · (WIP)
SUMMARY: Post TDC, Thomas is mourning the loss of Newt. With M
My interests 𝄞
𖤓 The Maze Runner ;
~Newtmas is literally my heart and soul, i do not play about my pookie’s !! I love every character and their depth, i can and will talk about them forever hehe. If you wanna discuss the movies and books + all the fics then let’s be friends!!
𖤓 Avatar ;
~ Avatar has been my favorite movie since i first watched it as a little kid, im a crazy fanatic over these movies and will not tolerate and disrespect towards these fictional aliens !! I absolutely love the art/detail and emotion that is put into each and every scene + character! I would absolutely love more Avatar moots !!
𖤓 Music ; (mainly Ethel Cain)
~ If you love soul crushing music then let’s exchange playlists and cry together!
𖤓 Queer Media ;
~ I myself am always going to indulge in queer media: music, tv, movies, fiction, non fiction, history, science and so much more!! Queer people will always be the backbone of any fandom or industry !!!!
DISCLAIMER
I am very true to my own sexuality and quirks, with that being said if you are uncomfortable with any of the adult things i discuss then pls D N I !!!!!! If there is anything that comes off as insensitive or insulting then let me know so I can learn and do better :)
(this will probably be edited at some point when i learn this app better, okay BAIIII)
"It is the open doors that frighten people the most, rather than the closed doors!" — Mehmet Murat Ildan
Professor!Newt x GradStudent!Thomas 𑣲 Chapter 4 𑣲 WC: 1,290
A/N: I don't actually know how to tie a tie, y'all. Let's just pretend I do.
The hallway outside the auditorium is too narrow for pacing.
That doesn't stop Thomas.
He wears a path into the carpet anyway: Five steps down. Pivot. Five steps back. His shoes scuff softly with each abrupt change in direction, rubber catching against fabric.
"—Which demonstrates that the projected coastal regression is—" He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale. "No. That's not right." He drags a hand through his hair, pushing it back, only for it to fall forward again. "It's not representative of... Shit. That sounds defensive. Is it too late to change the wording?'
"Yes." Dr. Issac leans against the wall beside the auditorium doors, one shoulder resting lightly against the cool, painted surface. Arms folded. Ankles crossed. Entirely at ease. "Start again."
Thomas makes a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat and turns on his heel. Indistinct, muffled voices bleed through the doors. A chair leg scrapes. Someone coughs. It's the low, constant murmur of an audience settling in.
A large audience.
Too many people.
Too many expectations.
Thomas tugs at his tie for what must be the millionth time. The knot sits wrong: Slightly off center, too loose, too tight, then somehow, both at once. He yanks it down harsher this time.
"—And the displacement curve spikes earlier because of..." His hand lifts, fingers splaying as if he can pull the right word out of the air. "Becayse of instability fa—"
"Vulnerability."
Thomas stops mid-stride.
"What?"
"The word you're looking for is 'vulnerability'." Dr. Issac's gaze doesn't waver. "It's more precise." Thomas stares at him for a moment, like he might argue. He doesn't.
"Right." A sharp nod. He turns again, resuming his pacing immediately. "Because of vulnerability factors—" He cuts himself off once more, pressing his fingers hard into his temples. "God. This sounds stupid."
"It sounds unfinished," Dr. Issac offers with a mild tone. "Because you keep stopping." Thomas exhales harshly and starts again, words spilling faster now.
"Current predictive models fail to account for human vulnerability, which results in— In—" He falters again. He drags both hands down his face, pulling the skin of his cheeks. "I'm going to mess this up."
"No, you're not."
"I am."
"You're not."
"I am—"
"Thomas." The way Dr. Issac says his name is grounding, and Thomas stills. "The issue isn't the material. The issue is your head. Your thoughts are outrunning the rest of you."
"My head is the issue?" Thomas lets out a humorless huff. "Helpful."
"Always." A dry reply. Thomas reaches for his tie again, fingers catching the knot and yanking it sideways, making the problem worse. "Oh, for the love of—" Dr. Issac pushes off the wall.
"Don't—" Thomas starts, instinctively. Dr. Issac steps into his space, close enough that the pacing stops: Not by choice, but because there's nowhere left to go.
"Hold still."
"I am still."
"You're practically vibrating."
"I'm not—"
"Hush."
"...I'm hushed."
Dr. Issac's hands are already at Thomas' collar, fingers precise as they loosen the ruined knot entirely. Fabric slides free with a whisper against the cotton.
He doesn't rush. He doesn't fumble. The tie unfolds, then folds again, threading back into place like it belongs there. Thomas doesn't look away.
He can't.
His attention catches on everything at once: The concentration in Dr. Issac's expression, the slight furrow in his brow, and the measured confidence in the way his hands move.
He's close.
Too close.
"You're overthinking." Dr. Issac murmurs, voice even from only a few inches away. "State your claim. Then support it. Simple." A small adjustment to the knot. "There's no need to bury it under density. Stop trying to impress them."
"I'm not trying to impress them."
"You are," He responds without hesitation. "And it's not going to work."
"That's harsh."
The knot settles into place. Dr. Issac smooths it over with his thumb in a single, precise motion before letting his hand fall away. Thomas swallows.
"It would do you some good," Dr. Issac continues, stepping back just enough to give him space again. "To heed my advice without the usual backtalk, Mr. Stephens." He retrieves his cane, easing against the wall again. "Put that ceaseless mind of yours to use somewhere else."
"Like where?"
"It doesn't matter." He shrugs. "Think of anything that isn't the exceptional presentation you are going to give." He says it like there's not a doubt in his mind.
Thomas shifts his weight, fingers brushing unconsciously against the now perfectly tied knot. His mind stalls while being forcibly rerouted. Then—
"You ever notice that your name is like, the opposite of Isaac Newton?" Thomas offers. There's a pause. "Like, reversed." There's a subtle shift in Dr. Issac's expression: Something just under disbelief.
"Fascinating." The dryness of the word could strip paint. Thomas presses his lips together.
"I'm just saying—"
"No one has ever made that observation before." Dr. Newton continues, perfectly deadpan. "In all the years I have possessed this name, you are the first to notice."
"Right. Okay. Sorry."
"It's remarkable, really. You must be some form of genius. How could I have never noticed?" Dr. Issac tilts his head. "Shall I hand over my PhD as well?"
"Okay! I get it." Thomas huffs, caught somewhere between embarrassed and amused. A flicker of something softer passes through Dr. Issac's expression.
"If it helps," He adds casually, almost like an afterthought. "My mates call me Newt." A small pocket of astonished silence opens between them.
"...Newt?"
"Yes."
"Like," Thomas gestures vaguely. "The pleurodelinae?"
"...Excuse me?"
"The lizard." Thomas clarifies quickly. "Well, amphibian, actually. Semi-aquatic." Newt closes his eyes for a second.
"...Yes, Mr. Stephens." His eyes open again. "Exactly like the lizard, or rather, the amphibian. Thank you, very, very much, for that clarification."
"That's—" Thomas lets out a short laugh, a sound that surprises even himself. "That's terrible."
Dr. Issac raises an eyebrow, and for a moment, they look at each other without the usual tension. Thomas' grin lingers, and it earns something in return: An eyeroll, and the faintest curve of Dr. Issac's mouth.
The comfort is easy. Unexpectedly so. For a miniscule stretch of time, they're just two men standing in a hallway. No student and superior. No engineer and ethicist.
In the stillness, Thomas realizes that the noise of his head has faded to the distance. The spiraling thoughts, rehearsed lines, and panic are gone.
No, not gone.
Replaced,
With a different feeling.
The auditorium door creaks open.
"Mr. Stephens?" A voice calls. "We're ready for you now."
The pressure snaps back all at once: The awareness of where he is and what's waiting for him on the other side of the door. His shoulders tense and his thoughts surge unforgivingly. He looks to Dr. Issac, and there's a small nod waiting for him.
"If anything goes wrong in there," Thomas says in a half dramatic, half genuine frenzy. "I'm disappearing from the country."
"You'll be fine." Again, there's no hesitation, like Dr. Issac is waiting by the finish line of a race he knows Thomas is going to win. "Good luck, Mr. Stephens."
"...Okay." Thomas exhales slowly, nodding to himself. "Thanks, for everything, Dr. Issac—"
"Newt."
Thomas blinks.
"...What?"
"Call me Newt."
There's no sarcastic edge to hide the words behind. Just a simple instance. Thomas studies him, trying to place it: Trying to decide if this is another dry joke he's going to miss.
"...Right." He hesitates. "Thanks... Newt."
"You're welcome, Thomas."
The auditorium doors are waiting.
His palms are damp and his pulse is racing, but not entirely from nerves anymore. Something unfamiliar sits underneath the rest of his spiraling emotions.
"It is the open doors that frighten people the most, rather than the closed doors!" — Mehmet Murat Ildan
Professor!Newt x GradStudent!Thomas 𑣲 Chapter 3 𑣲 WC: 1,321
The door is the same: It's still the same, warped hinge that never sits right. The same uneven, bowed frame. The same stubborn, narrow gap. Time hasn't fixed it. New ownership hasn't fixed it. It should've been fixed by now.
It hasn't.
Thomas stands in front of it anyway.
He stands long enough that it starts to feel noticeable. Long enough that if anyone walked past, they'd notice this guy hovering outside a closed office like he forgot how to use doors.
It's office hours.
The schedule is posted to the right of the frame, stapled cleanly to the wall. Straight lines. Highlighted blocks. The handwriting is so neat and deliberate, it may just be printed. It's hard to tell at a glance.
It's nothing like before. Professor Lawrence operated in layers of clutter. His office hour postings were taped over other things until the original paper curled in on itself. You had to interpret his system. Now, the system is a clean thing to follow.
He doesn't actually need to be here. He could send an email. It would be easier. He could think it through. Structure the words properly. It would say exactly what he means without the awkward pauses. Instead, he's standing in front of the warped door like an idiot.
This is stupid.
It's just one conversation.
He's had worse.
Thomas exhales, and before he can talk himself out of it again, he lifts his hand and pushes the door open with the heel of his palm. It resists, the frame holding for a moment before it gives with a reluctant drag.
Dr. Issac is exactly where he always is: Seated behind the desk, posture straight, but not rigid. There's a book open in front of him, and his glasses sit low on his nose.
"Mr. Stephens." He hums, not looking up. Thomas steps inside, adjusting the laptop tucked under his arm like it weighs more than it actually does.
"Dr. Issac." He takes a breath. "I need help with something." He moves closer to the desk as he speaks, flipping the laptop open so he can give himself something to do with his hands. "I finished the research."
"Ah. Congratulations." It's automatically polite, with a tone flat enough that Thomas can't really decipher whether or not Dr. Issac actually means it.
"Thanks." His shoulders loosen anyway, and the screen flickers to life beneath his fingers. "The model runs exactly how we expected it to. The data's solid. That was the easy part."
"The easy part?" Dr. Issac repeats, his eyebrows raising.
"Yes," Thomas braces. "But now I have to present it, and I don't—" He gestures vaguely at the screen, like the problem might be physically located there. "—I don't really get how I'm supposed to turn all this into a presentation. A speech. Whatever they want."
"...You don't know how to present your own work."
"Not like that! I can explain it. I just don't know how to make it..." He searches for the right word, frowning while pulling up the slides he's been working on for too many hours. "Look right."
"Right." Dr. Issac says with a hint of exasperation. "Show me, then." Thomas hesitates, then he rotates the laptop. The screen that lights up the space between them is populated by a white slide and dense walls of plain black text. "...Mr. Stephens."
"Yeah?"
"What," Dr. Issac tilts his head, peering at the screen over the rim of his glasses. "Am I looking at?"
"The presentation."
A pause.
"I see."
"It has all the information." Thomas shifts uncomfortably.
"Yes." Dr. Issac agrees. "All of it. Mostly on the first slide."
"I can scroll."
"I'm sure you can."
"It's not finished."
"I should hope not." Dr. Issac reaches forward, and with two fingers, lowers the laptop closed, as if whatever Thomas has created might be contagious. "This is not a presentation. This is a document."
"Okay."
"A poor document."
"That's not necessary." Thomas mouth tightens.
"Mm." Dr. Issac removes his glasses, folding them with precision before placing them on the desk. "You are attempting to make the slides do the speaking for you."
"Isn't that the point?"
"Absolutely not." There's no hesitation. No room to negotiate. "You are the presentation, Mr. Stephens. The slides support you. Not the other way around."
"That doesn't make any sense." Thomas' frown deepens.
"It will." Dr Issac makes a small, dismissive gestures to the laptop. "Open that abomination again." Thomas obeys reluctantly. The screen flips back up. "First, you will remove half of this."
"...Half?"
"At least."
"But there's important information in here."
"Then say it."
"That's stupid." The words come out quick, with an edge of frustration. "So, what? I'm just supposed to get up there and talk?"
"You will explain." Dr. Issac corrects. "You guide them through your thinking."
"They'll ask questions."
"They will."
"And if I leave something out—"
"They will ask about it."
"That's inefficient."
"It's a presentation. Not a data dump." Dr. Issac says. Thomas exhales sharply through his nose, then reaches for the trackpad. He hovers for a second, not actually deleting anything. "You're stalling."
"I'm thinking!"
"Think faster. Start with your opening. What are you trying to tell them?"
"That the current models underestimate displacement."
"Good." He nods. "Then say that. Without three paragraphs of justification." Thomas deletes a chunk of text. It feels like an act of violence.
"This sucks." He mutters under his breath. "It feels like I'm leaving things out."
"You are."
Thomas grimaces, but he doesn't stop. They settle into a pattern. 'Cut this', delete. 'Too dense', delete. 'Shorter', delete. Thomas stops bracing for criticism in every comment. Dr. Issac stops expecting resistance.
It becomes collaboration.
"...There's barely anything left." Thomas says eventually, leaning back in his chair. An hour ago, the presentation felt complete. Now, it's hollow. "I hate it."
"I gathered."
"I don't like talking." Thomas scrubs a hand down his face. "I can talk." He adds quickly. "I mean— It's not that I can't. I just—" He exhales, frustration bleeding through. "I don't understand why I have to do it like this—"
"Thomas," It slips. Unintentional. Uncorrected. Not 'Mr. Stephens'. Thomas. Dr. Issac continues without pause. "You know the material better than anyone who will be in that room. You are not reciting it. You are explaining it." He leans forward. "It belongs to you."
Thomas swallows.
"...Right." Thomas whispers, quieter than anything else he's said all afternoon. He closes the laptop slowly, the screen lowering until it clicks shut. "I should—" One hand lifts in a vague, directionless motion towards the door. "Practice, or something."
"Please do." Dr. Issac mutters, a dry, autopilot response. Somehow, it earns a brief smile out of Thomas anyway. "Good luck with that, Mr. Stephens."
"Thanks."
Thomas turns before the moment can stretch into anything further. He's already slipping into himself, and the relentless churn of thoughts that follow him everywhere. He reaches the door, pushes through, and keeps going. The door remains open behind him.
Of course it does.
The hallway outside hums with the ambient noise of a never silent building. Dr. Issac doesn't move immediately. His gaze lingers on the gaping door.
"...Bloody unbelievable." He pushes himself to his feet, reaching for his cane. The quiet tap follows him across the room as he approaches the open doorway.
His hand extends, and pauses.
Thomas is halfway down the hall, moving quickly. Not quite rushing, but close to it. His shoulders are tense, like he's still mid-conversation with his own antagonizing mind.
Sunlight spills through the tall windows of the corridor, catching against him as he passes through it. Flashes of gold shine across his sleeve, his hair, the line of his jaw before he moves out of it again. Dr. Issac watches a moment longer than necessary. Maybe two.
With the small shake of his head, his palms brush the door,
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